“Now that you mention it, I believe Mr. Larocca did have a bit of an English accent. His hair was definitely dark.”
Ian.
Chapter 13
When I got back to the hotel, I tore off that wretched dress and spread out the copies of Frawley’s files on the bed.
“Somehow Ian Payne managed to bypass the authorities and have Stephen’s body taken directly to Frawley’s Funeral Home,” I announced. “How? Why?”
“I’d say the why is because he killed him,” Patrice suggested.
“Or because he knew who killed him and he didn’t want it to come out,” Cara added. “As to how…”
“He must have some in with the authorities,” I stated.
“Makes sense,” Cara agreed. “We knew something was screwed up as soon as that fisherman snared Dad’s body in the bay. That’s when we realized he should have been autopsied in the first place.”
The newscast of Jayne Donovan’s death blared in the background. Patrice seemed fascinated by the reporters’ continuous ramblings, while all I wanted was to get the noise of death out of my head. Still, I couldn’t help watching. The D.A. in Ackerman’s trial was speaking.
“…most difficult situation.”
He nodded at a reporter in the crowd before him who said something that wasn’t caught by the microphone. “No. The trial of Nicholas Ackerman will proceed. Court is scheduled to resume Thursday morning with Edward Donovan presiding. Mrs. Donovan will be buried Wednesday afternoon.”
Another inaudible question from the press.
“Judge Donovan is firm. There will be no mistrial.”
Donovan had lost his son shortly after Ackerman’s trial started. Now his wife was dead. So was Stephen. My heart ached for Donovan even as I felt rage surge through me. Ackerman. I hated him with every atom in my body. He wouldn’t have done the killings himself. He was too much the coward, but he was behind it. I knew it. I wanted my pound of flesh, and not just his. James’s or Ian’s or whatever thug had killed Will Donovan and Stephen. And Jayne, if not by his own hand, then by driving her to suicide.
The screen cut back to the anchorwoman in the newsroom, and I forced myself to let my anger go. I needed a level head.
I glanced over at Cara. She sat curled up in the upholstered chair, munching on a bag of Cheetos she’d gotten from the vending machine, and going through all the pages of newspaper articles about Will Donovan’s disappearance that we had copied at the library.
I turned my attention back to the pages in front of me and pored over every scribbling, every typed word on the forms from Frawley’s. “Immediate cremation. Effects to be returned to widow.” Stephen’s wedding ring. His wallet. The clothes he was wearing. I had examined each item when I received them. Sterile. As though Stephen had never touched them, never worn them. They weren’t torn in any way.
There’d been no luggage. There should have been luggage. I was so lost in my anger I hadn’t once thought about it at the time.
The home address “brother” Larocca gave Frawley was bogus. There was no Sussex, Maryland, at least none that I’d ever heard of. Lucky Mr. Frawley would be getting his check back by return mail.
Ian had gotten my address and my unlisted phone number correct, which made me shudder. What else did he know about me? Did he know enough to guess I’d come to Denver? Possibly. But this time he had no tracking device.
And what about James? My visit to the funeral home had convinced me of one thing, if nothing else: there were at least two opposing forces at work. Ian wasn’t the one who had stolen Stephen’s body. He’d seen to it that Stephen was set for cremation, and then he’d left, thinking everything was in order. I’d disrupted that order when I canceled the cremation and had his body shipped back to Maryland.
That was when the other force stepped in and stole the body. Did that mean Ian was Stephen’s killer? A chill swept through me. How could I have ever thought him attractive?
But if James was the friend he pretended to be, why had he stolen Stephen’s body? Why hadn’t he simply contacted me and asked to examine the body? Surely he would have known I’d do whatever I could to bring Stephen’s murderer to justice.
Or were James and Ian working together?
There was one more troubling matter about James: he’d killed a man at Reagan National Airport.
The TV went quiet and, for a moment, I thought I’d gone deaf.
“If you still want to talk to Edward Donovan, Donovan’s holding a news conference in front of his home at seven o’clock this evening to confirm what the D.A. is saying, that there’ll be only a three-day recess in the trial. Today may be our only chance to get to him.”
“I wonder if he’ll question his wife’s death,” I said. “If I were him, I’d insist on a full investigation. Jayne was the one pushing the investigation into what happened to her son, Will. She was a real go-getter. Impulsive, intuitive, compassionate, into all sorts of charity work. The people of Denver loved her.”
Cara held up a copy of a Washington Post article we’d gotten at the library. “She said in this article she wouldn’t rest until her son was found. She insisted Will’s alive.”
“But she could have changed her mind,” I suggested. “She could have given up. I can only imagine the kind of stress—”
“I don’t think so,” Patrice stated. “It takes more than two months to give up on a missing child.”
I didn’t argue. Patrice would know.
“So how do we get him to see us?” Cara asked, crunching a handful of Cheetos.
Flowers. They were my first thought, and I honestly didn’t have time to come up with a better ruse. Edward Donovan’s house had to be inundated with them, so the arrival of one more spray wouldn’t seem unusual. The Donovans had been a prominent Denver family for generations.
The house, an old family home which was also a historical landmark, was north a few blocks, within walking distance of the state capitol, according to the concierge. I was counting on Donovan being there if he planned a news conference in just a few hours.
I pulled on the long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans Cara had selected for me—studs across both pockets, her little way of telling me to buy my own clothes in the future. Then Cara and I, along with Patrice, her sunglasses and Odin in tow, all headed for the drugstore I’d spotted on the corner. The ads pasted to the window had promised a photo center. They had exactly what I needed: a photo-duplicating machine. I laid the photos Stephen had sent me, plus his note, against the glass, inserted a credit card and pressed the copy button. It spit out two duplicates. Across the bottom of one, I wrote, “These photos and this note were mailed to me. My husband, Stephen, was murdered, too. Please see us.” I bought a pack of manila envelopes and some more stationery, plain this time.
Then we found a florist two blocks up. I ordered a huge spray, an arrangement of white mums with lots of greenery, something substantial enough to hide behind. We spent the next hour in a coffee shop, nursing lattes and watching the clock.
When it was time to pick up the flowers, I sent Patrice back to the hotel with Odin. If things went bad it’d be good to have a contact on the outside, and I was sure we’d never get Odin inside the Donovan mansion. Cara, as much as I would have liked to leave her with Patrice, was determined to go with me. It was just as well. A man who’d lost his son could probably relate to the fear I felt for my daughter.
“You’re this Stephen’s wife?” Edward stated, holding the opened manila envelope in his hand. I’d given the maid who answered the door the envelope along with the flowers. I’d asked her to please hand it to the judge with the message that I was here about his son.
Donovan had come down personally and taken us upstairs to a small library with no windows, just lots of wood, books and a heavy wool rug. I felt claustrophobic. His bodyguard stood just outside the door.
“Yes, I’m Stephen Larocca’s wife, Elizabeth.”
He was distinguished looking to the point of being unapproachable. A
s a judge, he was used to hiding his emotions, and he did it admirably. His bearing made it clear that questioning his authority would be a mistake.
“If he’s who I believe him to be, that’s not the name he used when I met him.”
“I’m not surprised.”
His gaze came to rest on Cara, and I could see a chink in his armor. He looked haunted, like sleep was a friend who had long ago deserted him.
He looked back at me, his facade back in place, and stared at me with half-lidded eyes. “You said you were here about my son.”
“My husband’s death is somehow linked to the disappearance of your son.”
“I see. What is it you want?”
“To keep my daughter safe. Ackerman’s men are after us, so you and I have something in common.”
He almost smiled, but it wasn’t out of humor.
“This is…” He gestured at Cara.
“My daughter, Cara. Stephen’s daughter.”
“Stephen’s daughter. Yes. I see the resemblance.”
“I don’t believe your wife took her life,” I said. “I believe the man who’s behind all of this—Nicholas Ackerman—had her killed in an attempt to prejudice his trial.”
I could tell from his expression I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.
“He also killed my husband and your son.”
His eyebrows arched. “You believe my son is dead.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Why? Do you have new information?”
His breathing seemed to cease.
“No.”
And then it resumed.
“I’m sorry. Please, Judge Donovan. Someone wants something Stephen left with me.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “What would that be?”
“Stephen sent me an envelope with the photos of you and your son and the note I photocopied, and a pocket atlas.”
“An atlas,” he repeated. “Where is it?”
“At the hotel where we’re staying.”
“That was all he sent you—the photos, the note and the atlas?”
“Yes,” I assured him. “Two men seem intent on obtaining those items. I’m afraid one or both of them are working for Nicholas Ackerman.”
He nodded, and I saw a hint of kindness in the weariness of his face.
“You have reason for concern,” he told me. The dart of his eyes in Cara’s direction sent a chill up my spine. “I’ll need everything you have as soon as you can get it to me. I’ll take care of it from here.” He touched my hand, and I could almost see the man behind the judge.
“We’re being pursued,” I said.
“I’ll need that atlas as soon as possible. Have you spoken to Peter Hirsch?”
“Peter? No, I—”
A rap on the door interrupted us. Donovan opened the door of his library. A young man stood outside.
“What is it?” Donovan demanded.
The man leaned over and whispered something in Donovan’s ear. “Here?” he asked.
The other man nodded.
“You are not to leave. There’s someone downstairs I must speak with. We’ll talk when I return.” Then he pulled the door shut behind him.
“He knows Peter,” Cara declared, perching herself on the edge of Donovan’s desk.
I leaned back against the bookcase, wondering how Peter Hirsch fit into all of this.
“I hope it’ll be as easy as Judge Donovan seems to think it will,” Cara said, making snow fly in a winterscape paperweight she’d lifted from the desk. “So what do we do now? Rid ourselves of Dad’s little gift package, and go back home to our lives?”
If only it were that easy.
“We’re missing the obvious question here,” I said, as Cara put down the snow globe. “If Ackerman wanted to put leverage on the judge in his trial, why would he kill both his son and his wife? What’s the judge got to lose now? He’d be free to nail Ackerman’s hide to the wall.”
“You’re right,” Cara said. “Ackerman’s not stupid. Something else is going on here. Can we trust Judge Donovan?”
Quietly I opened the library door and stepped into the hall. The bodyguard had followed the judge back downstairs. I could hear Donovan in the hall below, speaking to someone. A second voice repeated a single word, “Upstairs.” It was said with a slight English accent, just enough to send dread through my body.
The bastard had found us.
Chapter 14
I grabbed Cara’s hand. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now!” I pulled her into the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” Cara asked.
I shushed her. Explanations would have to wait. It was a big, old house designed to have servants. At the end of the hallway we found a narrow door to another set of stairs. They led down to the kitchen, where two Hispanic women were skinning chickens.
“So sorry to bother you,” I offered, smiling.
They replied in Spanish.
“Go, go, go!” I insisted, shooing Cara out the back door.
The cooks said something to each other. One started toward us with her knife tight in her hand, but we were already out the back door. She shut it and stood there watching after us through the window as we crossed the tiny backyard, passed through the neighbor’s lawn and came out on the street beyond. She’d be able to tell them which direction we’d fled in.
“What was Ian doing there?” Patrice demanded, her face flushed, as she stuffed clothes into a bag resting on the hotel bed. “Do you think he followed us to Denver?”
I rolled the black dress and slipped it into my backpack. “How could he? Maybe his being here had nothing to do with us. Maybe he’s working with Donovan.”
“That would be good, wouldn’t it?” Cara asked. “That would mean he’s on our side, right?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Ian may have duped him. Whoever killed Jayne had to have gained access to that house.”
“Ian can’t possibly know we’re here, at this hotel, can he?” Patrice asked, dropping a shirt on the floor. I scooped it up and handed it back to her. We were all shaken.
“I don’t think so. But he’ll be looking for us. Donovan told him we’re here. Hurry up,” I insisted. “I wanted us out of here ten minutes ago.”
“We didn’t get back here ten minutes ago,” Cara protested.
“I know.” I wished we hadn’t had to come back at all.
“Do you think you were followed?” Patrice asked.
I’d watched carefully. We’d taken a long, circuitous route down past the U.S. Mint. “I don’t think anyone was behind us, but we have to assume they may have been.”
We shoved the rest of our belongings into a plastic bag meant for laundry that I snatched from the closet. “Let’s go.” I pushed Patrice and Cara into the hallway. Odin whined, but then went quietly forward. We had to get out of the hotel. I wanted Cara and Patrice away from Denver before nightfall.
“We don’t even have wheels,” Cara whispered.
“I’m going to rent a car.”
Cara cocked an eyebrow at me.
“From a legitimate rental agency,” I added. “I want you two someplace safer than that room while I do it.” I pushed open the stairwell door, and we took off for the lobby, our footsteps echoing. “Stay in a public area but out of view while I fill out the paperwork. Don’t leave with anyone, no matter what they say or how they threaten you.”
“Sort of like when I was five years old and anyone picking me up had to say, ‘Koalas eat eucalyptus’?” Cara asked.
“Exactly like that. Only this time there is no secret code. Don’t leave.”
“We’ll get a table at the restaurant,” Patrice suggested.
Just past the check-in desk was one of the hotel’s three restaurants. It was open to the lobby, but there were a few tables tucked around to the left. They offered a panoramic view of people entering the dining area and seclusion at the same time. Anyone coming in would have to pass across
the lobby to get there, in full view of the clerks and bellmen and guests.
“Okay,” I agreed, pushing open the door to the lobby. I went right; they went left. The car rental desk was directly across from the gift shop.
The woman was busy with a customer when I got there. Smiling, charming, using far more words than were necessary. She finally finished, handed him keys and gave him instructions as to where to pick up the car. He shook her hand and, as soon as he left, she immediately held up one finger at me, picked up the phone and barked instructions about a new Town Car. Then she hung up and offered me that charming smile.
I produced my fake driver’s license. “I’d like an SUV if you have one available. If not, something with four-wheel drive.”
“I’ll see what I have, Ms. Whitcomb.” She typed something into her computer and shoved a stack of forms over to me.
I scribbled across the form, remembering to use the fake address on my driver’s license, and agreed to pay for the rental car’s insurance.
“I have a nice Subaru for you. Give me just a moment to check on it. That vehicle was brought in this morning and was being washed. Excuse me.”
The woman stood. I wanted to yank her back down. To tell her to give me anything with wheels as long as I could have it now, this minute. “I’m really in a hurry.”
“Of course you are. There’s nothing wrong, is there, Ms. Whitcomb?” Her tone was irritatingly condescending.
I shook my head.
“Good then. I’ll be right back.” She left.
I raced through the rest of the paperwork. By the time she came back I had finished.
She took the papers. “How will you be paying for this?”
“In cash.”
“We’ll also need a credit card.”
I produced the one I’d taken out in the name of Whitcomb.
“And will this be a local or cross-country?”
“Local,” I lied. I wasn’t about to give a destination.
“For what duration?”
“Two weeks.”
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