He decided to start with the counter in the showroom.
He went back through the door and started opening drawers and cupboards.
The search proved futile. Nothing but invoices, receipts, catalogs and wrapping materials emblazoned with the gallery’s name.
He was about to give up when he noticed the keychain in the top drawer of the desk. There was a single key on it and a helpful label, Storage Closet. He returned to the back room and tried the key on the door of what he had assumed was the staff restroom.
A little thrill pulsed through him when the key worked. He told himself not to get too excited.
He got the door open and aimed the flashlight into the darkness. The beam played across a number of large paintings covered in protective drapery. The canvases were propped against the side walls of the deep, closet-like space.
Disappointment slammed through him. Just more paintings. He was about to back out of the room but he paused, his curiosity aroused. What was so special about the paintings that were kept under lock and key?
He gripped a corner of the nearest dust cover and raised it partway to take a look at the canvas.
In the beam of the flashlight, the picture glowed with all the hot colors of hellfire. A dark, powerful-looking figure with long black hair strode through the flames.
Tucker stopped breathing for a beat. And then his pulse started to pound. He studied the picture for a moment before he dropped the cover. He went down the aisle formed by the big paintings, yanking off the covers one by one.
Each picture was slightly different, but when he reached the far end of the storage closet and looked back, he realized he was looking at a multi-canvas series that, when viewed as a whole, showed the Quinton Zane compound on fire.
Each picture was signed by the artist—Hannah Brewster.
There were two more pictures at the very back of the closet. Each had a tag that read, Not for Sale. Client may call.
When he lifted the covers, he saw that the paintings were signed by Brewster, but they were not part of the fire series. Each was a portrait of the same woman. She appeared to be in her late thirties, forty at most. He thought she had probably been quite beautiful in her younger days, but in the pictures she looked weak and faded.
In each painting she was shown seated in the same chair near a big stone fireplace, doing some kind of needlework. There was more needlework hanging on the wall beside her.
The setting looked vaguely familiar. It took him a few seconds to recognize the parlor of the Lost Island B and B. Finally, understanding dawned. He realized that he was probably looking at a couple of portraits of Abigail Watkins.
Curiosity made him pause to examine the woman more closely. No question about it, Watkins had been weak and pathetic. Perfect cult material.
Disgusted, he let the covers fall back into place.
Once again he turned to study the hellish scenes that Brewster had painted. He was not into art but he was thrilled by the fiery scenes. A heady excitement shivered through him. The pictures were important—they had to be important—but damned if he could figure out how or why.
Virginia Troy had hired a private investigator for some reason, and not just any private investigator—she had hired a man who had been at the California compound. There was only one logical explanation—Troy didn’t have the key, either; not yet, at any rate. But she was looking for it. That explained why she had contacted Cutler, Sutter & Salinas. She had probably agreed to cut them in for a share of the money if they found it.
The trail was getting hot.
He took out his phone and started snapping pictures. They might contain a clue or they might simply be the work of a delusional artist who could not forget the past. Either way, they would make an excellent addition to his private collection.
CHAPTER 10
The bastard had used her and then dumped her when he had concluded that he no longer needed her. And then he had gotten her fired. Now she was going to make him pay and pay dearly.
Sandra Porter got out of the car, wrapped her fingers around the small pistol in the pocket of her long, black coat, and started toward the front entrance of the Troy Gallery. A few minutes ago she had watched Tucker break in through the front door. It seemed unlikely that he would have relocked it after he got inside.
Earlier that day she had watched him slip into Virginia Troy’s condo building dressed as a plumber. Initially she had assumed that he had gone there to have sex with Troy. That had baffled her because Virginia Troy was clearly into art, and Tucker had zero interest in that subject. And if he had started a new affair, why dress up as a plumber?
The one thing she knew for sure about Tucker was that he had a history of using and manipulating people. The question was, how did he intend to use Troy?
Discovering that Virginia Troy was out of town had raised more questions. Why would Tucker break into her condo?
There was no denying that he had undergone something of a personality change in recent weeks. He had lost interest not only in her, but in his games as well. Instead he had become obsessed with something else. At first she had assumed he had found another lover. But yesterday she had discovered his secret.
Tucker Fleming was about to learn that he could not simply toss her aside because he thought he no longer needed her.
CHAPTER 11
Tucker heard the front door of the shop open in a stealthy manner. Panicked, he switched off his flashlight and tried to stay very still in the shadows. His first semi-coherent thought was that he had been followed by someone else who was after the key.
A figure appeared in the doorway that separated the showroom from the back room.
“Tucker? What in the world is going on here?”
He recognized the voice instantly. Relief swept over him. It was followed by a cold rage.
“Don’t look now, Sandra, but you’ve become a full-on stalker,” he said. “You stupid woman. You followed me? How the hell did you do that?”
He switched on the flashlight. The beam glinted on the small gun in her hand. His insides went cold. Crazy bitch.
“I put a tracking device on your phone,” Sandra said. “And I’m not stupid, Tucker. You should know that better than anyone. After all, it was my coding work that got you that big bonus at Night Watch. You were employee of the month because of me. You got the credit and the cash, and I got the shaft. You used me. Then you got me fired. Did you really think I would just disappear?”
This was what he got for fucking a crazy bitch who worked in the IT department.
“You just did a little coding for me, Sandra. That was it. Any teenager could have done it. The vision of the new Night Watch app was all mine.”
“Maybe a kid could have done that coding for you, but you couldn’t do it, could you? You’re good but you’re not great. People with your skill set are a dime a dozen in the tech world. What’s more, you’re in an industry that always wants to hire the youngest people with the sharpest skills. A couple more years in the tech world and you’ll be washed up. But you’ve done some contingency planning, haven’t you? You’re running a clever little off-the-books project at Night Watch.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sandra.” He tried to make his voice soothing. “What we had was good for a while, but it’s over. Under the circumstances, it was best for you to leave the company. We both know that.”
“Good for you, maybe. But for me? Not so much. I’m out of a job. But enough about me. Let’s talk about your new project at Night Watch and why you’re here in the Troy Gallery tonight. I assume there’s a connection.”
“Fine. We’ll talk. But not here. We’re both in danger of getting picked up for burglary if we don’t get away from this place.”
“No, we’ll talk here. I know about your Night Watch project, so tell me why you took the risk of breaking into this gallery.”
Tucker sucked in a sharp breath. “It’s a long story. I don’t have time to go into detail now. But I can tell you that I came here tonight looking for something very valuable that went missing twenty-two years ago.”
“You expected to find it in an art gallery?”
“I’d hoped to find it here but it turns out I’m going to have to keep looking. Virginia Troy is the best lead I’ve got.” He paused a beat. “Things are getting complicated. I could use some tech support.”
“You’re a real bastard.”
“We’ll be partners this time, Sandra. There’s a lot of money involved. Makes the Night Watch project look penny-ante. I promise you’ll get your share.”
“What, exactly, are you looking for?” Sandra asked.
“Take a look at what’s in that closet.”
“If this is some kind of trick—”
“It’s not a trick, I swear it.”
Sandra hesitated and then she edged toward the open door. He watched her glance into the darkness.
“I can’t see anything,” she said.
Without a word he aimed the flashlight into the closet. Fire danced in the shadows. She took a quick look inside and then turned back.
“Just some weird paintings,” she said. “Buildings on fire. Some kids in the background. A guy dressed in black. Why are they important?”
“They’re a link to my past.”
“I don’t understand. You were in a fire?”
“Never mind. All you need to know is that a lot of money went missing around the time of that fire. I’m trying to find it. Like I said, I could use your help and I’m willing to cut you in for twenty-five percent.”
“Forget it. Fifty-fifty or nothing.”
“All right, fifty-fifty. Now let’s get out of here.”
“I want fifty percent of your Night Watch project as well, or I’ll make sure Josh Preston finds out exactly why he’s losing money.”
Tucker grunted. “You’ve got me over a barrel. I’m in no position to bargain.”
She gave him another icy smile. “No, you’re not. You see? You really do need me, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I need you.”
“We’re going to make a great team.”
He smiled. “Yes, we are.”
She dropped the pistol rather carelessly into the pocket of her coat. “You’re right about one thing. We should get out of here.”
So fucking predictable, he thought. Except for the part where she showed up with a gun tonight. He had to admit he hadn’t seen that coming.
Crazy bitch.
CHAPTER 12
Virginia snapped awake from the all-too-familiar nightmare. She sat up abruptly, trying to orient her skittering senses. It took a few seconds to remember that she was in a guest room at the Lost Island B and B.
You’re safe. There’s no fire. And even if there were a fire, you’ve got two exits marked—the door and the window. You’re on the second floor. You can use a sheet to get down. The worst that can happen is you’ll break an ankle. You’ll survive a broken ankle.
It was the mantra that she had established back in her teens. Before going to sleep in an unfamiliar environment, she always made certain to locate at least two exits in case of fire.
She had a third option tonight, she reminded herself—the connecting door between her room and Cabot’s. Earlier he had made a point of unlocking it on his side. He hadn’t asked her if she would feel safer that way, he had simply told her that the door was unlocked. She had very quietly unlocked it from her side as well. She knew that neither of them expected to be overcome with uncontrollable lust. There had been no need to discuss the real reason the door was unlocked. It was all about creating a third escape route in case of fire.
So, three exits. It was okay.
Aware that she wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep for a while, she pushed the covers aside and pulled on her robe. Guided by the dim glow of the little night-light that she always brought with her when she traveled, she made her way across the room and pushed the small table out of the way. She needed space for the nightly routine.
It was time to run through the exercise ritual. The alternative was using the meds. She resorted to them when the anxiety overwhelmed her, but usually the exercise worked.
She summoned a vision of a figure dressed in black and reached for the nearest object, an empty flower vase. One by one she went through the series of short, slashing blows designed to smash the vase against the imaginary attacker’s face. She went for the eyes and then the throat.
The old rage welled up within her, washing away the anxiety in a white-hot blaze of energy.
When she was finished with the first series of exercises, she set the vase back down on the table and grabbed the next-nearest weapon, an old-fashioned candlestick holder. Once again, she went through the moves, chopping, slashing, stabbing—letting the fury cleanse her of the panicky sensations brought on by the old dream.
Twelve minutes later she sank down on the end of the bed. The anxiety attack had been quelled, but now, of course, she was too wired to sleep. If she were at home, she would have wandered down the hall to the kitchen and made herself a cup of herbal tea. But she was stuck in a room at the B and B, and she was pretty sure that Rose Gilbert would be unnerved if one of her guests started prowling the halls.
When her pulse settled back to a normal pace, she got up, went to the window and looked out. She always slept with the curtains open. On the bad nights she found it reassuring to be able to look out and see lots of city lights. But on the island there was only the light of the moon, and tonight it was only half-full. The woods that bordered the clearing around the B and B were so dark and thick they might as well have been a jungle.
The soft rap on the connecting door startled her so badly she jumped and uttered a half-strangled yelp.
When she had herself under control, she crossed the room, opened the door a couple of inches and saw Cabot. In the pale glow of the night-light, she could see that he was dressed in trousers and a dark crew-neck T-shirt. His feet were bare.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, fine. I got up to get a glass of water.”
Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. She had a right to her privacy.
“Heard you moving around,” Cabot said. “Figured maybe you couldn’t sleep.”
“I’m a crappy sleeper,” she admitted.
“You’re not the only one. I can usually get to sleep for a few hours but I often wake up about now. Takes a while to get back to sleep.”
“It’s one thirty in the morning.” She glanced at the clock. “Make that one forty-five.”
“No kidding.”
“That’s the time that Zane torched the compound.”
“Sure is. Damn. You think there might be a connection?”
“Call me insightful.”
“My nighttime habits ruined a lot of my relationships,” Cabot said.
“I know what you mean. I’ve given up on what people like to call relationships. I’m what you might call a serial dater now. Haven’t even done any of that for a while.”
“Commitment issues?”
“Oh, yeah. Also abandonment issues and anxiety attacks,” she said. “All in all I’m not good relationship material.”
“Sounds like we have a few things in common.”
“You’re still dressed,” she said. “Didn’t you even go to bed tonight?”
“Yes, but now I’m up and thinking about the investigation. I’ve got a question for you. Want to talk for a while?”
“Now?”
“Not like either of us is getting any sleep,” he pointed out.
“True.” She hesitated, glanced past him
into the small space and then, on impulse, stood back and pulled the door wider. “We might as well use my room. It’s bigger than yours. I’ve got two chairs.”
They sat down in front of the window, the little round table between them. Neither of them made a move to turn on the light. It was as if they had both independently reached the conclusion that it might be more comfortable to talk in the dark.
“What is your question?” she asked.
Cabot leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, his fingers lightly clasped. “We know that Zane started his operation in the Seattle area.”
“At the house outside of Wallerton. I remember that horrible old place.”
“So do I. But he kept us there for only a couple of months before he moved all of us to the California compound.”
Virginia shuddered. “Fortunately for you and me, that turned out to be the town where Anson Salinas was the chief of police. Otherwise we both would have died in that barn fire.”
“Yes, but my point is, Zane recruited most of his followers from the Pacific Northwest.”
Virginia contemplated that briefly. “I’ve never really thought about Zane’s past. He was always just the demon from my childhood. A cold-blooded killer. Do you think he was from the Seattle area originally?”
“We can’t be absolutely sure,” Cabot said. “We never managed to identify any of Zane’s family. For all intents and purposes he was a true orphan. He did a very thorough job of erasing his past. But he was familiar enough with the Northwest to choose the Wallerton house, an isolated place, for the first compound. In my experience, the bad guys like to operate on familiar territory whenever possible.”
Virginia studied Cabot’s shadowed profile. There was a dark intensity about him again, the same intensity she had witnessed that afternoon when he had worked through the logic of how Hannah Brewster had died. She could have sworn that some eerie, dangerous energy shivered in the atmosphere around him.
Promise Not to Tell Page 7
