In Too Deep lgt-1

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  She glanced around, looking for the source of the disturbing music. An elegant gilt-and-enamel music box sat on a small table. The glass lid was raised. Two tiny dancers, a man and a woman, dressed in late-nineteenth-century ballroom attire, twirled slowly, their movements jerky.

  The box looked Victorian.

  It was getting harder to see now. The room was spinning slowly around her. She had to get outside.

  She heard footsteps in the short hallway. A figure wearing a set of high-tech headphones appeared.

  “Oh, crap,” Isabella said.

  Frantically she called on her talent, and for a few seconds, she was able to push back the dark waves of the waltz that threatened to drown her.

  She jammed a hand into the pocket of her raincoat. The business card was still there. Clutching it in her fingers, she crumpled to the floor.

  Fallon would come looking for her. He would notice every detail that seemed wrong or out of place. A business card did not fit into Walker’s decorating scheme.

  The steady beat of the waltz was in control now. She could not fight it any longer.

  The music pulled her into an endless night.

  32

  Wyman Austin came to see me this morning,” Zack said. “Told me that he’s resigning from his seat on the Council. The official reason will be the usual.”

  Fallon cradled the phone against his ear and propped his heels on the corner of his desk. “He wants to retire and spend more time with family and friends?”

  The call from Zack was important but Fallon was having a hard time focusing on the conversation. An unpleasant restlessness had set his senses on edge.

  “Right,” Zack said. “The steam has already gone out of the rumors. Word is spreading fast that Carolyn Austin started them. This morning I had a conversation with Hector Guerrero and Marilyn Houston. They are both convinced now that the Council will vote to continue funding J&J and the Nightshade project.”

  “Good, because it isn’t finished yet.” Fallon rubbed the back of his neck, trying to get rid of the tension that had been building within him for the past few minutes.

  “I agree,” Zack said. “Wyman Austin explained that Jenny finally told him the full story of what really happened the night Tucker died, including her role in it. She had been trying to protect her parents from finding out what kind of man her brother really was and dealing with her own guilt. I’m sure you’re aware that Carolyn Austin went into a very deep depression after the loss of her son.”

  “Yes.”

  “Took more than a year for her to recover. When she did, she became obsessed with revenge. She blamed you and the rest of the Joneses. She set out to try to destroy the family’s grip on Arcane.”

  “Sure,” Fallon said. “I understand vengeance. It’s a solid motive, but there’s something wrong with the timing here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been almost three years since Tucker died. Why go after the Jones family now?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the connection.

  “Must have taken Carolyn that long to concoct a plan.”

  “I don’t think it was her plan.”

  “Got any ideas?” Zack asked.

  “I’ve got a feeling that someone played on Carolyn Austin’s obsession with revenge. That person suggested a way to destroy the Jones family’s grip on Arcane, and Carolyn ran with it.”

  “You’re thinking Nightshade, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll let you work that angle. I’ve got a budget to get through my Council while everyone is feeling more charitable towards J&J.”

  “Congratulations,” Fallon said. “The Jones show of force seems to have worked.”

  Zack laughed. “I don’t think that filling the room with a lot of Joneses was what turned the tide.”

  “Maybe it was my new status as a psychic Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Don’t knock it. Isabella’s defense of your investigational talents is definitely proving to be an asset. Several key members of the Council are now referring to you as Sherlock.”

  Fallon groaned. “Just what I need.”

  “Goes to show that language is everything,” Zack said. “You can thank your new assistant for giving you a new image within Arcane.”

  “You can thank her for Wyman Austin’s resignation, too.”

  “Yeah?” Zack sounded interested.

  “Jenny and I had a long talk out on the hotel terrace. Isabella was there. She helped Jenny deal with what happened on the night of Tucker’s death. There was a lot of crying, and afterward Jenny seemed relieved or something.”

  “Thanks to Isabella?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lot of good energy around your new assistant,” Zack said.

  “She’s a full investigator here at the firm now.”

  “Right. So when are you going to marry her and make her a partner?”

  Fallon felt something snap inside him. “It’s not that easy, damn it.”

  “Hey, hey, calm down, cousin. Didn’t mean to shock you. I just assumed—”

  “When it comes to Isabella, don’t ever assume anything.” Fallon surged to his feet, phone clenched in his hand. “You think it’s easy to marry her?”

  “Well, Aunt Maryann approves of her. She told your folks that it was a perfect match. Naturally your parents told mine.”

  “And now everyone in the family thinks I’m going to marry Isabella?”

  “It would seem to be the logical next step,” Zack said, speaking carefully now.

  “This hasn’t got a damn thing to do with logic.”

  “With you, everything comes down to logic. Am I missing something in this equation?”

  “People in Isabella’s family don’t get married,” Fallon said through his teeth.

  “Some kind of religious thing?”

  “Some kind of conspiracy theory thing. Marriages mean licenses. Isabella was raised not to leave a paper trail. She doesn’t even have a birth certificate.”

  “So we’re just talking about a piece of paper?”

  Fallon exhaled slowly, forcing himself to regain control. “I’m overreacting here, aren’t I?”

  “You do sound uncharacteristically emotional,” Zack agreed. “But you’re a Jones and you’re in love. We get emotional about this kind of stuff in our family.”

  “It’s not just the license,” Fallon admitted after a while. “I don’t want her to stay with me out of gratitude or pity.”

  “Gratitude? Pity? Trust me, Fallon, a lot of people feel a lot of things when it comes to you, but gratitude and pity are rarely on the list. Why would Isabella feel either?”

  “Can’t talk about it right now. Got work to do.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up.”

  “Serves you right after all the times you hung up on me when you were working as a contract agent for J&J.”

  Fallon cut the connection and went to the window. From that angle he could see most of the counter inside the Sunshine. Isabella was no longer inside the café. She must have finished her morning break and must have now been on her way around the corner to the grocery store. She would spend a few minutes chatting with Harriet Stokes while she collected the mail.

  She’s okay.

  But his Jones intuition was riding him hard now, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck. He needed to find Isabella. There was no logical reason to take the gun, but he pulled out the lowest drawer of the desk and picked up the weapon and the holster.

  He buckled the gun in place, took his leather jacket off the wall hook and went to the door. He would just amble down the street to the grocery store and intercept Isabella when she emerged with the mail. They could have another cup of coffee and tea together at the Sunshine.

  The computer pinged. Something important had just come in. He went back across the room to see the new data that had arrived.

  I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, he thought morosely. I respond to that
damn ping the way the animals did to a bell. I start salivating. My reward is another dot of light on the paranormal grid instead of some kibble, but that’s the only difference. I’m a creature of habit and a lousy conversationalist. Even the bad guys get bored listening to me. What was it Garrett said? Not a lecture on para-physics. Just shoot me now.

  Why would Isabella want to marry him even if she didn’t have a phobia about licenses and paper trails? Great. Now he was feeling sorry for himself.

  The encrypted message was from Max Lucan. The buyer who commissioned the delivery of the mirror showed up at the motel where Garrett was staying. Sander Clay. The name should ring a few bells. He’s the CEO of Clay Tech Industries. Turns out the Feds have been watching him for months because they think he’s involved in illegal arms dealing (the normal kind). My people grabbed him when he tried to terminate Garrett. Got it all on video complete with sound. Turned everything over to the FBI. Garrett is talking as fast as he can. He even admitted to killing Caitlin Phillips.My work here is done. Any luck on your end?

  Fallon straightened. He did not have time to respond to the query. The need to find Isabella was escalating.

  He was heading back to the door when another ping sounded. He wanted to ignore it, but his intuition told him something important had come in.

  The new e-mail was from the head of security at the L.A. Arcane museum. . . . Can confirm that the entire staff submitted to a Q&A with Clare Lancaster Jones, the lie detector-talent you recommended. Everyone passed with flying colors. The list of names is attached. I’m at a loss to explain the theft of the mirror. A full inventory is currently being conducted to determine what other artifacts, if any, were stolen....

  The sense of urgency was pushing adrenaline through his veins, but he desperately needed answers. He pulled up the list of museum employees who had passed the psychic version of a lie detector test and compared it with the list he had ordered from the museum’s personnel department.

  There was one name on the list of employees that was missing from the list of people who had submitted to Clare’s Q&A.

  Lights lit up all over the grid as the connections slammed into place. He now knew who had sold the Quicksilver Mirror and, most likely, a number of other artifacts on the black market. But first he had to get to Isabella.

  He went down the stairs to the empty first floor. When he reached the street, he headed for the grocery store.

  Harriet Stokes was at the counter. She looked up from a gardening magazine when Fallon entered.

  “Morning, Fallon. How’s it going?”

  “Fine.” Fallon looked around, taking in the shelves of canned goods, the small freezer section and the bins of bulk nuts and grains. “Where’s Isabella?”

  “Haven’t seen her yet this morning.” Harriet put down the magazine. “Expect she’s over at the café having coffee with Marge and Violet and Patty. Everyone in town wants to know how Cinderella got on at the ball.”

  “What ball?”

  “That would be the one which required a fancy dress and glass slippers.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fallon headed for the door. “Never mind. I don’t have time now.”

  He went outside and cut back across town to the Sunshine. When he yanked open the door, Marge, Violet and Patty stared at him.

  “Where’s Isabella?” he asked.

  Marge frowned. “She left a while ago. Said she was going to pick up the mail.”

  Fallon went cold. “She never made it to the grocery store.”

  Violet smiled. “Take it easy. She said she was going to check up on Walker first. She was a little worried about him for some reason.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He broke into a run, heading toward Walker’s cabin on the bluffs. He was dimly aware of Marge, Violet and Patty following him. Other people peered curiously out of doorways and shop windows.

  When he went past the Scar, Oliver Hitchcock came out of the front door.

  “Hey, Jones, what’s up?” he shouted.

  “Isabella,” Fallon said. “She’s in trouble.”

  The crack of thunder and the flash of lightning announced the rain.

  By the time he reached Walker’s cabin, he was thoroughly soaked. He did not feel the cold. An icy psi fever was burning in him.

  He went up the steps and pounded on the door.

  “Isabella. Walker. Open the damn door.”

  There was no response. He was about to kick in the door when he discovered that it was unlocked.

  The utter emptiness of the interior of the cabin gave off the ominous vibes of violence. He could feel it in his bones. He wanted to howl his rage into the teeth of the storm, but he made himself take a couple of minutes to search the cabin.

  Footprints told part of the story. Isabella had entered the cabin. He could see her small, muddy prints on the floor. Two people in running shoes had entered through the back door, gone down the hall to the bathroom and then returned to the front room.

  He went out through the kitchen into the backyard. Fresh tire tracks yielded more information. Walker did not own a car. The heavy tread belonged to an SUV.

  He had missed something, he was sure of it. The fever searing his blood was making him careless. He had to stop and think or he would not stand a chance in hell of helping Isabella.

  He went back into the cabin and stood quietly for a moment, opening his senses without trying to focus. The residue of some familiar currents of energy shivered in the atmosphere. He recognized them. One of the missing Victorian gadgets. That was how they had grabbed Isabella.

  He saw the corner of the business card sticking out from under the rug. He picked it up. The name on the card confirmed his theory of the case.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered again.

  He finally became aware of the small crowd forming on the front porch of the cabin. He looked through the open door and saw that half the town had followed him.

  Henry stepped forward. “What’s wrong, Jones? What happened to Isabella and Walker?”

  “They’ve been kidnapped,” Fallon said.

  The knot of people stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “Who would want to kidnap Walker and Isabella?” Marge demanded. “It’s not like they’re rich. There’s no one to pay a ransom.”

  “This isn’t about money,” Fallon said. “It’s about those damn Bridewell curiosities. Walker must have seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. I think Isabella was in the wrong place at the wrong time, so she was taken, too.”

  “It wasn’t an accident that they took her,” Patty said. “She had a feeling that Walker was in trouble. That’s why she came here today to check on him. She thought maybe he was ill.”

  “What do we do now?” Violet asked. “Call the cops? It will take hours for them to get here, assuming they will even take a missing persons call seriously.”

  “I know who took Walker and Isabella,” Fallon said. “Odds are they are still alive and will stay that way until nightfall. The person who is behind this has been very careful about not leaving any evidence. There’s no reason she would change her pattern now. She’s got a companion, someone to do the heavy lifting. They’ll wait until dark and then they’ll do what we plan to do with Lasher’s skeleton.”

  “Dump them into the ocean?” Marge asked, horrified.

  “Yes,” Fallon said. “They won’t want to drive far with a couple of kidnap victims in the back of an SUV. Too much risk of being pulled over by a cop. They’ll stash Walker and Isabella somewhere until it’s safe to get rid of them.”

  Marge looked at him, her face deeply shadowed with anxiety. “You keep saying she. You think that a woman took Isabella and Walker?”

  “Her real name is Dr. Sylvia Tremont,” Fallon said. “She’s a curator at the Arcane museum in L.A. Everyone thinks she’s on sabbatical in London. She’s not. She’s working real estate over in Willow Creek under the name Norma Spaulding.”

  33

  Spauld
ing Properties was housed in a quaint, weathered commercial building on the main street of Willow Creek. The “Closed” sign showed in the window. Fallon walked past the entrance without pausing, as though he were headed to the drugstore on the corner.

  When he reached the narrow strip of muddy grass that separated the premises of the real estate business from the restaurant next door, he turned quickly and went around to the back door of Spaulding Properties.

  The rear door was locked, but that did not come as a surprise. Fallon reached inside his jacket and removed one of the electronic lock picks that he handed out like candy to J&J agents. It took less than three seconds to open the door. Whatever secrets Sylvia Tremont was hiding, she was not concealing them inside the office.

  The back room of Spaulding Properties was remarkably uncluttered. There were no reams of paper, no stacks of printed brochures or any business machines. It had taken less than two minutes on the computer to discover that Norma Spaulding had not closed a sale in the four weeks that the office had been open.

  He moved into the main room. The lack of sales had not stopped a few desperate homeowners from listing their properties with Spaulding Properties. Unappealing photos of a handful of aged cabins and the old Zander mansion adorned the wall.

  He disregarded the mansion because, although it was no longer an active crime scene, it had become a grisly attraction for tourists and thrill seekers. It would not make a good place to hold Isabella and Walker.

  He slipped into his other senses and studied the half-dozen featured listings with the cold-blooded logic of a killer. Swiftly he calculated distances from Walker’s house, the degree of geographical isolation offered by the various properties and the proximity to the two locations in the area that provided the kind of powerful, reliable currents required to drag two bodies out to sea and make sure that the evidence disappeared.

  Tremont would not use the Point, he concluded. It was too close to Scargill Cove. There was a serious risk that someone in town would see her and her companion, even in the midst of a storm. That left the second location, the blowhole site. The surf was violent there, and the currents were extreme. In the summer it was a popular tourist attraction. There was a convenient turnout.