Death's Door

by Meryl Sawyer

  Luis extended a hand with square buffed nails, clearly from a professional manicure. His grip was firm and his gaze direct as he looked at her with whiskey-brown eyes. “I’m glad you had time to see me.”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Es—”

  “Luis.” He sat in the chair opposite her desk.

  “I’m not sure I can help you,” she told him.

  His warm smile seemed to say he thought she could. In a heartbeat she knew it would be foolish to underestimate this man. “I’ve had preliminary discussions with your husband about adding gambling to your trivia site.”

  “Ex-husband. Aiden has a new wife.”

  He nodded, and she was certain he’d known that and deliberately made the mistake to see how she would react. And patsy that she was, she’d snapped at it.

  “Right. Ex-husband. He’s very receptive to the idea but says you don’t want to do it. Why not?”

  Madison hadn’t quite expected him to be so direct. Aiden would probably kill her for torpedoing his idea, but she decided to say exactly what she believed. “I think too many things in our society revolve around money. We’ve been doing fine giving gamers a trivia site and earning revenue with ad banners. Why include gambling? We’re making money. There’s far too much gambling in this country. A lot of people spend more than they can afford on it. I don’t want to be a part of that.”

  She knew she sounded holier-than-thou but it was how she felt. It had been one of her father’s pet peeves, too. He claimed gambling came to America like a swift-rising tide and flooded the land. Riverboat gambling, Indian casinos, and practically every state had a lottery.

  “Perfectly understandable,” he agreed, his tone sincere. “That’s why I’m prepared to make you an excellent offer for your half of Total Trivia.”

  Madison knew she was staring at him, slack jawed, but she couldn’t help it. Why on earth would a man with a huge bank to run and a string of clubs want part of a small online company?

  “Look, here’s what I’m prepared to do.” He went on to explain an all-cash offer that seemed to be more than her share could be worth. He was willing to conclude the deal immediately.

  She was tempted to stomp her foot and scream that this was her company. She’d created it and she was proud of her success. But an image of Holbrook Pharmaceuticals intruded. Here was a venture that could help all mankind. Did she want her life’s work to be a game?

  With this money, she could go back to school and pursue a different career. Considering the way Chloe had acted today, the atmosphere around the office wasn’t going to improve. Even though she’d stolen Madison’s husband, the woman acted as if she were the injured party. Maybe it was time to leave.

  Luis smiled, a captivating grin that said he got his way more often than not. “I take your silence as a ‘maybe’?”

  It suddenly occurred to Madison that his cash offer would solve her financial problems and buy her time until her identity-theft mess could be straightened out. Just as this thought flashed through her brain, another followed. Could it be coincidence that Luis Estevez was making this offer just when she’d become the victim of ID theft and needed the money?

  She’d lectured Paul on coincidences. Statistically they were much more common than most people believed. Somehow the urban myth that “there’s no such thing as coincidence” had taken root.

  Luis Estevez stood and shook out the razor-sharp creases in his beige trousers in much the same way Garrison Holbrook had done. “My offer will be open for a week.”

  She watched him saunter down the main aisle of the cube farm. Maybe she should be more suspicious of coincidences.

  Madison called Jade into her office and asked in a low voice, “Our personnel files are near your desk. Have you seen anyone searching through them?”

  “You think someone here obtained your personal information?”

  Jade was sharp. She knew exactly what Madison was thinking. “It’s a possibility.”

  Jade drummed shiny black nails on Madison’s desk. “I haven’t noticed anyone near the files, but I’m at lunch and on breaks. Then there’s no one around to see what’s happening. But even if one of the guys did get into your file, how would they get your password?”

  “Good question.” Madison sighed. “Thanks for your help.”

  “YOU’RE RIGHT,” Rob told her as he moved the wand down the back of Aspen’s neck just behind the ear. “This dog does have a microchip.” He pulled back the wand shaped like a pack of cigarettes and showed her a number on the display screen.

  “The owner’s name doesn’t come up?” she asked.

  “No. The way it works is the dog receives an ID number. This is 72340 from Pet Search. That’s one of several companies. We’ll access the Pet Search Web site and input the number. It should give us owner information.”

  He led her out of the small examining room toward the main office, where the computers were located. “Now, if a dog is sold, the previous owner should update the info with Pet Search. Unfortunately, too many times an owner moves and fails to update the info or sells the dog and forgets to mention the chip. I can’t tell you how many searches are a waste of time.”

  She touched his arm. “Maybe I don’t want to find his owner.”

  His dark eyes were studying her with a curious intensity. “Let’s just see whose number is on the chip. A vet’s office or an animal shelter can change the info. Otherwise the original owner must be the one to update the chip.”

  “Wouldn’t you get into trouble for doing it when I haven’t legally purchased the dog? Erin purchased him—or so the papers say.”

  “Don’t worry about it, babe.”

  She’d always disliked being called “babe,” but coming from Rob, it sounded like a term of endearment. Her mind swung back to this morning and the scene with Aiden and Chloe. No doubt, he called her “babe” all the time.

  The office was deserted. Madison had taken the last appointment because her day had been consumed by looking into the identity theft, then going to the office where Luis Estevez had confronted her, but she wanted this chip thing settled before—what had Paul called him? The missing link. Before Lincoln Burgess decided to have Aspen wanded. She didn’t want to risk having the retriever returned to Dicon Labs.

  Rob clacked away at the computer while Madison stroked the dog’s silky coat. Someone had cared enough to chip him, yet something had been sprayed in Aspen’s eyes. What was going on here?

  “Interesting,” Rob said. “Aspen is owned by someone named Bewley Allen. An address on Star Island.” He whistled.

  They looked at each other in surprise. This was unexpected. Star Island was one of three private islands in Biscayne Bay, where Miami’s elite lived.

  “Bewley. Do you suppose that’s a man or a woman? It certainly isn’t the name on the paperwork Erin had.”

  “Let’s look up the name online and find out.”

  A few clicks later streams of information filled the screen. Madison stared at it in amazement. Bewley Allen was a man—the head of research at Dicon Laboratories.

  “Just what I suspected,” Rob said, his voice low. He leaned closer to Madison as if to prevent anyone from hearing, even though no one seemed to be around, unless the janitor was disinfecting the back rooms. “Erin and one of the rights groups, probably the EADL, took Aspen and maybe other animals.”

  “And set fire to the lab.” Madison found it hard to believe, at least on one level. Her best friend had kept any sign of illegal activities from her. But when she thought about it, the signs had been there. There were parts of her life Erin hadn’t shared. She’d never mentioned the appreciated value of her parents’ land or that she intended to sell it and give the profits to Save the Chimps.

  Once someone registered disapproval, Erin backed off and shut up. Madison had been quite vocal about the things some animal rights activists were doing. Erin no longer talked about it. Madison thought Erin had stopped. But was that just what Madison assumed? Had Erin ever said t
his in so many words?

  No.

  Now, here was proof positive that she’d continued and become more aggressive. Who would set a fire? Someone could have been killed.

  “Do you think she was killed because of her animal rights work? Maybe I should tell the police the truth about Aspen.”

  “No,” he responded emphatically. “Why would the activists hurt her? You saw how many people came to her service, but didn’t come back to the house. I’ll bet most of them were with the animal rights group.” He touched her shoulder and looked directly into her eyes. In them she saw the compassion he had for the animals he so gently treated. “The police will give Aspen back to Dicon. Do you want that?”

  She glanced down at the retriever. He gazed up at her with eyes that probably couldn’t quite distinguish all of her features and swished his tail across the tile floor. He trusted her, and she refused to disappoint him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PAUL TRIED Madison’s cell phone again. He’d called twice before but hadn’t left a message. He wanted to talk to her, not to her voice mail. This time she picked up. “It’s Paul. Where are you?”

  “I’m almost back to the Holbrooks’ guesthouse. I took Aspen to the vet. You were right. He did have a chip. Guess who owned him?”

  Uh-oh. “Dicon Labs.”

  “Right. I had his chip updated to show me as the owner.”

  “Good thinking. Let’s not discuss this over the phone. I have several things to tell you. What do you say about pizza?”

  “I love it. With anchovies, please.”

  “Anchovies? You’re kidding, right? The world hates anchovies.”

  Madison laughed. “True. Eighty percent of people ordering pizza cut the anchovies. I’m different. I like ’em.”

  “I’ll have them put on one side only,” he said with a laugh. “I’m with the eighty percent.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Okay, I’ll pick up a pizza and you open a bottle of wine. I’ll meet you at your place—” he checked his Brietling “—in half an hour.” He shut his phone, still mulling over everything he’d discussed with his father. This was shaping up to be one hell of a case.

  While stopped at a light, Paul dialed Tobias Pennington’s number. Wyatt Holbrook’s personal assistant hadn’t returned three earlier calls. Now Paul was pissed. And suspicious. Why would the jerk avoid him? He was beginning to wonder if someone in the Holbrook camp didn’t want Wyatt to receive a lifesaving transplant.

  This time he was put through to Pennington. “Paul Tanner,” he said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Pennington was a prissy little prick who got off vicariously on Wyatt Holbrook’s money and power. “I’d like to see the New Horizons files tomorrow morning.”

  “That won’t be possible. My staff is reviewing them.”

  His arrogant tone made Paul want to slug him. “I’ll work alongside them.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll be there at nine.” Paul snapped the phone shut before Pennington could utter another word.

  Something was definitely going on, he decided as he inched along in the slugfest of traffic. Of course, he didn’t have any proof, just a tightening in his gut that came with a hunch. Garrison was okay, a bit of a pretty boy, but Savannah and Nathan Cassidy were hard to read.

  He wondered about Wyatt Holbrook’s will. Actually, people that rich had trusts, not wills. Still, where would Wyatt’s money go upon his death? A chunk of it would be used to fund his foundation, but would enough be going to his children to make them anxious to see him die?

  What about Pennington? He’d been Holbrook’s assistant for years. He might stand to inherit something when Holbrook died.

  Paul’s cell phone chirped and he flipped it open. It was Trey Williams.

  “They’ve completed the autopsy on that Smith guy.”

  “So fast?” Usually it took several days. Cases were processed in the order they were received and Miami had plenty of dead people to autopsy.

  “Captain put a rush on it. You know, the succinylcholine chloride angle made it unusual.”

  Paul turned west toward Jo’ Mama’s Pizza. “What did they find?”

  “Blood alcohol twice the legal limit. He’d been snorting coke.”

  Paul wasn’t surprised. Drugs or alcohol figured into half the homicides in the city.

  “We know how the killer got to him. There were traces of chloroform in his nostrils, along with the coke, of course.”

  “A handkerchief saturated with chloroform held over the victim’s mouth would have knocked him out. Then he could easily have been injected with the deadly drug.”

  “Right. The coroner wouldn’t have picked up on the chloroform except we asked for a detailed analysis. It’s kind of an old-fashioned drug. It isn’t used often these days. Couldn’t imagine Smith just letting someone give him an injection.”

  “Any idea where he’d been yesterday?”

  “He had a box of matches from Lola’s. You know, the pussy bar in Little Havana.”

  “No shit? Does he have Cuban friends?” Lola’s was notorious among cops in Miami. Most of Lola’s clients were Cuban. A white teacher like Keith Brooks Smith didn’t seem to fit the pattern. But then, who knew?

  “I’m still doing background on him,” Trey replied. “I had to notify his parents of his death and interview them. Know what? They never told their son that he was a donor-conceived child.”

  “I’m not surprised,” replied Paul.

  “Why not? These days we have open adoptions and surrogate mothers up the ying yang—”

  “Thirty years ago, things were different,” Paul said. That wasn’t the real reason he claimed he wasn’t surprised. He’d instantly thought of Madison. Her family hadn’t told her, either.

  “Whatever. The mother bawled when I told her, but you know, the father didn’t seem that shook up. I got the feeling Keith Brooks Smith senior didn’t care for the kid. Probably because he wasn’t the biological father. I had the feeling he blamed the kid’s shortcomings on the donor’s genes.”

  “Could be. Who knows what goes on with families,” he said, thinking of his own father. He’d left his parenting responsibilities to a military school. “Did the parents know any of his friends?”

  “I got one or two names.”

  “Take a close look at any women in his life,” Paul told Trey. “This kind of crime doesn’t take strength.”

  “There was a struggle, remember? That’s why the old lady in the duplex next door called 911.”

  “I didn’t say he didn’t resist when he realized what was happening, but there were no signs of forced entry. An average-size woman who works out a little could easily hold him down while she subdued him with chloroform.”

  “You’re right. We’re too quick to assume most murderers are men.”

  “Thanks for updating me,” Paul said. He didn’t share his suspicions with the detective because that’s all they were. Suspicions.

  THE BELL OF DESTINY had rung. Keith Brooks Smith had answered the call. Given his life, actually. Not that anyone was going to miss him. A lowlife who used teaching as a cover for his gambling addiction.

  The killer sipped a can of Red Bull and thought about the murder. Twice now things had almost spiraled out of control the way the Wycoff killing had taken an unexpected turn. Despite careful planning, Keith Brooks Smith had thrashed about harder than expected, kicking the wall while trying to pry the washcloth soaked with chloroform off his face.

  Goddamn nosy neighbors. The old biddy next door had called the police. Luckily the walls had been thin; her high-pitched voice had come through like an alley cat’s screech. There had barely been enough time to give Smith the lethal injection. There had been no time to savor the thrill that was almost sexual in nature. It came with watching life ebb out of another human being.

  Intelligent people can overcome the unanticipated, use it to their advantage. That’s what set smart people ap
art from the pack, with their herdlike minds that refused to allow them to think outside the box.

  Getting out the back door had been a piece of cake. Watching from across the street, the killer had seen the police arrive within minutes. That meant the body would be examined in an hour or two. A simple blood test would reveal the succinylcholine.

  Well, that wasn’t the way this murder had been planned. Keith Brooks Smith had been scheduled to die of heart failure. After all, succinylcholine relaxed every muscle in your body until your heart didn’t beat and your lungs couldn’t move. Upon examination, hours later, the drug would have vanished from his system. The coroner would assume heart failure. True, Smith was a bit young, but it did happen.

  Now the police would be suspicious. So what? They couldn’t link Keith’s death to Erin Wycoff’s. They were completely different crimes. That was the beauty of the plan. No one would suspect the same killer was picking off a select number of victims because the murders didn’t fit a pattern.

  Never underestimate the police. A lot of them, like Paul Tanner, were bright guys. But they were overwhelmed by the sheer number of killings in the Miami area. When they couldn’t quickly solve a crime, they were forced to work on those that were easier.

  A crack of laughter ricocheted off the walls. Well, it was funny. People got away with crimes all the time because cops were overworked and understaffed. Too bad. That was their problem.

  Next up on the list was Madison Connelly. What a piece of work she was! She’d been getting it in spades. No point in killing another person if there was any way around it.

  But death might be the only option.

  Killing her wouldn’t be a cakewalk. She was living in the home of the great Wyatt Holbrook. Her death would cause a ruckus. No doubt the police would be pressured to solve the crime. The whole scheme could unravel.