by V. B. Tenery
A cluster of neighbors milled outside the restricted area in open-mouth dismay. I angled across the pavement to where two firemen were storing their equipment away. Goldie walked beside me, her arms wrapped tight around her body, eyes wide and fathomless.
One of the men stopped us. “You can’t come any closer; the area could still be dangerous.”
I put my hands on Goldie’s shoulders and pulled her forward. “This is Mrs. Marks; she owned one of the condos that burned.”
The man turned to her. “We’ve been trying all day to locate you.”
She couldn’t or wouldn’t speak, so I took the lead. “She spent last night with a friend and went out of town today. We just got back. What happened?”
“We think a gas leak in Ms. Marks’s unit caused an explosion about four thirty this morning.”
“But I had sprinklers in every room. The insurance company demanded it before they’d cover my art collection.”
“Sprinklers won’t stop an explosion, ma’am.”
“Anyone injured?” I asked.
“Luckily, the woman in the other unit got out safely before the flames reached her apartment.”
I gazed at Goldie, standing small and forlorn beside me. “We have reason to believe this may have been an attempted murder. Who do we need to speak to?”
The fireman pushed his hat back and cast a quizzical look at me. He motioned for us to wait. Jerking a cell phone from his pocket, he punched buttons and strode away. The call ended, and he came back to where we waited. “The fire marshal will meet you at the station. Do you know where it is?”
Goldie nodded.
Over the next hour, we explained our Ben Marshall theory and gave the investigator John Tyler’s number at San Quentin. Goldie remained silent, only answering questions when asked. The interview ended, and we returned to her car.
Goldie grabbed my arm and placed her head against my good shoulder. “I donated all the stored artifacts to the museum after Abe died.” She waved a hand at the rubble. “These were my favorites.” She bit her lip and turned away. “I should have donated them all. Now they’re gone. Money can’t replace what I’ve lost.”
I looked into her eyes. “Consider how lucky you are––you weren’t here when the explosion happened. You missed the blast by a little over five hours.” I put my fingers under her chin and made her look at me. “You would have been killed.”
She moaned. “You don’t understand. My collection is irreplaceable!”
“So is your life, Goldie.” I pulled her in close for a long hug. “So is your life.”
At the airport, we opted for the X-ray rather than the invasive pat down. I decided to walk Goldie to her gate before I went to my own gate.
With red-rimmed eyes and a small tremor in her hands, Goldie prepared to board a plane to her sister in Dallas. She presented a pathetic figure; wind-tossed locks disheveled—suit and shoes smudged with soot. Her sole possessions resided in the tiny overnight bag she’d taken to Judy’s. The smell of smoke from the fire scene lingered in our hair and clothing. Our fellow travelers might object, but it couldn’t be helped.
Soon her plane’s jet engines whined into place, and a jetport unfurled and covered the exit hatch. Weary passengers disembarked and scattered into the terminal. There would be a mob of greeters to meet them at the luggage carousal. It was Christmas.
We found seats near the ticket counter as new attendants arrived and began a flurry of preparations for the next boarding.
I touched Goldie’s arm. “Stay at your sister’s until I tell you it’s safe to come back. Marshall will have discovered by now that you weren’t at home when the blast occurred. He’ll start looking for you. Don’t let anyone know where you’re staying. Not Judy, not anyone. I can’t protect you from Wyoming.”
She nodded and leaned against my shoulder. “I thought you were trying to frighten me last night.” She expelled a shaky breath with realization setting in. “You saved my life, Noah.”
My hands on her shoulders, I turned her to face me. “You saved your life by heeding my warning. Don’t forget that. Are you sure Marshall doesn’t know about your sister or your past in Texas?”
She patted my hand and the corners of her mouth turned up in a feeble grin. “I never really had a personal relationship with Ben. Trust me, he doesn’t know about Barbara.”
The flight attendant announced her seat row over the intercom. Goldie tiptoed to kiss my cheek. My gaze followed her through the gate and until she vanished into the mouth of the jetport.
The pessimist in me made me wait until she was in the air. Through the large plate glass window, I stared as the aircraft soared into the black sky, and cold fingers of fear tickled down my spine.
The explosion hadn’t been an accident or a coincidence. The odds against it were astronomical. Marshall had seen her and knew he had to prevent her from exposing him. He hadn’t counted on her calling me. By telling John Tyler what she had seen, she sent forces into action that would put him back in prison.
Goldie had no idea how much danger she was in.
16
Bridger Mountains Lodge
After seeing Goldie safely on her way, I caught a red-eye to Utah. Once more on the ground, I drove to my frozen haven in the mountains. A little paranoid after Goldie’s experience, I bolted the door, and checked all the locks on the windows. Everything was secure.
The place lacked the elegance of Jake’s cabin, but God had provided. There were more than enough provisions for a six-month stay. By His grace, I wouldn’t need it that long.
Hungry, I whipped up a late snack of sausage and waffles, and then crashed on the worn-out sofa in the game room with a monster headache. My C-drive bordered on overload. This wasn’t how I’d envisioned spending Christmas.
Two aspirins later, I shuffled through an assortment of old DVD’s, stuck one in the slot, and pushed play. Midway through the film, I shut it down, unable to concentrate with Goldie’s peril still on my mind.
The next day, I called Lincoln Armstrong’s private number. “Would it be possible to see you today? It’s short notice, I know, but I have new information I’d like to share, and I prefer not to give it over the phone.”
A short pause—pages shuffled in the background. “I’m running behind because of the holidays, but I can squeeze in lunch. Can you meet me at Pine Lake Country Club? It’s on the lake near my home, say eleven thirty?”
“Thanks. I’ll see you there.”
Sometimes it’s easier to hide in plain sight than in dark corners. I’d grown a short beard, my usual close-cropped hair now sported a longer lumberjack look, and a pair of aviator sunglasses completed my makeover. In theory, no one would recognize me.
Pine Lake Country Club
Two hours later, I pulled into valet parking under the portico at the country club entrance. The door captain’s spine visibly straightened at the mention of Armstrong’s name. “Ah, yes. Mr. Armstrong reserved a private dining room for lunch.” He waved over a waiter and gave him the suite number.
When we reached the third door down the hallway, the waiter ushered me inside. Polished brass fixtures, mahogany paneling, and rich leather chairs grouped around the fireplace gave the room a cozy masculine air. A table set for two, dressed in linen finery, sat in the corner.
Armstrong rose from his seat when I entered, crossed the room, and shook my hand. “I took the liberty of ordering lobster for both of us. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Lobster is one of my favorite food groups.”
Armstrong chuckled and settled back into his chair. He motioned me to sit. “I’m glad you called. Patience isn’t my strongest virtue.”
I took the seat across from him. “You’ve been more than tolerant. Now, I have what I think is very good news. Ben Marshall is alive. I have no physical proof of that, but I’m certain in my own mind. An old friend of Abigail’s spotted him in San Francisco two days ago. Goldie, that’s Abigail’s friend, c
alled Christmas Eve to tell me.”
Armstrong leaned back in his chair. “You think it’s possible Marshall’s really alive?”
“Yes, I trust Goldie’s instincts. She knew Marshall too well to make a mistake. I don’t know yet how he manipulated prison records, but I believe he had the connections inside to pull it off. I’m convinced he’s responsible for Abigail’s disappearance. Now all we have to do is find him.”
The cell phone in my jacket vibrated. I retrieved it and held it up. “Do you mind if I take this call? I’ve been expecting to hear from the warden at San Quentin, and this looks like it.”
Armstrong shook his head, and I punched talk.
The warden’s sandpaper voice sounded in my ear. “John Tyler here. Off the record, your friend was right. I verified the fingerprint in our system against the national files. Someone switched them on our end.”
“How could he pull that off?”
“Again, just between the two of us, I figure he or a pal hacked into the prison’s internal files from an office or the library and made the switch. Probably paid one of the staff or an inmate to change out the dental records.”
“What’s the next step?”
“We’ll give the information to the authorities. They’ll most likely put out an APB, and circulate his mug shot. See what turns up.”
“Thanks for letting me know, John. This clears up a lot of questions. I’m confident Marshall is responsible for the explosion at Goldie’s home night before last.”
A pause. “What happened?”
“Nothing official yet. So far, investigators think the blast came from a leak in her furnace, but it’s too convenient to suit me. They’re still looking into it. The blaze destroyed two condos and a very valuable art collection.”
Tyler growled. “That’s the kind of reprobate Marshall is––anything to remove a threat.”
I let him rant for a few minutes and then thanked him again. “I’ll give the local officials a heads-up. They’ve had Mrs. Armstrong’s case on ice for a few years.”
When the call ended, Armstrong straightened in his chair. “That was the confirmation you needed?”
I nodded.
“Good. You’ve accomplished what I hired you to do. I hadn’t dared hope for a resolution so soon.” He shook his head and stared into the fire for a moment. “If it’s agreeable with you, I’d like you to stay on this, at least until Marshall is behind bars.”
“That may take some time, and the police will be doing most of the work—they have all the resources. And the authorities are still looking for me. That limits my mobility somewhat at present. I’m not trying to talk myself out of a job, just want you to know my limitations.”
Powerful men aren’t always good listeners. Not so with Lincoln Armstrong. He gave his full attention—heard and evaluated each word.
Armstrong pushed his chair back and walked to the hearth. He stood gazing into the flames. After a moment, he turned and faced me. “As you know, my experience with law enforcement leaves much to be desired. I’d like you to stay on the case.”
“If that’s what you want, I’ll keep on it until this situation is resolved to your satisfaction.”
He braced one elbow on the mantel and nodded. “Good. Then it’s settled. You’ve gathered more information in a few weeks than the police did in three years.” There was a chill in his gaze, a well of pain that ran deep into his soul. “I can’t get my life back until I know what happened to Abby.”
When the food arrived, the waiter placed a napkin on my lap, cracked the lobster, cut it into small bites, and did everything but feed me. While we ate, I spent the better part of lunch describing in detail the meeting with Goldie.
Obviously anxious to return to the office, Armstrong rose after the meal ended.
We exited the private room and stepped into the corridor.
A voice behind me called, “Noah, Noah Adams.”
Visions of flashing blue lights and handcuffs seared my brain as I turned. There stood Jake Stein, with a huge smile on his face. My heart began to pump blood again. Jake glanced at my companion, visibly impressed. I hastily introduced the two men, and Armstrong excused himself. He hurried to the lobby and back to work.
Jake inclined his head toward Armstrong’s disappearing form. “Why don’t you ever bring me clients like that?”
“Because he keeps a battery of attorneys on staff.”
Jake shrugged and looked up at me. “Where are you staying?” He wagged his hand. “Don’t tell me where you moved to…I’m better off not knowing.”
Jake followed me to valet parking. While we walked, I told Jake about my brush with the low-life in the alley.
“Any idea who set him on you?”
“I’m sure Harry London gave the marching orders. The thug’s only interest was Cody’s whereabouts.”
Small lines formed at the corner of Jake’s eyes. “Well, take care of yourself, kid. My life would be infinitely boring without you around.”
“I’m touched by your concern. Any news on Rachel’s situation?”
“Without the jailbreak charges, I could get everything she wants from Harry London. And if the federal boys find her, I’ll have to go with what I’ve got and pray for a jury of battered women.”
We reached the exit. “You coming or going?”
He stopped beside me, searched his pocket, and produced his valet ticket. “I’m headed home. Met some old partners here for lunch.”
We handed our stubs to the attendant. While we waited for the cars to appear, I told him about Thornton’s offer to give me the London security tapes.
Jake turned toward me in slow motion, mouth agape. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I shook my head.
“Any way we could steal them?”
I contrived a shocked expression. “You, an officer of the court, are asking me to steal evidence? Besides, I haven’t a clue where Thornton might’ve hidden them. Can’t say I didn’t think of that myself but dismissed it. If those disks disappeared, he’d know who snatched them. That kind of trouble I don’t need.”
Jake released a deep breath. “Yeah, it sounded too good to be true. That would make my job too easy. What I wouldn’t give to have those puppies though. I could make a jury of terrorists weep.”
His BMW and the Jeep appeared at the curb. Jake opened the driver’s door of his Beemer and called to me. “Hey, you plan to keep my Jeep?”
I laughed. “Yeah. I kind of like it.”
He rubbed his hands together and chuckled. “Good, I’ll send you a bill.”
Hebron, Wyoming
For obvious reasons, I couldn’t go to the police with the Marshall information. So I did the next best thing. That afternoon, I called Amos to meet me at a hangout for hunters outside of town.
Amos arrived ten minutes after me and settled into the seat across the table. The waitress placed mission jars filled with soft drinks on our table. Later she returned with chips and salsa. Waiters, with platters of sizzling fajitas and steaming enchiladas, passed our table and Amos’s gaze followed the food. It was authentic Tex-Mex fare, and it was good eating.
“Order if you want to. I’m good with the appetizers.” I dunked a chip in the salsa while he ordered. Then I told him about Ben Marshall being alive.
Amos’s black eyes widened. “How’d you find that out?”
“Great detective work.”
He hammered a fist against his chest.
I gave him a break. “Actually, the information came when I ran into Goldie Marks.” I explained how I’d met her and that she spotted Marshall in San Francisco.
Amos shook his head. “You’re on the side of the angels, my friend.” He hesitated. “Guess I shouldn’t sell you short. You’re the one who found the Marks woman. None of our guys ever checked Abigail Armstrong’s past. They got hung up on the husband as her killer.”
I shrugged. “Your guys went with the odds, and they were right. Just pi
cked the wrong spouse. I don’t care who gets the credit for discovering Ben Marshall’s resurrection as long as we find the guy.”
I slid John Tyler’s number at San Quentin across the table. “Tyler will confirm everything in case your boss needs proof. If you speak to Tyler, he knows me as Sam Spade.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.”
Amos rolled his eyes and then shook his head. “I won’t ask.”
17
Bridger Mountain Lodge
I’d spent yesterday evening tightening hinges, unsticking windows and putting washers in faucets at the lodge. Paying for my keep. I needed the down time to unwind and work the kinks out of my mind. Manual labor cleared the cobwebs.
When the phone rang, I’d just taken the last bite of my fourth blueberry pancake. I reached across the red-checked oilcloth, grabbed my cell phone, and mumbled, “Hello.”
A woman’s voice asked, “Noah Adams?”
I swallowed the mouthful “Yes.”
“Mr. Adams, my name is Barbara Nelson. I’m Goldie’s sister. She told me you’re a detective...I found your number in her phone book” She inhaled an audible breath. “Goldie returned to California yesterday to see her insurance agent.” There was a pause. “She’s been depressed over the loss of the antiques since she came home. I told her to handle it over the phone, but she refused...you can’t reason with Goldie when she gets in one of her moods. I’m terrified something happened to her. I tried all day yesterday and this morning to reach her. She’s not answering her phone. That’s not like Goldie.”
All the horrible possibilities ran through my mind. Why didn’t she listen to my warning? Forcing a calm into my voice, I asked, “Did you try her friend, Judy?”
“She hasn’t seen Goldie.”
I took a last gulp of coffee. “I’ll check it out. She probably just switched off her phone. I’ll fly back to Frisco today.” Even I didn’t believe what I just said.
