A Girl Betrayed (A Leah Mason suspense thriller Book 2)

by Russell Blake

  “I can’t tell you what the company actually makes, or who it sells it to, or who runs it, but other than that I’m an open book.” He exhaled in frustration. “Sorry I wasted your time.”

  “It wasn’t that bad. Corky was a charmer. And we did learn more than we knew on the drive over.”

  “Not a lot.”

  “I got that he was way more concerned than most would be about an NDA, especially after this much time has passed.”

  “And what does that tell you?” Adam asked.

  “That whoever he signed it with can make his life miserable if he lets anything slip. That doesn’t sound like a corporation that’s doing ho-hum work, does it?”

  “I guess not. I mean, a lot of the NDAs I’ve seen are pretty draconian.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t get the vibe that he was there to share much with us. More that he was sizing us up.”

  “Really? The kindly old professor?” Adam said.

  “Whose eyes were sharp as tacks the entire discussion. I could be wrong, but I got the feeling he was getting more out of watching us than we were out of talking to him.”

  “I didn’t get that impression.”

  “I could be off base. Don’t know. But what I can say is that as of now, this is a total dead end.”

  “Yeah. But at least it was a nice day for a drive,” Adam said with a grin. “And there’s always lunch. Have you been to Fisherman’s Wharf?”

  Leah shook her head. “Nope.”

  “It’s a total tourist trap, but it’s got a lot of local color, and the crab are to die for. We’re all the way here. My treat.”

  Leah raised a brow. “Does that count as a dinner?”

  “I think they rate it as half of one. I’ll have to check the score card to make sure. I’m a little rusty on the rules.”

  Leah sighed and offered a small smile. “Well, if the crab’s really that good, it would be a shame to miss it, right?”

  Adam’s grin broadened. “Absolutely. And the beer’s awesome. Anchor Steam on tap.” He hesitated. “You do drink beer, right?”

  She laughed. “I’m from Texas, remember? Might as well be a card-carrying commie if you’re from Texas and you don’t drink beer.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place.”

  “Throw in a mechanical bull and some big belt buckles and I’ll feel right at home,” she said, exaggerating her accent.

  He pointed to the car, which had a ticket on the windshield. “Crap. I figured on a Saturday we’d be safe.”

  “You’re a risk taker, aren’t you, Adam?” she teased.

  “Who just paid a hundred bucks to meet Corky,” he said as he pocketed the ticket.

  Chapter 31

  Leah was almost home when her phone jangled in her purse. She felt for it while she drove, and then switched it on and put it on speaker.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, God, Leah. It’s Heather…”

  Leah frowned at Heather’s tone. “What’s wrong, Heather?”

  “It’s Richard. He…he committed suicide.”

  She almost ran off the road. “He what?”

  “He jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. They found his car in the parking lot. Oh, Leah…”

  “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Richard.”

  “The police are here. They talked to some witnesses who saw him jump yesterday evening. It took a while to figure out which vehicle was his and identify him.”

  “Oh, Heather. I’m so sorry.” She paused. “I’m driving from work. I can be at your house in maybe forty-five minutes. You want anything?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Of course I do. I’m on my way.”

  Leah disconnected, her head spinning, her heart aching for Heather even if she found some of her character flaws trying. To lose a spouse to suicide, even a lying, cheating one, had to be one of the hardest things that could happen. She tried to imagine what Heather must be going through, replaying in her mind again and again Richard standing on the bridge, staring down into the water, taking his last breaths before hurtling himself into the void for a four-and-a-half-second rush into oblivion.

  Why anyone would choose that method of ending their life was beyond Leah. She’d read about the experience and the accounts of coroners who described the massive organ trauma that resulted in death in the vast majority of cases. Spending one’s last seconds on earth in horrible agony as you drowned wouldn’t have been Leah’s first choice, but she wasn’t suicidal, so perhaps it made sense in the heat of the moment.

  Which gave her pause. How bad did whatever the FBI was looking into have to be for Richard to choose certain death over facing the music? She had little doubt after her research and speaking to the DA that he was probably guilty of whatever they were after him for, but still, this surprised her. She’d only met him twice, but everything she’d seen had been consistent with a narcissist with a superiority complex, and she didn’t see that as the suicidal type.

  Her mind was racing as she drove south, and when she arrived at Heather’s house, she was no clearer on how to help her friend than she’d been when she’d hung up. A police car and an unmarked sedan were blocking the entrance, and an expensive convertible was parked on the street – black and reeking of money, its Bentley logo gleaming in the sun.

  Leah rang the doorbell, and a tall, dark-haired man answered.

  He looked her up and down before speaking. “You must be Leah,” he said. “Heather’s expecting you. She’s told me a lot about you.”

  Leah’s expression betrayed her confusion. “And you are?”

  “I’m sorry. Marco Santini. I was a friend of Richard’s, as well as one of his investors.”

  “Ah. Okay,” she said, unsure of what to make of that.

  “I saw it on the news and rushed over,” he said. “Shocking. Really shocking. You think you know someone, and then something like this happens…”

  “How’s Heather doing?”

  “As well as can be expected. The police are finishing up asking her questions.”

  Leah frowned. “About what?”

  “When she last saw him, what he’d told her about the car explosion, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh. Where are they?”

  “In the dining room,” he said, and then his cell warbled from his pocket. He eyed the screen with a look of annoyance. As he leaned into Leah, she caught the scent of expensive cologne. “Sorry. I have to take this. She’s in there,” he said, indicating the hallway behind him.

  Leah walked to the dining room, where two uniformed officers and a detective were sitting at the table, facing Heather. Heather’s frown softened when she saw Leah and she motioned her over. She stood and they hugged while the cops studied their notes, embarrassed by the display of tenderness. Heather released Leah after several seconds and motioned to the chair next to her.

  “Please. Sit.”

  The detective shifted in his seat. “Just a few more questions and we’ll be out of your hair. Did Richard seem despondent?”

  “Not especially. But I hadn’t seen him for the last few days. He was out of town on business, and then his car exploded on the day he got back…and I didn’t see him since then.”

  “And that was how many days ago?”

  “Oh, I don’t…can’t you check the records? It was Wednesday when he returned, so…that was three nights ago. And you say he…you found his car last night…”

  “Was it unusual for him not to come home for several nights?” the detective asked.

  Heather hesitated. “That only happened if he was traveling.”

  “So this was a first?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you hadn’t seen him since before the explosion.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Just clarifying.” The detective eyed his pad. “That about covers it. I appreciate your meeting with us, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Leah sat forward. “I have a couple of que
stions.”

  The detective raised an eyebrow and looked her over. “And you are?”

  “Leah Mason. I’m an investigative journalist and a friend of Heather’s. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

  “Detective Eric Colby,” he said, his tone several degrees cooler than before.

  “Nice to meet you. But…to my questions. Did they find the body yet?”

  His frown deepened. “Not yet. But with the currents, that’s not unexpected.”

  “How can you be sure he jumped?”

  He checked another section of his pad and tapped it with his pen. “There were two witnesses. San Francisco took their statements. One of them even took a picture of him climbing over the railing.”

  Leah glanced over at Heather, who was so pale she looked like she was about to vomit. “When will the police report be available?” Leah asked.

  “I…I don’t know. You can call San Francisco and check.”

  “You’re not from there?”

  “No. I’m local. They don’t send someone for a suicide like this.”

  That made sense. With witnesses and a photo, it wasn’t like they suspected foul play.

  “Did he leave a note?”

  Colby shook his head. “No. But that’s not unusual for jumpers. It’s often an impulsive thing, not well thought out.”

  “He obviously thought about it enough to drive all the way to the bridge.”

  “Maybe. We don’t have his last forty-eight hours accounted for, so for all we know, he was in Marin and driving back and got the idea as he crossed. Or stayed in San Francisco. But frankly, it doesn’t change anything.” Colby stared at Leah, waiting to see whether she had any more questions. When she didn’t say anything, he nodded to her and rose. The uniformed cops did the same, and after expressing his deepest sympathies to Heather again, they left. The house suddenly felt empty, and Leah reached out and took Heather’s hand.

  “I’m so sorry, Heather,” she said.

  “Thanks, Leah. It’s…I mean, wow, you know? You read about this kind of thing in the paper, but you never expect it to happen to you…”

  “I know. How are you doing?”

  “I…I think I’m still in shock. It doesn’t feel real. I’m sitting here, and the police are telling me he jumped, but I can’t believe it – it’s like, no, he didn’t, you must have the wrong person.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” Leah said. “Who’s this Marco guy?”

  “Oh, he’s our friend. He called, looking for Richard, right after the police called to tell me…about what happened. He dropped everything and came right over.”

  “He’s close to you both?”

  Heather stood and moved to the kitchen. “He’s a good guy and one of Richard’s biggest investors. He’s never been anything but helpful, and it was nice of him to come. He didn’t think I should be alone.”

  Leah couldn’t fault that, but something about Marco bothered her – what, she couldn’t place, but just her brief interaction with him had set her teeth on edge.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Heather asked, pulling an unopened bottle of Kistler Chardonnay from the refrigerator. “I bought six of these after our weekend.”

  “Just water for me,” Leah said.

  “Sure. Glasses are up in that cabinet,” Heather said as she removed a corkscrew from a drawer.

  Marco reappeared, phone in hand, and offered them a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid I have to take off. Are you going to be okay, Heather?”

  “I think so. Leah will stay with me for a while, won’t you, Leah?”

  Leah thought about the mountain of work she’d committed to doing over the weekend, but pushed it from her mind. “Of course. As long as you want.”

  “Then you’re in good hands,” Marco said. “Call me if you need anything, Heather. No matter what time. My phone’s always on.” He approached her to give her a hug. Leah felt uncomfortable watching her hug a strange man just after hearing her husband had killed himself, and so busied herself with pouring herself some water.

  Marco left, and Heather sat down with a wineglass before her and the full bottle of white wine. She looked at Leah’s water and sighed. “I don’t know how this can get any more depressing than drinking alone.”

  “You don’t have to drink,” Leah said.

  “Oh, come on. If there’s ever been a reason…go ahead and get a cup, Leah. Even if you just pretend to drink with me. It’s better than nothing.”

  Leah did as asked, and when she returned with a goblet, Heather poured it a quarter full and her own more than halfway. She held up her glass with a trembling hand, and Leah toasted, her face taut. Heather took two greedy swallows and set the glass on the table.

  “So here we are. Sitting in a house that’s owned by the bank, my husband dead, and not a penny to my name,” she said grimly.

  “It’s not that bad, Heather.”

  She took another big swallow. “Might as well be. Just a matter of time until I run out of money.”

  “Did Richard have insurance?”

  Heather’s eyes widened. “You know, I’m not sure. I’ll have to check with his fund. I think he said something about it years ago, but I don’t remember. Our health insurance was through the fund, so if he had life insurance…”

  “I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have something,” Leah said, taking a small taste of the wine.

  “Maybe you’re right. He was always thorough.”

  “Then he probably did.”

  “I’ll have to check on Monday. I’d look in his office, but the FBI took everything…”

  “You can probably get it all back, now that Richard’s…now that the investigation isn’t relevant anymore.”

  “I’ll add it to the list,” Heather said. She finished her wine and poured herself another half-full glass.

  Leah watched her friend drink with mechanical regularity, and wished she could do something more to comfort her. She took another tentative sip and set her cup down.

  “He didn’t give you any indication he was depressed?”

  Heather shook her head. “None. But he was hard to read. He didn’t show much emotion – kind of a control freak, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Leah said, thinking that far better fit the Richard she’d met than a suicidal depressive.

  A scrape sounded from upstairs, and Heather glanced at the stairs. “Oh, crap. I forgot Brutus in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.”

  Moments later the big dog came bounding down the steps, his big head up, an ear-to-ear grin on his face. He spotted Leah and ran at her, and it was all she could do to brace herself for impact before he collided with her chair, seemingly unperturbed by the solid thunk of his skull against the frame. She stroked his head as Heather descended the stairs, and the dog plopped down at her side, content.

  “My beautiful boy,” Heather said. “Let me know if he’s bothering you.”

  “No, it’s okay. He’s being good.”

  Heather polished off the bottle over the next twenty minutes and went to the fridge for a second one. Leah thought better of recommending that she slow down, and resigned herself to a difficult afternoon with a semi-drunk friend in need. Halfway through the second bottle, Heather asked her to spend the night, and Leah couldn’t see a graceful way to say no.

  “Do you have a computer I can use?” Leah asked. “I have some research I need to do…”

  “Sure. I have my notebook upstairs. I’ll grab it in a few minutes,” Heather said, her words slightly slurred. “After just one more teensy-weensy drink.”

  “Do you have anything I can make us for dinner?”

  Heather giggled. “Three more bottles of wine!”

  “I was thinking actual food.”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Mainly rabbit food. But I have a phone book. There are about a hundred places that deliver.”

  The afternoon crawled by, and after the second bottle of wine, Heather announced that she was going to take a nap. Leah accompanied he
r upstairs to get the computer, Brutus trailing them, and Heather showed her to one of the guest rooms, which, like the rest of the house, was expensively furnished. Heather excused herself and made her way unsteadily to her room with the dog and, with a final wave, pulled the door shut behind her.

  Leah returned to the kitchen and opened the notebook, resolved to make the most of the remainder of the day and play catch-up on the stories she’d ignored all week.

  Chapter 32

  Washington, D.C.

  Night had fallen, and with the last of the light, a storm had moved in from the Atlantic. The sidewalk around the park the blackmailers had chosen for the drop was slick from the rain, which had eased to a drizzle as 10:00 p.m. had neared. Several vans were parked on the street that ringed the green, and in one of them Angelo sat in front of a screen, peering at the statue where the blackmailer had agreed to meet Winters.

  “Hopefully they’ll be so nervous they won’t make out that it’s not him,” Angelo said to his lieutenant, who was seated behind him, watching the night vision-equipped camera’s zoom of the area. Joey Altese, the man who was going to make the exchange of the briefcase for the USB drive with the video, was a retired enforcer from New York who was approximately Winter’s age and height, but only somewhat resembled the congressman. Their bet was that in the gloom of the park, with Joey wearing a fedora and overcoat, the blackmailers would accept that Joey was Winters – especially since the only time they’d seen Winters was on the footage, and faces could look different in person.

  The call had come in an hour and a half earlier, identifying the location and giving the congressman thirty minutes to get there. Winters had handled the situation like a pro, demanding how they expected him to do that on such short notice, and how he could be sure he would get the only copy of the video and that they hadn’t made another copy. The blackmailers hadn’t been prepared for the questions and had tersely told him that they would call back with the answers. Twenty minutes had gone by, and when the phone had rung again, the caller had given Winters an hour to get to the statue instead of thirty minutes, and told Winters that he would simply have to trust that it was the only copy.