Winter's Mourn

by Mary Stone

  “And you ended the relationship?”

  Joe laughed again, a little bitterly this time. “Actually, no. When I refused to marry her. Well, refused to participate in her breeding experiment, since it was about offspring and she didn’t actually even care about marriage, she left me. We’d been living together for a few months by that point, and she just packed her things and moved out.”

  “Can I ask you what you majored in?”

  “Chemical Engineering.”

  “Did Rebekah ever talk about fertility drugs? Creating them or working on an existing one?”

  “Jeez, no. She was brilliant, kind of intense, but that would have wigged me out completely. Especially once she started making noises about ovulation and fertile windows.”

  “Did she ever mention her father? Or a group called the Disciples of the Moon?”

  “No.” Joe sounded genuinely baffled. “But I’m thinking from this conversation, I dodged a bullet with that one.”

  “You just might have,” Noah replied wryly. “Thanks for the information. Save my number, will you, in case you think of anything else we should know?”

  Joe agreed and disconnected, probably to go tell his wife about his weird ex-girlfriend.

  When Noah hung up, Winter was practically bouncing in her seat. He raised an eyebrow at her. “All right, what’ve you got? It’s obviously something better than I turned up.”

  Aiden, too, closed his laptop and looked at her expectantly. Almost like a proud teacher would look at a pupil, Noah thought in disgust.

  “Scott Kennedy,” she nearly shouted. “Super rich guy who lives just outside of Washington, D.C. His family owned a pharmaceutical company, started it in the fifties. They made a name for themselves manufacturing an early fertility drug during the Baby Boom, similar to Clomid. After Kennedy’s dad died, he inherited everything and sold the company to a big pharma corporation. Made a boatload of money, retired fairly young.”

  She paused, looking at them both expectantly, a half-smile on her lips.

  “I’ll bite,” Aiden said in that cool voice that made Noah want to grab him by the collar and shake. Hard. “What’s the connection?”

  “He served with Wesley Archer in Vietnam.” She turned her laptop so they could see the picture she’d pulled up on her screen.

  Two guys, dressed in fatigues—the picture was obviously taken in a war zone—one with his arm around the other. Both had short, military haircuts. One man was smiling—a cocky, shit-eating grin on his face, leaning on a rifle. The other man, one Noah recognized as Wesley Archer, wasn’t smiling. Though the picture was in grainy black and white, there was a darkness in the other man’s face that was clearly visible.

  On a sudden thought, Noah leaned forward. Right clicking the cropped photo, one Winter had found on Google images, he did a reverse image search. The first link directed to an old newspaper article.

  “Another connection. Check out the byline. Elbert Wilkins.” He pointed at the screen. “Anyone up for a trip to Washington, D. C.?”

  23

  Scott Kennedy lived in a posh community in Bethesda, Maryland, about a half-hour outside of Washington, D.C. The houses were massive and imposing, closed in by iron gates and stone walls. Rather than the newer-constructed gated communities full of medium-sized mansions, Kennedy lived in an older part of Bethesda, where the homes had more character, but also carried price tags in the multiple millions.

  From what Winter could uncover in the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Harrisonburg, Scott Kennedy inherited half of his father’s fortune when the old man passed away in the 1970s. On paper, it looked like both brothers invested their money into building up the company, but Scott, after acquiring a majority share in the company under shady means, sold out to a larger pharmaceutical corporation and hung his little brother out to dry.

  He had no children, but had been married three times and divorced twice, each wife younger than the last. His third wife, only twenty-eight years old to Kennedy’s sixty-one at the time of his marriage, had died in an avalanche while skiing in Switzerland in 2012. So far, there was no Mrs. Scott Kennedy number four.

  Kennedy had been a big-time political donor in the nineties, so there was plenty about him in the newspapers. He’d run for Congress at one point, but failing to get elected, had spent most of his recent years out of the spotlight.

  In a photo from 2015, Kennedy looked like a man much younger than his age, either from healthy-living or more likely, cosmetic surgery. He had dark hair, with distinguished white wings sweeping dramatically back from a craggy, still-handsome face. The snapping dark eyes were the same as the younger Kennedy in the decades-old newspaper photo, as was the wide, smug grin he wore. If she hadn’t known he was nearing seventy, she’d have guessed he was in his fifties.

  “Home sweet home,” Noah muttered as Aiden slowed the car. He pulled into a long drive, blocked with an eight-foot tall wrought-iron gate. Aiden lowered the window and pressed a button on an intercom mounted near the road.

  “May I help you?”

  “FBI Agents Black, Parrish, and Dalton to see Mr. Kennedy.”

  There was a pause, and the black gate swung inward. No house could be seen from the road, just manicured foliage and glossy ivy crowded into what looked like a mercilessly well-maintained wilderness. Winter caught a glimpse of a fountain through the trees. A moss-covered concrete woman in Grecian robes stared off into the distance, pouring water endlessly from a narrow pitcher.

  After several hundred feet, the trees gave way to an upward-sloping lawn. A huge brick house sat at the crest. It had to be at least ten thousand square feet. Windows lined the front, looking out onto a brick turnaround drive with another fountain in the center. Immaculate gardens still bloomed with color in the late evening sunlight—asters and purplish grasses and spikes of bright red celosia—even though it was nearly October. A six-car garage sat at an angle to the house, and behind it, part of a tennis court was visible.

  Winter wondered what kind of house Scott Kennedy’s brother lived in, since Scott appeared to have claimed the lion’s share of the family fortune.

  Aiden parked his black SUV under the front portico, and a butler opened the door before they could all get out of the car. “Welcome,” the older man said, his voice sounding anything but. His shoulders were rounded with age under his immaculate black uniform. His seamed face was drawn into deep, disapproving lines. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Kennedy will see you in his study.”

  As he turned to follow, Noah’s shoes squeaked and echoed in the marbled foyer, where twin, curving staircases led to the second floor. The décor was tasteful and screamed old money, from the antique furniture pieces artfully scattered about to the dreamy impressionist paintings on the walls and Turkish carpets on the floor.

  Aiden seemed distracted, tapping the screen of his phone. Noah gave a soundless whistle when they passed what looked like an original Monet and nodded at it, raising his eyebrows at Winter. She hardly noticed. She was focused on her senses, tingling with a vague warning that she couldn’t interpret.

  The butler stopped at a heavy mahogany door and tapped lightly.

  “Come in,” boomed a voice from inside.

  The butler soundlessly pushed open the door and stood back to let the three of them enter. The room was obviously a rich man’s idea of a man cave. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of dark wood, and what wasn’t covered with wood had been painted a dark forest green that contrasted nicely with the thick carpets of burgundy and gold. The windows looked out on a swimming pool. Hunting scenes in oil paint were hung on the walls, and the fixtures in the room were gleaming brass. A small fire crackled in a fireplace at the other end of the room.

  Scott Kennedy stood behind a mahogany desk, smiling as they entered. “Welcome.” His voice was rich and deep, like one of the politicians he’d aspired to be. His dark eyes were lit with intelligence and apparent good humor. Despite the lateness of the day, he was dressed in a da
rk suit that was expensive-looking and well-tailored.

  He grinned at all of them in turn, but his eyes lingered on Winter. She had to stifle an automatic shudder as he gave her a once-over, his eyes lingering on her breasts. Perv, she thought, keeping an impersonal smile pinned to her lips.

  “Please, sit down.” He gestured magnanimously to the three chairs in front of the desk. Covered in plush, padded burgundy velvet, they were all low, she noted. Seated in front of him, they left Kennedy in the power position.

  “What can I do for you, Agents?” he asked after brief introductions. His hand had lingered longest on hers, and although he addressed all of them, Kennedy only had eyes for Winter.

  She could feel Noah bristling next to her, and even Aiden’s posture was stiff. Winter felt like she might possibly drown in the testosterone flooding the room, but since Kennedy was responding to her, she was obviously going to have to take the lead.

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Kennedy,” she began.

  “Scott,” he interrupted, smiling warmly. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Mr. Kennedy was my father.”

  “Scott,” she corrected, nodding in acknowledgment. “We’re investigating a case that involves an old acquaintance of yours.”

  “Wesley Archer.” He nodded and settled back in his chair, arms crossed. “We served in Vietnam together. I was sorry to hear of his passing a few years back, but unfortunately, suicide is common amongst veterans.”

  She was surprised he seemed so forthcoming. More surprised that he knew why they were there. Noah beat her to the punch on the next question. “How did you know we were here to speak about Wesley?”

  Kennedy smiled briefly at Noah, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I have many friends. Law enforcement…FBI. I know a lot of things. Unfortunately, nothing that would help you solve those unfortunate cold cases down in Harrisonburg.”

  “Could you tell us how long it’s been since you spoke with Wesley Archer?” Aiden fixed his cool, blue stare on Kennedy. Winter watched as Kennedy shifted a little in his chair. She knew what the power of one of Aiden’s stares felt like. A rock would shift in its chair.

  “Oh, it’s been years and years ago.” He waved a hand negligently, regaining his composure. “We were very different people. War…it brings you close. Forges a bond. Sometimes, if that’s all you have in common, the bond dissolves when you’re stateside. Every day isn’t a life and death struggle anymore, and you don’t have to depend on your friends to watch your back in the same way.”

  “That’s an interesting perspective,” Noah said, his tone casual. “I served in the military too. Active combat. ‘Brothers in arms’ is an old term for a reason. I would instantly be able to pick out any of my unit members in a crowded room fifty years from now, and I’d still feel as close to him as a brother. In my experience, those bonds don’t ‘dissolve.’”

  Kennedy gave him a patronizing smile. “You’re young. I’m…less young. You may feel that way now, but—”

  “How long did you keep in touch with Archer after you served?” Noah gave Kennedy no time for his condescending attitude.

  Kennedy’s polished smile slipped a bit. “You’re talking about decades ago. I couldn’t give you a date.”

  Aiden spoke next, but Winter didn’t hear him. Her eye was caught by a faint, reddish glow. It was coming from near the floor, behind Kennedy’s desk. From the position, it was likely originating inside a drawer of the mahogany desk. She glanced around, looking for any other visual clues she might have missed. On one wall, coming from a vent near the floor, red light leaked sullenly through the old-fashioned metal grating.

  Her stomach tensed.

  There was something here. Something that Kennedy was hiding.

  Kennedy’s raised voice caught her attention again. “What are you implying?” he blustered. “That I had something to do with a bunch of bones buried in the woods in some podunk town?”

  Aiden gazed back at him coolly. “I don’t believe I implied anything of the sort. I merely asked about the nature of your relationship with Wesley Archer and how much you knew about the Disciples of the Moon.”

  “What a stupid name,” Kennedy scoffed, curling his lip. “A bunch of weirdos running around worshipping nature? Hell, maybe they were making human sacrifices to the moon. Do I look like the type of person who would participate in that kind of bullshit?” He held his arms out, as if his snappy dressing and trim appearance should absolve him of involvement.

  “No, sir, you don’t,” Noah drawled. “Anyone can tell you’re a businessman, through and through, just by looking at you. Money is the bottom line, am I right?”

  Kennedy gave him an approving nod, like Noah was a dumb student who’d managed to hit upon the right answer. “I came back from the war to find my father in declining health. I didn’t have time for anything except turning around a lagging family business.”

  “And how did you intend to go about that?” From the tone of Aiden’s question, he already knew the answer. Again, Kennedy scowled.

  “The usual way. Trimming expenses, streamlining operations. The company structure was outdated.”

  “And you knew this as a young guy in your twenties, fresh out of the military?” Noah’s voice was admiring, and Winter realized they’d picked up the questioning thread while she was distracted.

  The good cop/bad cop routine seemed to be working. Scott Kennedy preened a little. “I’ve always had a good head for business. I increased the family fortune substantially while the company was under my leadership.”

  “Could you tell us about a patent you pursued in 1981? For a drug called…” Aiden slowly flipped a page in a small leather-bound notebook. “Ah, here it is. Progesteraline Six?”

  Winter glanced over at Aiden, surprised. Noah just looked disgruntled. Aiden didn’t seem like the showboating type, but he should have shared any information he’d uncovered before they met with Kennedy.

  Kennedy’s tan face paled in shock. His eyes darkened further in anger, but he seemed to get himself under control. A grim smile on his lips, he shook his head. “Sorry, that’s not ringing any bells for me.”

  Aiden raised one eyebrow. “No? Your signature was on the paperwork.”

  Kennedy shrugged. “As well as on a hundred other patent applications. I’m just a businessman. My pharmaceutical scientists, research and development people…they would put things on my desk, and I’d sign them.”

  Aiden made a noncommittal noise, jotting something down.

  “What about Elbert Wilkins?” Winter asked. Kennedy’s eyes flicked to her, and again, she wanted to shudder. They were flat black. Opaque.

  He lifted a shoulder. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  She took out her phone and pulled up the picture she’d found of Kennedy and Archer. “He was a photojournalist. Took this picture of you and Wesley Archer.”

  Kennedy sat back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A thick gold ring glinted on his pinkie. “Come to think of it, I do remember him. Weedy guy, skinny. Balding prematurely. He thought he’d write some Pulitzer-winning anti-war piece, but he puked like a kid the first time he saw a dead body. So what?”

  “He was murdered.” Aiden’s voice was flat. “His office ransacked.”

  “Sorry. I don’t know anything about that. I’m not sure why you think I would. Now, if that’s all…”

  He rose to his feet, their cue to leave. Winter wished there was some way she could get into his desk. He had information. And it was obvious, he wasn’t willing to share any of it. She glanced over at the vent. It, too, still glowed.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Kennedy,” Noah said, holding out a hand. “We’re sorry to have interrupted your evening.” Winter recognized Noah’s smile as obviously false, but it was no worse than the one Kennedy flashed back at them. He looked like a well-fed shark.

  “It was my pleasure.” Again, he caught Winter’s eye. His smile turned almost predatory, and she felt
her teeth clench in response. “Harrison will see you out.” He pressed a button beneath the desk, and the butler appeared as quickly as if he’d been hovering right outside.

  Silently, he ushered them to the front door.

  The heavy wooden panel had barely closed behind them when Noah burst out, “What the fuck was that, Agent Parrish?”

  Aiden didn’t bat an eyelash. “I didn’t have time to brief you. I sent for the information before we left Harrisonburg and my contact didn’t email me with a copy of the patent application until just before we got here.”

  “Not the time and not the place,” Winter put in. Noah looked like he wanted to take Aiden apart right there on the brick driveway. Both men ignored her.

  “And Agent Dalton,” Aiden added mockingly, “that’s SSA Parrish to you. You do understand that I outrank you in both seniority and job title, right? I’d suggest you cool off, rookie.”

  Aiden wasn’t built on the same broad lines as Noah, but something about him had always told her he’d be lethal in a fight. And he wasn’t backing down from the menacing look on Noah’s face. In fact, he looked like he’d welcome an excuse to rip into the younger man.

  Winter’s irritation bubbled over, and she stepped between the two bristling males, giving each of them a fulminating glare. “Get your shit together. Both of you. You’re acting like assholes.”

  Tensions didn’t ease, but Winter headed to the SUV. They could have a dick-measuring contest if they wanted, but she didn’t need to see it. Besides, Noah could fold himself into the back seat for the drive back. She was taking shotgun.

  After a long moment, both men climbed in the car and Aiden cranked the ignition and flicked on the headlights. His mouth set in a hard line, he roughly jerked the car into drive. They’d nearly reached the road, the wrought iron gates open wide to let them out, when a muffled sound came from outside of the car.

  “What the hell?” Noah demanded, twisting in his seat to look behind them. “Shit. Turn around.”