The door opened, and a nurse led his sister into the room.
Lisbeth was beautiful, but then again, she always had been. Long, wavy black hair that matched her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Today, though, there was a brightness to her eyes. And more pink in her cheeks.
She rushed toward him. Froze as her gaze darted from the chair to the love seat. Back to the chair.
Nickolai stood but didn’t speak. If Dr. Bertrand thought she was a candidate for moving into a halfway house, a shift in their weekly seating arrangements shouldn’t put her into a tailspin. If it did, he just saved himself forty thousand big ones.
The corners of Lisbeth’s mouth turned up; then she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “Hey, Nicky.”
He slowly hugged her back. It’d been a long time since she’d called him Nicky. “Hey, squirt.” He kissed the top of her head. “How are you?”
“Good.” She pulled back and sat on the love seat but left enough room for him to sit beside her.
He did, staring at her. Had she been this lively last week? Had she been improving every week and he just didn’t notice?
“How’s everything going?” He smiled as he asked.
“Good. Did you talk with Dr. Bertrand? Did he tell you about me getting to move?”
Ahh. So that was it. Nickolai didn’t know how he felt about the good doctor telling her about the halfway house. What if he couldn’t come up with the money? Wouldn’t such a disappointment cause a major setback in Lisbeth’s progress?
“He mentioned it.” Nickolai proceeded with caution. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Her eyes lit up like he hadn’t seen in years. Almost like he remembered them from Christmas when she was ten and she’d gotten the ten-speed she’d had her heart set on. “It’s getting out of here, Nicky. It’s a chance at a life. A real one, not a hospital one. What do you think I think?” Her giggle was infectious.
He hated to rain on her parade, but he needed to see her reaction. “Do you think you’re ready? Really?”
A shadow dropped over her eyes. “I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. I take my medication without fighting them. I go to therapy. I talk about my feelings.” Her eyes filled with moisture. “I’m doing my best to get better, Nicky. I think I am. Really, I do.”
His heart thumped against his rib cage, and he pulled her against him and held her. He could feel her heart racing against his. He kissed her forehead. “Then I’m excited for you, Lisbeth.”
And he’d do whatever it took to make it happen.
CHAPTER FIVE
Thank you for meeting with me.” Landry tried hard not to size up the woman in front of her, but she was failing miserably.
“Of course.” Monica Courtland, Bartholomew Winslet’s assistant, was about thirty-five, give or take a few years, stood maybe five feet tall, and wore her long blond hair back in a severe bun. Her eyes were overshadowed by the bulky, black-framed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “We’re all trying to adjust to Mr. Winslet being gone.”
“I understand.” Landry wanted to be sympathetic, but it was hard to do when the entire offices of Winslet Industries seemed to have not missed a beat with its leader passing mere weeks ago.
Monica sat down behind her desk, her posture more rigid than Marcie’s. “How may I help you?”
The preliminary introductions and polite exchanges were obviously concluded. Thank goodness Mrs. Winslet had let all the employees know she expected full cooperation from all of them regarding the investigation—from the police and the individuals she’d hired independently. Landry pulled out her iPhone and scanned her notes one last time. Quickly. “I see that you verified Mr. Winslet had arranged an appointment with his document appraiser for the week after he acquired the map. This was a common practice of his?” He would need an appraisal to carry insurance on it. “I mean, to acquire without an appraisal already in hand?” Seemed a little foolhardy for a man with Winslet’s means and apparent habit of purchasing very expensive items.
Monica’s smile strained. Maybe her bun was pulled back too tightly. “Mr. Winslet was a collector, as I’m sure you’re aware. He collected various pieces of art, as well as rare documents of great historical value. While ideal to have each item appraised prior to acquisition, there have been times that the practicality of such couldn’t be met.”
The man owned—and had loaned out to various museums—works from some of the most notable artists of all time: Picasso, Van Gogh, Rene Magritte, Rembrandt … even a da Vinci. “Can you give me an example? Aside from this map?”
Monica flashed that polite smile of hers as she moved to her computer. “He has amassed previously unpublished writings of the likes of Benjamin Franklin and Edgar Allan Poe. Each of those, he had the source researched and verified. The documents themselves couldn’t be appraised until three days after purchase.” She typed on her keyboard then stared at her monitor. “When he acquired a rare additional page to the 1620 Mayflower Compact, he knew the seller personally. He waited two weeks to have that one appraised.” She tapped her fingers over the keys again. “Just last year, he acquired an early version of the American’s Creed by William Tyler Page penned in 1917. While he knew the seller by reputation, he had to wait days for his appraiser to return from vacation to review the document.”
Landry nodded. She knew who Franklin and Poe were, for sure, but neither was as interesting as a real treasure map. “Did Mr. Winslet always use the same appraiser?”
“I’ve never known him to use anyone but Trenton Godfrey.” She typed on the keyboard and squinted at the monitor. “And according to the records and insurance policies, all have Mr. Godfrey listed as the appraiser. Do you need his number?”
“No, thank you.” She had it in the massive information file from Mrs. Winslet. “Can you tell me if it was Mr. Winslet’s habit to put items he purchased in the bank’s safety-deposit boxes until it could be appraised? At the same bank?”
Monica tilted her head. “Yes. He took no chances with such important parts of our culture. Our patriotism. Mankind’s history.”
Except he’d taken a chance with the map. This one time.
“I understand Mr. Winslet had a lunch meeting scheduled here at the office for the day he died. Who was that with?”
“Phillip Fontenot.” She didn’t have to look up that name on the computer.
“That name’s not familiar to me.” She’d read the name in the file but couldn’t place him. Landry leaned forward, resting her elbow casually on the desk. “Who’s he?”
“Mr. Fontenot is Mr. Winslet’s best friend, and he sits on the board here. He came here all the time to visit, even when there wasn’t a board meeting.” The emotionless mask slipped, and Monica’s eyes glistened with moisture. “Those two laugh so loudly, even with the door shut.” She smiled, easing the harshness of her face. “It’s like they’re college boys again when they’re together.”
Interesting. Everything Landry had read about Mr. Winslet gave no indication he was anything but mature, driven, determined, and rich. Her mental image of him didn’t extend to acting like a boy. “So they had a lunch date that day?”
Monica nodded. “Mr. Winslet had it on his calendar for noon in his private suite here.”
“Was that common?”
“Very. Mr. Winslet conducted business at various restaurants around town, but lunches with his personal friends were served here.”
“Was that very often?”
Monica tapped on her keyboard again. “Looks like at least a couple of times a month.”
So, common. Think, Landry, think. She needed to cover every person who was in contact with Winslet, or supposed to be, for the day he died. “Was Mr. Fontenot on time for lunch that day?”
“Let me check the key code log…. Every person who visits above the second floor is given a specific code to open the door to the area they’re authorized to go to on that day,” Monica explained. She pushed her glasses back
up the bridge of her nose. “Looks like Mr. Fontenot accessed the private suite at approximately 11:45.”
Monica peered over her computer screen at Landry. “I remember Mr. Fontenot’s reaction when we received the call.” She shook her head. “He was devastated. Almost broke down. Immediately left to go to Mrs. Winslet.”
Just like Marcie had done when Landry’s father had died. The value of friends … Landry didn’t know what she would’ve done had Marcie not been there to keep her from falling apart.
“If there’s nothing else, I should get back to work,” Monica said.
“Can you tell me who Mr. Winslet depended on most in the company?”
“That’s hard to say. There are several top executives who Mr. Winslet consulted with on a daily basis.” The formality of Monica’s tone was a little too much.
Landry smiled. “I’m sure there are.” She leaned closer toward the desk. “You and I both know that the assistants are the ones who know everything. Am I right?”
Monica’s cheeks pinked as she smiled and glanced at the floor. “Well, there’s Mrs. Winslet, of course. She’s the co-CEO.” She leaned a little forward herself. “I guess she’s the sole CEO now.”
Landry nodded. “I suppose.”
“Mr. Fontenot, of course, as well as the other board members.”
“Are there many of them?” Landry interrupted.
Monica shook her head. “Aside from the Winslets, there’s Mr. Fontenot, two of Mrs. Winslet’s cousins, and Paul York.”
“I’ve not met Mr. York.” Truth be told, the name didn’t even ring a bell with Landry. She didn’t think she’d even read it in the packet from Mrs. Winslet.
“Oh, no one has. At least, not in person.” Monica rested back in her chair. “He’s a hermit. He videoconferences in for the board meetings.”
Landry filed that little tidbit away. “Anybody else Mr. Winslet depended on?”
“Mr. Hauge, of course.”
“Stan Hauge?” The VP Mrs. Winslet assigned to assist on the investigation. She was supposed to meet him here in a few minutes.
“Yes. Stan is a good man. Loyal. He looked after Mr. Winslet as best he could.”
Odd phrasing. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, for the last several months, he’d been trying to take on more and more of Mr. Winslet’s daily work. Kept telling Mr. Winslet that he worked too hard and should take some time off or retire and travel with Mrs. Winslet.”
Very interesting. “But Mr. Hauge isn’t on the board, is he?” He wouldn’t be eligible to take over if something happened to Bartholomew if he wasn’t a board member.
“Oh, no. He’s just been with the company for a really long time.” Monica glanced at her watch. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I have a conference call in ten minutes that I need to prepare for.”
“Of course.” Landry stood. “Thank you for your time and information.”
Monica stood as well, moving from behind her desk and gently leading Landry to the elevator. “Of course. If you need any further information, you know where to find me.”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened, as if on cue. Maybe the CEO’s assistant had a special button that could call the elevator to the floor immediately.
She stepped inside and smiled as the doors closed, Monica still standing in front of the elevator. Landry tried to recall everything in the packet on Monica Courtland. Just the barest of facts. She couldn’t help but wonder how Monica and Winslet had gotten along. She was his personal assistant, after all, yet she didn’t seem too terribly broken up when talking about him today. Wouldn’t they have been a little less formal with one another? Surely she had to care about him. Maybe this was how she handled the grief.
Landry stepped off the elevator to find a man with thinning gray hair in a tired business suit waiting on her. “Ms. Parker?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Stan Hauge.”
She felt a little guilty for probing Monica about him, but not too much. It was, after all, her job. In a way. “Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand. Despite looking like a congenial grandfather, his handshake was firm.
He walked toward the front door of Winslet Industries. “I’ve made our hotel reservations in Arizona. I’m sorry to say there’s a marathon in town so options for accommodations were very limited. We’ll be staying at the Apache Junction Motel.” His brow furrowed and nose wrinkled.
Landry held back the grin. “That’s okay. Anything with a bed is fine.” She’d stayed in some pretty rough places before, but clearly Stan wasn’t accustomed to less than five stars.
“Well, they say the rooms have clean and comfortable beds.” He smiled easily at her. “I’ve arranged for a rental as well. A nice sedan.”
Landry stopped walking. “You can have the sedan. I’ll need a Jeep or truck, whichever they have.” She’d done her research and knew the terrain of some of the areas she might need to check out. A sedan would not do. “Besides, no offense, but I work best on my own.”
Stan looked a little concerned but nodded. “I’ll make the additional reservation before we leave. I apologize for the late flight as well, but there were some matters I needed to clear up here before leaving.” He pushed open the front glass door and motioned Landry ahead of him.
“Not a problem. I can get a good night’s rest and be ready to hit the ground running in the morning.” She turned and shook his hand again. “Then I’ll just see you at the airport this afternoon.”
“What do you mean they’re flying to Phoenix this afternoon?” Nickolai pressed the cell tighter against his cheek.
“Ms. Parker has a legitimate lead there, so she and my representative will be flying out this afternoon.” Mrs. Winslet sounded so smug, or maybe she was just used to being in the know about everything. A lot of wealthy people had that attitude—force of habit. “Have you decided to take the job as well, Mr. Baptiste?”
No. Yes. Maybe. He’d tried to call Easton several times last night and this morning to no avail. He’d even called his landlord, who informed Nickolai that Easton had moved out a week ago and left no forwarding address. Might look suspicious, but he’d just taken in a million dollars. No reason to think he wouldn’t improve his living situation.
“Mr. Baptiste?” Mrs. Winslet’s tone made it clear she expected an answer.
He rolled his eyes, and his gaze landed on a picture propped on the end table—he and Lisbeth, taken just before she’d been admitted. Her arms were wrapped around his waist, her head resting against his chest. Both of them smiling brightly for the camera. He groaned silently. “Yes, ma’am. I was calling to let you know I’m heading to Phoenix myself. I, too, have a lead.”
Something about the police not knowing about the second bidder—or Chris not giving him the information—made Nickolai’s gut tighten. In his experience, his gut was usually on to something. He crossed the room to his hall closet and pulled out his duffel bag.
“Unfortunately, I don’t think my representative can get you on their flight. Would you like him to get you on the first one in the morning if possible?”
He did a quick mental calculation. If he drove hard, he could get there in less than twenty-four hours. Probably closer to twenty, which would put him and Landry Parker on even footing, so to speak. “No, ma’am. I’d prefer to drive. I like to have my truck.”
“Then I’ll notify Stan to reserve you a room at the hotel that will serve as a central location while there.”
“That’s fine. He can call me with the information.” He headed to the bedroom, threw the duffel on the bed, and started grabbing clothes from his closet to cram inside the bag.
“I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Baptiste.”
Nickolai tossed his phone on the bed and finished packing, his mind jumbled as he made a mental note to call the hospital and check on Lisbeth before heading out of town. First he needed to talk to his former partner.
Chris answered his cell on the second ring. “Two calls in
one day. I’m impressed, Baptiste.” He sounded much more relaxed than he had at the office.
“Yeah, well, I have a couple more questions before I leave town.”
“Where are you going, my man?”
“Arizona.”
Nickolai could feel the tension seeping over the line.
“Why are you going to Arizona?”
“The case.” Nickolai only gave a short pause as he sat on the edge of his bed. “Easton’s in the wind, Chris. I think he used a burner to contact Winslet and the police. He’s moved out from his apartment, left no forwarding address, and when I called his place of employment, he quit before he came to New Orleans.”
“Wouldn’t you? I mean, if you were about to score a million big ones, wouldn’t you quit your job?”
“Not until I had the money in hand. Neither would you.”
Chris laughed. “That’s cuz we’re cynical, man. We’ve seen too much of the ugly.”
“Maybe so.” Did he show his hand? Maybe chance it? Nickolai stood and grabbed his duffel and carried it to the living room. He set it on the coffee table while he searched the hall closet for his jacket.
“What else?”
He grabbed his Windbreaker and shoved it into the outside pocket of the duffel. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Baptiste. This is me you’re talking to. What else do you have?”
“Look, I don’t want to step on any toes in the department.”
“I got you, Nickolai.”
Yeah, this was Chris. His partner. His friend. Nickolai dropped to the couch. “There was another bidder on the map.”
The slow intake of Chris’s breath said it all. The police didn’t know. “Who?”
“I don’t know. Someone local to Easton. Jumped the price up to the million Winslet had to pay.”
“How do you know this?”
“I interviewed Winslet’s driver, Miles Lewis.”
“I didn’t read anything about that in the case notes.”
“Then it was missed.” Nickolai stood and paced the worn carpet of his living room. “Chris, what’s going on with this case?”
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