“Nice night for a drive, huh?” My attempt at humor fell flat.
Total silence for another full minute. My heart pounded louder. Finally Connor pushed open his door and got out. The overhead light in the car was on just long enough for me to get a good look at his clenched jaw and the white-knuckled fist he had wrapped around the keys before he closed his door and it went dark again. I blinked. A gentle knock on my window had me practically ejecting through the roof. One hand clutching at the front of my T-shirt, I used the other to roll down my window. Without a word, Connor reached through the open glass to unlock my door. He leaned in and undid my seat belt before pushing me toward the empty passenger seat. I shifted, swinging my legs over the gearshift. Mutely, I fastened my seat belt and waited as he started the car and deliberately pulled back onto the highway. We drove several long miles in deafening silence. I couldn’t take it.
“Aren’t you going to yell or something?”
“Or something.” We got back on I-5, heading toward the city. The highway was so well lit, I could see him almost as clearly as if it were day. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and despite the relaxed hands he kept religiously at ten and two on the wheel, his rigid posture told me he was still pretty upset about our near miss. We drove in silence for a long time, each lost in our own thoughts.
“Hey, Connor, take this exit.” I pointed.
“We’re going home.”
“But, Connor, don’t you get it? Henry Jepsen killed Mitchell Burke.”
“We’re going home.”
“But he did it. It was her. The secretary. Jepsen’s secretary. She was the one in the diner. Pretty city girl with killer nails. Killer. Literally. Didn’t you see her when you went over there?” I pulled on the confinement of my seat belt, shifting so that I could half face him. “She’s black, she’s beautiful, and she has nails to die for. Claws, really.”
Connor continued past the exit as if he hadn’t heard me.
“Connor, Jepsen murdered Burke in cold blood. He probably killed Cort, too.” I reached out and gripped his forearm to try to reach him. He took an audible breath.
“Why?” Connor clearly didn’t share my sense of urgency.
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why would Jepsen kill Burke?”
“Burke was involved in the lawsuit. He found out something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what,” I yelled. “What difference does it make? Burke knew everything about the company. Maybe he did just what you said. Maybe Burke valued the stock low or something.”
“So Jepsen killed him? How would that help? If Burke’s valuation was correct, the new accountant would just come up with the same number. If Burke’s calculation was incorrect, Jepsen could hire his own guy and challenge it. The only thing that Burke’s death accomplished was a delay, and I don’t see how that could possibly help Jepsen. He needs the money now. Waiting hurts him.”
“It’s no coincidence. That was his secretary waiting for him. It was Jepsen. It has to be.” The wind leaked from my sails. “He’s a murderer, Connor.” I let go of his arm and slumped back into my seat, crossing my arms and staring out at the brightly lit city. I hated logic.
“A pretty woman with long fingernails isn’t a video-taped confession.”
“Vera can pick her out.”
“Maybe. But we’ve still got as much on Stewie and Bud as we do on Jepsen. I think we should let the police handle it from here.”
“You wouldn’t think that if it were your case.”
“It’s our case, remember?”
“No.” I said it petulantly but I didn’t really mean it. Connor was right. I had suspicions but nothing else. Jepsen may have killed Burke, but I couldn’t prove it.
We drove the rest of the way to the apartment in silence. I shuffled up the stairs with Connor behind me. I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed, sliding beneath the sheet. Connor got in beside me and we lay spoon-fashion. I could feel the sting of frustrated tears behind my eyelids.
“Tomorrow we’ll call the cops and tell them what we found out about Burke’s car. Then we’ll take another look at everything and see where we are.” He cuddled closer to me. “Sara?”
“He made her a widow.”
“I know.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“ As near as I can tell, Masterson hasn’t been seen in public since before Burke died.”
“Maybe he’s the shy type,” Connor suggested, taking a seat at the kitchen table.
I logged off the Internet news page and shut the lid to my laptop, rubbing my tired eyes. “If he is, he had a personality transplant. He was in the papers at least once a week for years before this missing-in-action thing. Even when he dropped out before, he managed to stay in the headlines. Both the mentally deficient, knuckle-dragging eldest son and the sleazy business partner mentioned that they hadn’t seen him, although Masterson’s absence was pretty much put down to avoidance.”
Connor pulled a file toward him, flipping through documents. He’d picked up two cartons of files from Emma before I’d even gotten up. Court documents, affidavits, deposition notices, financial records. All with neat identifying tabs and manila file folders. Emma had found them in the storage shed behind their property.
Jepsen had filed suit for wrongful termination and demanded an accounting as minority shareholder. A subpoena duces tecum, demand for document production, had been filed on Masterson Enterprises. Mitchell Burke had carefully kept copies of the documents he sent in response. Halfway through the stack was a copy of bank transfers to the pension fund. The dates leaped off the page. The transfers stopped in December. Jepsen was fired in April. He immediately filed suit and pushed the case hard. Burke answered the subpoena on May 20. He died on May 22. Right afterward, Jepsen’s lawyer started to drag his feet. The May pension payment was made. A clerical error, my ass.
“How much nerve do you think Jepsen has?” I asked.
“He came from nothing. I doubt he’s in a hurry to go back. Why?”
“The pension money. It stopped going into the account while Jepsen was still at Masterson Enterprises. It makes it look like he was siphoning off the funds and Masterson caught him.”
“But Jepsen’s the one who sued,” Connor said.
“Could be a smoke screen. Payments were missed after he left, too. That’s where the nerve would come in. It’s a serious game of felony chicken. Once he was fired, Jepsen had to know someone would figure it out. Probably Burke. He was the natural suspect. So he went on the offensive and sued.”
“Why not just bail if he had the cash?”
“That’s where I keep getting hung up.”
“So work it backward,” Connor suggested.
“What do you mean?”
“If you had a few million and the house of cards was crashing, you’d go missing.”
“Right,” I agreed.
“Who’s missing?”
“Stuart Masterson.”
“It also means the lawsuit Jepsen filed was probably legit.”
I nodded, getting up from the couch and stretching.
“So Jepsen files suit. Burke supplies the information that lets Jepsen know Masterson’s looted the company. Why slow down? Why not go to the cops?”
Connor just looked at me.
“Jepsen didn’t want the cops. He wanted the money.”
“And probably Masterson’s head on a pike,” Connor agreed. “He also couldn’t afford to have the pension swindle go public. What assets he has now are leveraged by his interest in Masterson Enterprises. If ME is suddenly under investigation for financial wrongdoing . . .” Connor trailed off.
“His other business tanks,” I concluded. “Mitchell Burke and his neat tabs. All the papers in nice orderly files.” I slumped onto the couch.
“A threat,” Connor conceded.
“I hate these guys.”
“I know.”
“We have to find Masterson. He’s the key.”
“What about Masterson’s business contacts? Isn’t anyone asking questions about his disappearance?” Connor asked.
“No one is screaming about it. I couldn’t find any record that he had much contact with staff. It’s like Masterson Enterprises was built in silos. No one had visibility outside their own piece of the puzzle meaning no one saw a big picture. Stuart Masterson also liked to maintain old-school distinctions between poo-bahs and peons. He never had much contact beyond a couple of key people, mainly Jepsen, Burke, and Millicent. Even Morris was hired by letter.”
“Morris never met him?”
“I don’t know that for sure. The engagement letter was signed by Millicent. I’d love to ask, but I just can’t see myself walking up to him and saying, ‘Hey, boss, is there a reason your oh-so-famous billionaire client has never bothered to actually meet you face-to-face?’ I could follow it up with, ‘By the way, how’s the search for the missing pension millions working out?’ ”
Connor laughed. “That shows a stronger instinct for survival than I would have credited you with.”
“Gee, thanks. So nice to know I can still surprise my soul mate of three days.” I saluted him with my coffee cup. He raised his and we clicked ceramic.
“Four months and three days. Just because I wasn’t here doesn’t mean we weren’t actually married.” He winked, sipping at his coffee.
“So you keep reminding me.”
“You keep forgetting,” he said matter-of-factly, reaching across the table to push my hair back behind one ear.
I kept my eyes glued to the pale blue tablecloth, gripping my coffee cup with both hands as he traced the outer shell of my ear with his forefinger, lightly stroking. My train of thought derailed with the gesture.
“But I digress. We were talking about your case.”
“Right. Okay. Yes.” I took a gulp of coffee, scalding my tongue.
“So how did you find out that no one had seen him?”
“Most of it’s in the affidavits the kids filed.” I sat up straighter, attempting to appear as nonchalant as he did, disgruntled but still relieved to be returning to safe ground. “I can’t believe they actually think some judge is going to give them the keys to the kingdom. Anyway, it’s the crux of the claim. Dad doesn’t return calls. He ignores business. His financial affairs are in disarray. Dad must need his faithful and loving children to babysit his billions. The fact that he doesn’t send his adoring family love notes on their birthdays is a clear indication that he has gone around the bend. Until you have the misfortune of actually meeting the relatives.”
Connor leaned back in his chair. “It muddies the water some. The kids’ lawsuit would have had a much better chance of succeeding without Burke, especially if Masterson wasn’t around. No one close to him to testify he didn’t howl at the moon. That could sound like the kids had their own reason for killing Burke. Maybe we should try this another way. Someone must be making decisions. Who’s paying the bills?”
“It’s on autopilot. Masterson’s personal expenses are electronically paid. Probably preauthorized, although I haven’t seen any bank records. The business side is paid by the company. Day-to-day decisions are made by a chief financial officer. I forget his name.” My gaze drifted involuntarily to his mouth and I lost the flow of the conversation again.
“Let me guess. Our moneyman has never met his employer.”
“What? Oh, right. Give the man a cigar. Although taking into consideration what happened to his predecessor, maybe it’s a good thing.”
“How long did Burke work for Stuart Masterson?”
“Nearly fifteen years.”
“That’s a long time.” The doorbell rang. Connor got up and went out into the hall, returning a moment later with a large envelope. “It’s from Emma.” He ripped open the back and pulled out several sheets of paper, reading aloud. “ ‘Dear Connor and Sara. I found this tucked into my late husband’s Day-Timer after you left. I don’t know what it means, but I thought you should see it. I’ll let you know if I find anything else. Best regards, Emma Burke.’ ”
Connor handed me the first page and I reread Emma’s note. “What did she send?”
“It’s a Post-it note. It says ‘Private Placements Employment Agency’ and has a phone number.” He handed it to me.
I looked at it. “Well, he probably hired temps all the time. Wait a minute. It’s a two-one-two area code. Where is that?”
“New York City, I think.”
“Why would Burke need a New York employment agency?”
“Maybe it was a big job. Could be they were advertising nationally for a vice president or something.”
Thinking through Connor’s idea, I got up and refilled my coffee mug, offering some to him before sitting back down at the kitchen table. “I suppose anything is possible. We still need motive. Why would Jepsen want Burke dead? It has to tie into the lawsuit, don’t you think? Jepsen demanded financial disclosure. He’d scheduled Burke for a deposition, for Pete’s sake. What was he hoping Burke would say? Maybe Burke came up with the wrong answers.” I shrugged.
“Who knows?” He shook his head. “I keep coming back to what really started the whole thing. One minute Jepsen’s got Masterson’s six; the next Jepsen’s taking range and distance.”
“Is it me or did you just stop speaking English?”
“Sorry, babe. I keep forgetting you’re a civilian.”
“Well, I could use a translation, G.I. Joe.” My stomach rumbled loudly and I got up to check the cupboards for food.
“G.I. Joe was army. I’m navy.”
I rolled my eyes at him.
“One minute Jepsen’s signature is necessary for important financial transactions; the next he’s out in the cold and Millicent is running everything. Why? What set Masterson off so much that he axed his partner of ten years?”
“Maybe it wasn’t about Jepsen. Maybe it was about Millicent,” I offered. “Masterson thinks with his other head. He’s a guy. Good-bye, best friend; hello, lady love.” I crunched some oyster crackers. They were incredibly stale but I was starving. Connor reached out with his palm up. I gave him some.
“Ugh. These are worse than C-rations.”
“They’re not that bad.” I had a couple more. The phone rang. I gestured to Connor to answer while I washed the salt from my hands.
“McNamara. Thanks for getting back to us. No. Have you had breakfast? Where? We’ll be there in fifteen.” He hung up. “That was our favorite cop.”
“You think he’s psychic?”
“I called him while you were in the shower.”
“You were right last night, Con. We don’t have proof. Or a motive. I’m not sure confessing to breaking and entering, tampering with evidence, obstruction, and felony assault with meat loaf is such a great idea.”
“They’re not even looking into Burke’s death. We have the blood in the car and the driver’s seat. We have motive all over the place, even if we can’t definitively link it to any particular person.”
“It was Jepsen.”
“We need proof. The cops have resources we don’t have—forensics and manpower. We need to give them the car, Sara. Sergeant Wesley wants us to meet him at the market for a chat over breakfast. I think we need to go.”
“I think I lost my appetite.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Sergeant Wesley was standing next to the brass pig in front of Pike Place Market when we arrived. He’d abandoned his sport coat in concession to the August temperature, already uncomfortable at ten in the morning. The market was teeming with people, tourists and locals, searching through the food and flower stalls for the best picks of the day before the unseasonably warm temperatures drove the crowds to seek cooler locations.
“Good morning, Sergeant.” Connor might think this meeting was a good idea, but my stomach was jumping with butterflies.
“Ms. Townley. Commander.”
Connor shook hands with him. “Thanks for meeting us. Do you mind
if we eat while we talk?”
“There’s a pretty good bakery.”
“Yeah, we could get doughnuts.” I offered. The cop grunted. “Lead the way.” Connor and I followed behind him to a glass case full of pastries. My appetite resurfaced with a vengeance. We got muffins and coffee, then meandered toward the Totem Park. We found an empty bench and sat down. I maneuvered so that Connor was between me and the cop.
“You want to tell me why you wanted to meet?” The cop’s voice was laconic, his squint fixed on Puget Sound as he sipped at his coffee.
“Have you identified the man in the alley yet?” I was going to have to work up to confession.
“He was a PI named Matthew Cort. Worked out of California. You heard of him?”
“I don’t think I ever met a Matthew Cort. Except for the alley, of course. Do you have any idea what he was working on?”
“He was helping a friend of the family look into a suspicious death.” He took a bite of muffin, crumbs dropping onto his sweat-stained blue shirt.
“Have you established a cause of death?” Connor asked.
“A thirty-eight-caliber bullet to the heart. You don’t happen to own a gun, do you, Ms. Townley?”
“Nope. I don’t like guns.”
“Commander?”
“Just my issue. A nine-millimeter Glock. Do you have any leads, Sergeant? Witnesses, motive, anything else?”
“Nothing but the case he was working on.” He finished his muffin and brushed at his shirt. He looked directly at me. “Mrs. Burke sends her regards.”
I flinched. I leaned back, shielding myself behind Connor before exchanging a look with him. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t read any advice through his mirrored lenses. I got up from the bench and took a couple of steps before turning and facing both men. “Okay, so maybe we’ve heard the name before.”
“Yeah, maybe you did. You’re dangerously close to interfering in a police investigation, Ms. Townley. Not to mention meddling in something that may have already cost one man his life.”
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