Promise Not to Tell

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “I know.” Melissa sounded defeated. “His father says I should step back and let Xavier experience the consequences of his actions. This isn’t the first time Xavier has run off. But he’s missing school and he can’t afford to do that. This is his senior year. He’s supposed to start college in the fall.”

  “Like I said, there’s not much I can do from this end,” Cabot said.

  “He went looking for you because he’s curious about you. No offense, but you are not exactly a good influence. My son is going to college. I don’t want him to be distracted. I’m afraid he’s developed a very unrealistic, highly romanticized impression of the sort of work you do.”

  “Here’s the thing—I don’t want to be any kind of influence, good or bad. I just want the Kenningtons to go back to their long-standing policy of ignoring me.”

  There was a short silence from the other end of the line. When Melissa spoke again, there was a very subdued note in her voice.

  “Is it true that after your mother died, your grandfather let you go into the foster care system?” There was another pause. “I’ve heard conflicting stories.”

  “It’s true.”

  Melissa made a disgusted sound. “Your grandfather really was a bastard.”

  “Something we can agree on at last. But you don’t have to waste any time feeling sorry for me. I got lucky in the system. That man who answered the phone a few minutes ago happens to be my dad.”

  “I see. Mr. Salinas sounded very nice. Very understanding.”

  “He is. I’m not.”

  “Look, I’m sorry Xavier tracked you down, but we both have the same goals here. You want to send him home. I want him to come home. Maybe if you just answer some of his questions about the past and what you do for a living, that will be enough to satisfy him.”

  “I don’t have an obligation to answer anyone’s questions,” Cabot said.

  “I know you have no reason to give a damn about any of the adults in this family,” Melissa said, her voice sharpening again. “But I had nothing to do with what happened all those years ago and neither did my son. I hope you will remember that and treat Xavier with some kindness. His father and I are in the middle of a very nasty divorce. Xavier is not dealing with it well. Neither am I, for that matter.”

  The phone went dead in Cabot’s hand. He set it down with great care and looked at Xavier.

  “I understand you’ve got questions for me,” Cabot said.

  Xavier flushed a dull red. “I just wanted to meet you.”

  “You’ve met me. I don’t have time to answer a lot of questions. I told you, I’m working a case. Where do you plan to stay tonight?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You do realize that it will be next to impossible for a kid your age to check into a respectable hotel without an adult?”

  That was clearly news to Xavier. But after a moment of confusion, he shrugged off the problem.

  “I’ll find something,” he said. “Maybe one of the shelters.”

  The vision of Xavier—a naïve kid who had grown up with money, private schools and designer clothes—spending a night in one of the city’s homeless shelters boggled the mind.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Cabot said. He pushed himself up out of his chair, went around his desk and opened the door. “Anson, can you handle a houseguest tonight?”

  Anson looked past him to Xavier, who bore a startling resemblance to a really stubborn deer in the headlights.

  “No problem,” Anson said. “We’ll send out for pizza. You and Virginia can join us.”

  “Love to,” Virginia said.

  I’m doomed, Cabot thought.

  Anson smiled at Virginia. “I’ve got some good news. The cleaners have finished up in your gallery. You should be able to open tomorrow. Business as usual.”

  “Except that there was a murder in my back room,” Virginia said.

  Anson nodded. “Except for that.”

  Xavier stared at Virginia, fascinated. “Someone got murdered in your shop?”

  “Long story,” Virginia said. “I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”

  “Excellent,” Xavier said.

  CHAPTER 33

  The following morning Virginia unlocked the front door of the gallery shortly after eight. She had been dreading the moment. Murder had been done in the back room of her gallery. She would never again be able to enter the space without remembering the dead woman lying in the pool of blood.

  The pizza dinner with Xavier and Anson had gone fairly well, she thought. True, Cabot’s contribution to the conversation was minimal, but he had not been rude. He just seemed withdrawn. Later, when they had returned to her apartment, he immersed himself in research on his laptop. He was still at it when she went to bed. Eventually she’d heard the door of his room close.

  Sooner or later they would have to talk about how he was going to deal with his cousin, but intuition told her that it was too soon to try to coax him into that particular discussion. Cabot needed time. There was steel in the man, but steel did not bend easily.

  At breakfast that morning neither of them had mentioned Xavier.

  Cabot followed her into the back room of the gallery. He surveyed the surroundings with a professional eye and then nodded once.

  “The cleaners did a good job,” he said.

  Virginia looked at the place on the floor where they had found Sandra Porter’s body. Astonishingly, there was no trace of blood.

  She shivered. “You know, until recently it never occurred to me that there were people who specialized in cleaning up after crimes.”

  “It’s another one of those career paths that high-school guidance counselors often neglect to mention,” Cabot said.

  He walked deliberately through the space.

  “What are you looking for?” Virginia asked.

  “Nothing in particular,” Cabot said. “I’m sure the forensics people were thorough. Still, you never know.”

  The front door opened again. Jolted, Virginia turned quickly. When she saw the familiar figure standing on the threshold, she took a deep breath.

  “Sorry, Boss,” Jessica said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Not your fault,” Virginia said. “I’m a little jumpy today, that’s all.”

  Jessica grunted. “I don’t blame you. I’m not the one who found the body, but I’m feeling rather twitchy myself this morning. To be honest, I’m very glad you got here before I did. I wasn’t looking forward to being the first one through the door.”

  Jessica Ames was in her early fifties. Tall and generously proportioned, she tinted her hair jet black and kept it cut in a razor-sharp Cleopatra style. The fringe above her dark eyes looked as if it had been trimmed with the aid of a straight edge.

  Like many in the art world, Jessica wore a lot of black. Today was no exception. She wore a black turtleneck and a pair of flowy, calf-length trousers. A statement necklace fashioned of some copper-colored metal completed the look.

  Virginia had not hired her because of her expertise in art. Jessica had arrived on the doorstep of the Troy Gallery knowing almost nothing about the field. But Jessica had two very important attributes. The first was that she was a fast learner. The second was that she had a talent for sales. A lot of people thought it would be nice to work in an art gallery. Very few people had the ability to match a client with the perfect object of his or her desire.

  Jessica also knew how to pull people in off the street. It had been her idea to put the display of brilliant, hand-blown glass paperweights in the front window of the shop. They glowed in the carefully arranged lighting, catching the eyes of passersby. Once people opened the door of the shop, Jessica went to work. Very few customers left empty-handed.

  Virginia waved a hand at Cabot. “Jessica, this is Cabot Sutter. He’s the investigator I hired to l
ook into Hannah Brewster’s death. Cabot, this is my assistant, Jessica Ames.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Cabot said.

  Jessica sized him up in one quick glance and smiled approvingly. “A pleasure.” She took a long, slow look around the shop. “I still can’t believe someone got murdered in here. Do the cops have any leads?”

  “Currently they’re leaning toward a theory that involves drugs,” Virginia said. “But Cabot and I are wondering if Sandra Porter’s death is in any way linked to Hannah Brewster’s.”

  “Weird thought,” Jessica said. She paused. “You think Hannah Brewster might have known Porter?”

  “I’m almost positive they never met,” Virginia said. “But the door of the storage room where we keep Hannah’s paintings was open.”

  “Maybe someone thought those pictures are worth a lot more than we assumed,” Jessica suggested.

  “We’ve had them on display from time to time,” Virginia reminded her. “We’ve never had a single offer on any of them.”

  “True. They’re fascinating in some weird way but they make people uneasy.” Jessica got a familiar gleam in her eye. “One thing’s for sure, though.”

  “What’s that?” Cabot asked.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, the murder-in-the-art-gallery story is getting a real run in the local media. That kind of publicity will help get out a nice crowd for the show next week.”

  Virginia winced. “We don’t need a lot of curiosity seekers. We need a crowd of people who are actually interested in buying art.”

  “Don’t worry, Boss,” Jessica said. “I can turn curiosity seekers into art collectors. It’s my superpower.”

  Cabot regarded Jessica with a mix of admiration and curiosity.

  “You’re that good?” he said.

  Jessica smiled modestly.

  “She’s that good,” Virginia said.

  Cabot studied Jessica with his usual intent expression.

  “What’s your secret?” he asked.

  “Depends on the customer,” Jessica said.

  “Client,” Virginia said. “We call them clients, not customers.”

  “Oh, right,” Jessica said. She gave Cabot a winning smile. “Clients.”

  “What would you sell me?” Cabot asked.

  “If you were passing by on the street, it would most likely be the glass paperweights that would make you enter the shop.”

  “Because I don’t look like an art connoisseur?”

  “Everyone responds to some kind of art,” Jessica said. “Not everyone knows that, though. It’s my job to find out exactly what type of art a person needs and then put that object into his or her hands. Between you and me, the paperweights are what I call starter art.”

  “What about the whole art-for-art’s-sake thing?” Cabot asked.

  “That’s bullshit,” Jessica said. “Every piece of art has a purpose, even if it’s just to make someone stop and look for a couple of seconds.”

  “The best art tells a story,” Virginia said. “That’s why the Old Masters survive and a lot of modern abstract art won’t.”

  Cabot looked at Jessica. “So I’m a paperweight kind of guy?”

  “You’re a form-follows-function kind of guy,” Jessica said, very serious now. “You’re the type who responds to well-designed objects that have a well-defined purpose. You would admire a beautifully crafted knife or an elegant car or a brilliant paperweight that would catch the light while it was holding down a stack of papers on a desk.”

  She plucked a dark-blue-and-gold paperweight from the cluster on the table near the storage locker and handed it to Cabot. He studied it for a moment, watching the light play in the heart of the glass.

  “You know, Anson’s got a birthday coming up,” he said. “I think he might like this. It would look good on his desk.”

  Virginia hid a smile.

  Jessica nodded. “Excellent choice for a man’s desk. Masculine and useful. It will complement any style of décor.”

  Cabot whistled softly. “Virginia’s right. You’re good.”

  “Everyone has a talent,” Jessica said.

  CHAPTER 34

  “What do you want from me?” Kate Delbridge demanded. “The police already took my statement. HR sent out a memo telling everyone at the company that we aren’t supposed to talk to anyone except the cops.”

  “Which is, of course, why the news of Sandra Porter’s death is all over the social media sites that the local tech crowd likes to use,” Virginia said.

  They were standing in the hallway outside Kate’s apartment. Cabot had agreed to let her take the lead. She was following a hunch because neither she nor Cabot had been able to go deep into the latest social media sites that the young tech crowd favored. But given the way the world worked these days, she figured it was a safe bet that employees from Night Watch had done a lot of communicating about the murder.

  Kate frowned at Cabot. “Who are you guys? Local TV? I don’t see any cameras.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Cabot said. “I’m investigating a case that may have a connection to the death of Sandra Porter.”

  Kate switched her attention back to Virginia. “Are you his assistant or something?”

  “No,” Virginia said. “I’m his client. Sandra Porter died in the back room of my gallery.”

  “Oh.” Kate absorbed that information. “I read somewhere that the gallery owner found the body.”

  “That’s right,” Virginia said. “You can understand why I’m interested in Sandra Porter’s murder.”

  “Okay, I guess that makes sense,” Kate said. “But the fact is, I didn’t know Sandra Porter very well. She was a loner and she worked in IT. When I ran into her in the halls, she ignored me. All I can tell you is what I told the cops. People at work are saying that Sandra was seeing someone but she was very secretive about it. I got the impression that she’d been dumped recently. She was always intense but after that she got a little scary.”

  “We know she lost her job at Night Watch,” Virginia said. “We know the official reason—she left to pursue other career opportunities. We also know that’s not the real reason. Why do you think she was fired?”

  Kate shrugged. “Some people are saying she got into drugs. But there have been rumors that she might have been embezzling funds. Management probably couldn’t prove it, so they just let her go.”

  “That’s often the way big firms deal with embezzlers,” Cabot said. “It avoids the bad publicity.”

  “What did you mean when you said that Sandra got scary?” Virginia asked.

  “It’s hard to explain,” Kate said. “She seemed to be seething all the time. And she had mood swings. One day I found her sobbing in the restroom. I asked her if she was okay. She told me to fuck off.”

  “Do you think she might have been the embezzler?” Cabot asked.

  “I guess we’ll all find out soon enough,” Kate said. “If she was the one who was skimming off money, the losses should stop, right?” Kate started to close the door. “Look, that’s all I can tell you. I really don’t know anything else.”

  “Wait,” Virginia said quickly. “One more thing—did Sandra have any close friends at the company?”

  “Not that I know of. She wasn’t the type who attracted friends.”

  Once again Kate started to close the door. Cabot took out a card and handed it to her.

  “If you think of anything else that might be helpful—anything at all—please call me,” he said. “Day or night.”

  “All right.” Kate took the card and closed the door.

  Virginia heard the lock click into place. Without a word, she and Cabot walked down the hall to the elevators. She pressed the call button.

  “Well?” she said. “What’s your take on her?”

  “I think she’s nervous,”
Cabot said. “But that doesn’t give us much to go on.”

  His phone beeped. He unclipped it and checked the screen. His jaw tightened as he read the message. Without a word he clipped the phone back on his belt.

  “What?” Virginia asked.

  “A message from Anson. We’re expected for dinner again this evening.”

  “Okay,” Virginia said.

  “Okay?”

  “You can do this, Cabot. You are a tough crime fighter. You can handle a teenager who just wants to know more about you.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with a seventeen-year-old boy?”

  “Give him a job.”

  “A job? He’s seventeen.”

  “Exactly,” Virginia said. “He’s seventeen. That means he probably knows a lot more about the online world than you and me and Anson put together. Ask Xavier to do some online research for you.”

  She thought Cabot was going to come back with a hard no to that suggestion. But he didn’t. Instead he appeared to give the idea some serious thought.

  “Huh,” he said.

  CHAPTER 35

  “It’s going to be all right,” Virginia said. “I’m not saying it will be comfortable, but it will be okay. All families are dysfunctional in one way or another.”

  They were back in her condo, sitting on her sofa. The second dinner with Xavier and Anson had gotten off to a rocky start, but when Cabot had suggested that Xavier help Anson work on the little math book, Xavier lit up with enthusiasm. He had asked an endless string of questions while wolfing down half the pizza.

  By the time Cabot and Virginia left, Xavier had been deep into the photocopied pages of the book.

  “Easy for you to say all families are dysfunctional,” Cabot muttered. He swallowed some of his beer and set the bottle down. “You’re not the one who is suddenly developing a lot of connections with a family that, until recently, didn’t give a damn whether you were alive or dead.”