“How can I help you, Mr. Coppersmith?”
“I’m looking for anything and everything you’ve got written by or about Marcus Dalton.”
Jenny frowned slightly. “The nineteenth-century researcher who became obsessed with alchemy?”
“That’s the one,” Sam said.
“I’m afraid we don’t have much. He was never considered a serious scientist. There is very little written about him in the literature, and as I recall, most of his own writings were destroyed in a fire or an explosion. Can’t remember the details.”
“Let me see what you’ve got, Jenny,” Sam said.
“Certainly, sir.”
It did not take long to exhaust the library’s holdings on the subject of Marcus Dalton. An hour after Jenny produced a short stack of books, all secondary sources, Abby and Sam left the lab and walked across the parking lot to the SUV.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Sam said. “I had a feeling it would be, but I had to be sure.”
“Jenny O’Connell was right,” Abby said. “Marcus Dalton was not taken seriously in his own lifetime or by any of the historians of nineteenth-century science. Too bad so much of his own work was lost in that explosion.”
Newton was waiting right where they had left him, his nose pressed to the partially open window in the rear seat of the SUV. Abby knew that he had probably been sitting there, his whole attention riveted on the entrance of the Coppersmith Inc. lab, ever since she and Sam had disappeared inside. He greeted them with his usual enthusiasm.
Sam got behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot. “Not that it’s any of our business, but did you get the impression that there was something personal going on between Frye and Jenny?”
Abby smiled. “Yep. We interrupted an office romance.”
Sam looked thoughtful. “I hope it works for both of them. Jenny has been alone since her husband died a few years ago.”
“What about Dr. Frye?”
“As far as I know, he’s never been married.” Sam took the interstate on-ramp, heading north toward Anacortes. “I saw Jenny’s expression when you explained that you were a freelancer in the private market. Do you get that a lot?”
“Only if I deal with people like her, who work the academic and scholarly end of the market.”
“How often does that happen?”
She smiled. “Not often. It’s almost impossible for any of them to get a proper referral. Thaddeus held a major grudge against the academic world in general, because it disdained his insistence that the paranormal should be taken seriously. As a result, he almost never referred anyone from that world to me. On the rare occasion when I do agree to take on a client from any of the established institutions in academia, we rarely reach an agreement on my fees.”
Sam grinned. “They can’t afford you?”
“I always jack up my fees when someone from academia comes calling. Petty, I know, but we all have to have our standards.”
“Guess I should be feeling lucky that you agreed to take me on as a client.”
“Got news for you, Sam Coppersmith. Like it or not, you’re from my world.”
“I’m okay with that.”
20
THE URGE TO CONFIDE THE FULL SCOPE OF THE DISASTER TO her special friend was almost overwhelming, but Orinda Strickland had resisted, at least until today. Some things simply could not be spoken of outside the family. Not that she didn’t trust Lander Knox. He was a very discreet young man. He was the only one who really understood her. She looked forward to these luncheons so much. Nevertheless, one had one’s pride. The loss of the family fortune and the possibility that Dawson might be facing bankruptcy, perhaps even prison, was simply too devastating to reveal. That sort of thing had to be kept secret.
“You look lovely today,” Lander said. He held her chair for her.
She managed a light, gracious chuckle and sat down at the table. “You always say that. But thank you, anyway.”
“I say it because it’s true.” Lander sat down across from her. “You radiate qualities that are increasingly rare in the modern world. Grace, style, dignity. And wonder of wonders, you can carry on an intelligent conversation. Do you realize how few women of any age can do that these days? That’s why I savor our luncheons together so much.”
It was shortly after noon, unfashionably early for lunch, but the advantage was that the downtown restaurant was only lightly crowded. That meant there was less of a chance that she would run into an acquaintance, Orinda thought. She would have preferred to lunch at her club on Lake Washington. The Stricklands had been members for several generations. But she knew that there would be raised eyebrows and a good deal of curiosity if she were to show up with a handsome, distinguished man who was young enough to be her grandson.
There was absolutely no reason for her to feel awkward about her relationship with Lander, of course. He was a friend, nothing more. They were intellectual companions with a wide range of mutual interests who, sadly, happened to be decades apart in age.
They had met quite by accident at the opera during intermission. Both of them had attended alone that evening. It had been obvious from the start that Lander was well-bred and well educated. He did not say much about his background, but it soon became clear that he was descended from an old, established East Coast family. The faint hint of a Boston accent was so charming.
The conversation that had followed had been the most stimulating one she had enjoyed in years. Her husband, George, had never enjoyed the opera or the symphony or high art. His greatest pleasure had been a string of yachts, each one larger than the last. She had never liked being out on the water. Their marriage had been conducted along parallel lines that had suited both of them. Losing him ten years ago had been a shock, but she had not truly mourned.
In spite of the sick dread that was eating her up inside, Orinda managed a smile. But the phone conversation with Dawson had left her thoroughly unnerved. The realization that Abby was the key to the family’s financial salvation had come as a terrible blow. She had been forced to take an antianxiety tablet to calm herself.
Dawson and Diana were right, Abby viewed the situation as a gol-den opportunity to take her revenge against the family. Dawson had reported that she wanted more than a simple cash payment for her services. She would no doubt demand to be named as a full-fledged beneficiary of the family trust. It was unthinkable. The woman was not a Strickland. There was no blood connection whatsoever. And she was mentally unbalanced.
As incomprehensible as it seemed, Orinda was starting to believe that Abby actually wanted to see the family lose everything. The ungrateful bitch. After all I’ve done for her. Brandon Radwell could never have afforded the tuition and fees at that special school on his own.
“I see your son–in–law is having a signing event for his new book on Friday night,” Lander said.
“Yes.” Orinda shook out her napkin. “It’s the start of his book tour. He’ll be gone for almost a month. I understand the publisher has scheduled a number of appearances.”
“Have you read Families by Choice?”
“I glanced through it.” Orinda sniffed. “I’m afraid it’s the usual psychobabble that passes for deep insight and wise advice these days. But my daughter tells me that there’s a very good chance it will sell quite well, and may even lead to a TV show.”
Lander’s smile held both sympathy and condescending amusement. “It’s all about marketing and packaging, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. My son–in–law is very good at both.”
Orinda opened her menu and reminded herself to be careful what she said about Brandon. Not that Lander wasn’t aware of her feelings on the subject. He never pried into personal matters, but over the past few months it had become very easy to talk to him about so many things.
Their luncheons were supposed to be reserved for conversations about opera, literary works and other cultural matters. But all too often she found herself confiding certain matt
ers that really should be kept in the family.
She gave thanks yet again that Lander could be trusted to be discreet. In spite of the difference in their ages, they were similar in so many ways. He had a charming, poetical way of describing their relationship. We are old souls who have found each other.
21
SAM GAZED INTO THE GLOWING COMPUTER WITH THE BROODING air of an alchemist pondering his fires.
“There was no indication that anything was stolen from Webber’s home,” he said. “The county officials have concluded that he died of natural causes.”
“Well, we knew that would be the official cause of death,” Abby said.
She sank down into the corner of the massive leather couch and curled her legs mermaid-style. Newton bounded up and settled down beside her. She rubbed behind his ears, taking comfort from the physical contact with him.
The toxic mix of adrenaline and nerves following the discovery of Thaddeus’s body and the kidnapping attempt was starting to dissipate, leaving exhaustion in its wake. But she had a feeling that a restful sleep was going to be harder to come by than usual tonight.
“The local media mention that Webber appears to have been a hoarder who collected old books related to the occult, magic and the paranormal,” Sam said.
“That is absolutely wrong,” Abby said. “Webber had no interest in the occult or magic. But I don’t suppose it will matter. So many people don’t understand the distinction between the paranormal and the supernatural. Regardless, those reports will be enough to fire up the rumor mill in collectors’ circles. My competition will be looking very hard for Thaddeus’s house.”
Sam got up from the computer. “The police will have locked up the place.”
“I’m sure they did,” she said. “For all the good that will do. I think it’s safe to say the authorities have no idea of the value of some of those books. They’ll assume that Thaddeus was just another eccentric hoarder.”
“Did he have any family?”
“Not that I know of,” Abby said.
Sam crossed the room to where a bottle of white wine was chilling in a bucket of ice. A bottle of whiskey and two glasses sat nearby. “Did he make any contingency arrangements for his collection in the event that something happened to him? Is there a will?”
“I have no idea. He always dreamed of founding a library of paranormal literature for serious researchers, but he never had the money to start such an ambitious project, and no academic institution would accept his collection.”
“If he made a will, it will be on file somewhere. I’ll have someone in Coppersmith’s legal department check into it.” Sam took out his phone and keyed a number. “If we can locate a will and the lawyer who drew it up, we might be able to take action to protect Webber’s books, or at least those in the vault, before it’s too late.”
He spoke briefly to whoever answered the phone, giving instructions with a relaxed authority.
“Thanks, Bill,” he concluded. “Let me know when you’ve got something.”
Sam ended the call and reached for the wine bottle. When he realized that Abby was watching him, he raised his brows. “What?”
“Must be nice to be able to pick up a phone and have a lawyer snap to attention like that for you,” she said.
“There are benefits to having access to the resources of a privately held company.” Sam poured wine into one of the glasses. “But guys like Bill don’t come cheap, and they don’t exactly snap to attention, sadly.”
He splashed some whiskey into the second glass and carried both across the room to where Abby sat.
“Thank you for trying to protect Thaddeus’s collection,” she said. She swallowed some of the wine and lowered the glass. “It meant everything to him.”
“We might be able to protect his books, at least for now, but if there is an heir and if he or she doesn’t appreciate the value of the collection, the books will probably go straight into the used-book market,” Sam said.
“Or a yard sale.”
Sam drank some whiskey and sank down onto the couch next to Newton. Absently, he scratched Newton’s ears.
Abby smiled proudly. “Newton was a real hero today, wasn’t he?”
“You’re not supposed to anthropomorphize,” Sam said. “Dogs don’t think in terms of bravery and cowardice. He recognized a threat, and he followed his instincts.”
“He was trying to protect me.”
“You’re his pack buddy. Like I said, he was just going on instinct.”
Abby took another sip of wine. “You were protecting me, too. You’re human. Am I allowed to call you brave and daring and heroic?”
“Nope.” He drank some more whiskey. “I was just doing my job.”
“Heroes always say stuff like that, you know.”
“In this case, it’s the simple truth. You hired me to find a blackmailer. Now it looks like I’m dealing with a blackmailer who is getting desperate enough to commit murder and attempted kidnapping.”
“And you hired me to find that lab book. Which reminds me.” She reached into her tote, took out her phone and checked her email. “There are a few new messages. Let me see if any of them are from those dealers I contacted earlier.”
She ran through the new mail. There was a note from her father, reminding her of the signing event, and a message from her stepmother, demanding that she get in touch immediately. Ignoring the first two emails, she opened the third. In spite of her exhaustion, she experienced another flash of adrenaline.
“Here we go,” she said, trying to keep her professional cool. “The auction is scheduled for next week. No preemptive bids are allowed, but it has been noted that my client will try to top any bid. We are guaranteed the opportunity to do so.”
Sam sat forward, eyes heating. Energy whispered in the atmosphere. Newton stirred and raised his head, ears sharpened.
Sam looked at the phone. “Which dealer is running the auction?”
“He calls himself Milton,” Abby said. “But that’s just his online alias. I don’t know anything more about him, aside from the fact that he is one of the dealers who works with the most dangerous collectors and the most dangerous books. I’ve never done business with him, but he says he knows my reputation and trusts that my client is solid.”
“I’ll call one of the people in the IT department.” Sam reached for his own phone. “See if he can trace Milton.”
“I doubt that you’ll be able to find him. Dealers like Milton don’t survive this long unless they are very careful.”
“Thaddeus Webber was careful,” Sam pointed out. “Someone found him.”
22
Imprisoned in the shadows, he watched her walk down the hall to the door of the lab. He called out her name, but in dreams there is no sound. He tried to move, desperate to stop her before she opened the door and disappeared inside the room where death awaited.
He managed to take one step and then another, but the darkness bound him as securely as a prison cell. He knew he would not get to her in time.
At the end of the hall, she stopped and looked back at him, her hand on the doorknob.
He said her name one more time, but she did not respond.
Cassidy.
She opened the door and entered the lab. The killer was waiting for her.…
SAM CAME AWAKE AS HE ALWAYS DID AFTER THE DREAM, BREATHING hard and drenched in sweat. He wrenched the covers aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths.
After a while he got up, yanked off his damp T–shirt, pulled on a pair of pants and opened the bedroom door. For a moment, he stood in the shadowed hall and studied the door across the way. Abby was inside that room. She had not invited him to join her. He had not pushed. His intuition warned him that she not only needed sleep, she needed time to come to terms with whatever had happened between them last night.
One night of hot, psi-infused sex did not a relationship make, he thought. Well, it had for him, but he could te
ll that Abby was having trouble with the concept. It was probably hard to focus on your personal life when you were worried about people with guns trying to kidnap you. A woman had to set priorities. So did a man, and keeping Abby safe was his one and only priority now.
He started down the dimly lit hall toward the stairs but paused when he heard the click of dog nails on the other side of Abby’s bedroom door. Newton was awake and alert inside the room.
“It’s okay,” Sam said, keeping his voice to a whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
He went downstairs to the kitchen, turned on a light and took the whiskey out of the cupboard. He poured a medicinal shot and drank it, leaning against the granite counter. The heat of the liquor burned away the last fragments of the dream.
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