Always Look Twice

by Dawson, Geralyn

  She was not what he had expected. The women he’d seen Stanhope go for in the past had been outdoorsy, earth-mother types. ‘‘Ms. Mercer?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I’m Brooke. Please call me Brooke. Thank you so much for coming. I’ve been so afraid. Rocky . . . oh . . . I can’t believe . . .’’ She closed her eyes and her breath gave a little hitch. ‘‘I’m just so . . . I don’t know. . . .’’

  Annabelle reached out and gave Brooke Mercer’s hand a quick, comforting squeeze. ‘‘I know this must be a trying time for you. Rocky was a special man. He had a way of coaxing a smile out of you even under the most difficult circumstances.’’

  ‘‘He loved to make me laugh. He loved me and I loved him.’’ She grabbed a tissue from a box on the desk at the back of the gallery and dabbed at her watery brown eyes. ‘‘This has been such a nightmare.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure it has,’’ Mark agreed.

  He waited a bit impatiently for Annabelle to jump right in with questions about Rocky. Instead, she chose to approach the subject slowly. ‘‘You have a wonderful space here. Are these local artists?’’

  ‘‘Colorado artists. We like to showcase our own.’’ She managed a wobbly smile. ‘‘I have two of Rocky’s works. Would you like to see them?’’

  Annabelle and Mark shared a look of surprise. Then Mark asked, ‘‘Rocky painted?’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course. That’s how he and I met.’’ She led them around to a side wall where two abstract paintings hung. One was dark and disturbing, a study of shapes. The other was an explosion of color. ‘‘He was brilliant.’’

  He was troubled, Mark realized, recognizing the import of the gold chain depicted in the painting on the left. He glanced at Annabelle and saw that she had made the connection, too. On the team’s last mission in the field, their Pakistani mountain guide had been a thirteen-year-old boy with a ready smile and an unpronounceable name. Since his most prized possession was the gold-link necklace he’d worn around his neck, everyone called him Goldie. Goldie liked to laugh, throw a football with Stanhope, and eat chocolate.

  One night he disappeared from camp. They came across a headless body nailed to a tree two days later. They recognized the boots and the gold necklace.

  Stanhope never got over it.

  ‘‘If the paintings are still for sale, I’d like to buy this one,’’ Mark said, deciding on the spur of the moment. ‘‘The colorful one.’’

  Brooke Mercer’s face registered surprise, but she nodded. ‘‘Yes, of course. I’m sure Rocky would like that.’’

  She named a price that Mark considered fair and he peeled off hundred-dollar bills from his money clip, then withdrew a card from his wallet and handed it to her. ‘‘Call this number and ask for Frank McGee. He will give you a purchase-order number and the shipping address for my condo in Jackson Hole.’’

  He noted curiosity quickly banked in Annabelle’s gaze. He’d bought the Wyoming mountain home since they’d split. In fact, he’d bought three vacation places since the divorce was final. Luke’s wife, Maddie, said there was a message in that for him, but he didn’t see it.

  ‘‘Perhaps we could ask you a few questions now?’’ Annabelle inquired.

  ‘‘Yes, of course. Let’s move to the back. I’d rather we not be interrupted.’’

  She led the way into a small office at the back of the building. She moved behind a Queen Anne desk and gestured for them to take seats in the chairs on the opposite side. A crystal water pitcher and a selection of soft drinks sat on a credenza behind her. She nodded toward it and asked, ‘‘Would you care for something to drink?’’

  They declined and the art dealer took a seat across from them. She folded her hands and met first Annabelle’s, then Mark’s gaze. ‘‘I know you’ve traveled a long way to ask me questions, but I need to ask you a few things first. Rocky directed me to do this as he lay dying.’’

  His former colleague’s caution didn’t surprise Mark. He expected Ms. Mercer to request proof of identity— a piece of knowledge rather than a driver’s license. Instead, Brooke Mercer asked, ‘‘In the past three months, has either of you been contacted by another member of your team?’’

  Mark pursed his lips. The arch of Annabelle’s brows signaled her surprise. She asked, ‘‘What sort of contact?’’

  ‘‘Any sort. Phone calls, e-mails, personal visits— anything.’’

  ‘‘No, I haven’t,’’ Mark told her. ‘‘Not prior to Russo’s funeral, anyway.’’

  ‘‘I spoke to Melanie Anderson a couple months ago,’’ Annabelle shared.

  Interest lit the other woman’s dark eyes. She didn’t appear quite as fragile as she’d looked a few moments before. Leaning forward, she said, ‘‘You did? Please tell me about the conversation.’’

  ‘‘She called me on my birthday,’’ Annabelle responded with a shrug. ‘‘We’ve exchanged birthday calls for years. I don’t recall anything unusual about the conversation. What are you looking for?’’

  ‘‘A message,’’ Brooke Mercer replied. ‘‘Did she perhaps mention any other team members? Maybe she was in contact with one of the others?’’

  Annabelle thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘‘Not that I recall.’’

  Mark’s patience had run thin. He hadn’t rushed to Telluride to face the third degree and be told nothing in return. Annabelle might be willing to let this drag on for hours, but he wasn’t. ‘‘I’m a little lost here. What is it Rocky told you to do before he died? How did he die? What did you see?’’

  The gallery owner winced. ‘‘Just bear with me another minute, please? I have one more question. Have you been contacted by anyone outside of the team regarding current activities of team members?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Mark snapped. ‘‘Now, what is this about?’’

  Brooke Mercer stared at Annabelle until she shook her head. ‘‘No, I haven’t, either.’’ Annabelle’s voice took on a familiar note of steel. ‘‘Please, Ms. Mercer. Talk to us.’’

  Just as Mark was ready to lose his patience and say something he shouldn’t, the woman visibly reached a decision and nodded. ‘‘I believe you. You are not connected to this. Rocky suspected as much—that’s why he gave me your number to call, Mr. Callahan— but he made me promise to question your involvement before I told you his story.’’

  She drew in a deep breath, then blew it out in a rush. ‘‘I guess I should start with the phone call. Your phone call, Ms. Monroe.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t reach Rocky.’’

  ‘‘No. We were away for a few days camping and he listened to your message when we returned. He was going to call you after dinner. Then he received another call. It was from another one of your team members.’’

  ‘‘Which one?’’ Annabelle asked.

  ‘‘I don’t know. Rocky didn’t say. He went out for a long walk and when he came back, he sat down at the computer, wrote for a while, then printed his work.’’ A sad smile flickered on her face. ‘‘It was the first time I ever heard him grumble about not having Internet access at the cabin.’’

  Mark had a dozen questions on his tongue, but he held them back. This woman would tell her story at her own pace, and then he’d give Annabelle a go at her. What he’d told his partner on the way here was true. He didn’t want to influence Brooke Mercer’s responses.

  ‘‘Rocky said we needed to go to town. I went upstairs to shower and change. I had been upstairs twenty minutes or so when I heard the car. I glanced out the window and that’s when I saw him.’’

  The killer? Mark tensed and leaned forward. Annabelle placed her hand on his knee and squeezed a silent warning to keep quiet.

  The art dealer closed her eyes and lifted a trembling hand to smooth back her hair. ‘‘He appeared ordinary. A man in a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. I thought he was a tourist who had taken a wrong turn and needed directions. I turned away from the window and went back into the bathroom to put on my makeup.’’

  She paused and licked her lips.
‘‘I never heard the gunshot. Never heard Rocky cry out. Never heard the car leave. When I went downstairs, he was lying on the floor. Blood was everywhere.’’

  Now a tear spilled from her eye and trailed slowly down her cheek. ‘‘He told me to call you and not the police. He said you would know what to do. He told me to leave him lying there just like he was and to hurry back to town. I wasn’t to talk to anyone until you arrived. Then I was supposed to ask you all those questions. He said you’d understand why.’’

  Mark sat back in his chair. His old friend had been wrong as hell about that.

  ‘‘What about the killer?’’ Annabelle asked. ‘‘Did Rocky give you a name?’’

  ‘‘No! I asked, but he never answered that.’’

  Annabelle glanced at Mark. ‘‘This doesn’t make sense to me. If the shooter were one of us, why not say his name? If he wasn’t one of us, why bother with those questions?’’

  Mark shook his head. He didn’t have a clue.

  Annabelle thought for a moment longer before asking, ‘‘Then what happened, Ms. Mercer?’’

  The art dealer closed her eyes. Swallowed hard. ‘‘He died. My Rocky just lay there and died.’’

  Mark couldn’t hold his tongue and sit still, so he shoved to his feet and paced the small office. Annabelle waited a respectful moment, then said, ‘‘Rocky Stanhope deserved better, Brooke. His killer needs to be brought to justice. With your help, Mark and I will make sure that happens.’’

  ‘‘I know you will try, but . . .’’ She shrugged.

  ‘‘We don’t fail,’’ Mark said. ‘‘We won’t fail.’’

  Annabelle nodded her agreement, then continued. ‘‘So, what did you do next?’’

  The art dealer laced her fingers atop the desk, clasping them so hard that her knuckles turned white. ‘‘I covered him with a blanket. I know he said not to touch anything, but I couldn’t just leave him that way. I couldn’t! Then I ran to the car and drove home. I had blood all over me and I needed to get it off.’’

  ‘‘Of course you did,’’ Annabelle said in a soothing tone.

  Brooke Mercer shuddered. ‘‘I was so frightened. I didn’t know what to do, whether to call you like he’d asked or to call the police. I worried that the killer had seen me and would come after me. I sat in my house all night thinking about it, trying to decide what to do.’’ Tears swam in the eyes she lifted toward them. ‘‘Last night was the worst night of my life.’’

  ‘‘It’s terrible you had to go through that.’’ Annabelle gave the woman’s hands a comforting pat. ‘‘But you know what? The worst is behind you now. Mark and I will take care of everything.’’

  ‘‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’’ She blew out a heavy breath. ‘‘I should have called you from the cabin. I’m sorry I hesitated. At first I couldn’t think. Then all I did was think and I got confused.’’

  Mark cleared his throat. ‘‘I would have done the same thing.’’

  ‘‘Now,’’ Annabelle said, her voice brisk and businesslike, ‘‘I’d like to ask you a few questions. First, let’s talk about the killer. Was he inside the car when you saw him, or outside?’’

  For the next ten minutes, Annabelle took the woman through her story in a thorough, yet gentle, interrogation. Mark admired her effort. His ex-wife had a deft touch in this respect. She knew just when to be tough and when to cajole. She pulled much more out of Brooke Mercer than he would have managed.

  As a detailed picture of events began to emerge, Mark’s spirits lightened. They had a place to start— Stanhope’s computer. The document he’d printed and left in his hidden safe at the cabin. His phone records. And Ms. Mercer herself.

  Annabelle reached into her tote and withdrew the envelope filled with photographs that Mark had requested before leaving Philadelphia. Mark braced himself as she handed the art dealer the stack of photos that had been waiting for them along with the rental car. ‘‘Could one of these men be the man you saw outside of Rocky’s cabin?’’

  Brooke Mercer worked her way through the pictures that included the other nine Fixers, Colonel Warren, Boris Radovanovic, and a half dozen random, unrelated faces. ‘‘I don’t think so, no.’’

  He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. While Ms. Mercer had not ruled out the possibility that someone in the unit had turned on his former teammates, she hadn’t confirmed it, either. And despite the fact that he had included Rad’s photo, he never really expected her to finger that bastard. Radovanovic would have sent goons to do his dirty work.

  Annabelle glanced at Mark. ‘‘Do you have anything to add?’’

  He gazed out into the gallery toward Stanhope’s paintings. ‘‘Do you have a clue why he wanted you to contact me instead of the police? Is there anything up at the cabin I’ll need to . . . sanitize . . . before we call in the authorities?’’

  ‘‘You mean . . . anything illegal?’’ Mercer asked. ‘‘No. However, in his studio you’ll find one stack of paintings that might concern you. They are graphic, and I recognized some of the faces you just showed me from that stack of paintings.’’ She paused and added, ‘‘Actually, I recognized you both from the paintings.’’

  Mark arched a questioning brow, but she shook her head. ‘‘They are something you will have to see. I can’t really describe them.’’

  With that, she pulled a piece of paper from the desk drawer and rose to her feet. ‘‘You had best be going if you want to make it up the mountain and back down by dark. Here are directions, and the combination to the safe I told you about. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding the cabin.’’

  ‘‘You’re not going with us?’’ Annabelle asked. ‘‘The police will need to interview you. They won’t like it that you called us instead of them.’’

  She nervously smoothed her slacks. ‘‘I realize that, but this is a small town. They know me and they know where to find me. They’ll understand that I was hysterical yesterday and can’t bear to go back up there today.’’

  ‘‘Can’t say that I blame you,’’ Mark said, taking the map and giving it a quick once-over. ‘‘Thank you for your help.’’

  ‘‘Just find the person who did this.’’ A lone tear spilled down her cheek and she impatiently wiped it away. ‘‘I don’t want Rocky to have died in vain.’’

  ‘‘Neither do we,’’ Annabelle assured her.

  They shook hands, then departed the gallery. Mark heard the door lock behind them. He and Annabelle didn’t speak as they returned to the rental SUV. Once they were inside, he slipped the key into the ignition, glanced at her, and asked, ‘‘Well, what do you think?’’

  ‘‘What do I think?’’ Annabelle repeated, her tone dripping with scorn. ‘‘I don’t think. I know. That woman was lying like a rug.’’

  Chapter Six

  Annabelle expected him to scoff. After all, Brooke Mercer was a beautiful woman, and Annabelle hadn’t missed the flash of male appreciation in her ex-husband’s eyes when he first met the gallery owner. She waited for him to dismiss her suspicions out of hand, especially since instincts alone had led her to her conclusion. Instead, Mark surprised her.

  ‘‘She did go from hysteria to calm pretty damned fast,’’ he observed after he’d started the car and pulled back onto the main street.

  ‘‘Too fast.’’ Annabelle wordlessly declined the mint he offered. ‘‘That woman did not have a loved one die in her arms yesterday. I don’t care how pretty you are—that shows up on your face.’’

  ‘‘So what are you saying? She didn’t love Stanhope or she is making the whole thing up?’’ Mark popped a peppermint in his mouth.

  Annabelle idly wondered when he’d gotten himself hooked on hard candy. ‘‘Her story rang true. Her tears and sorrowful expressions appeared genuine. Still, I didn’t pick up vibes of grief. If anything, I thought a time or two that she was coming on to you. Her body language raised my hackles.’’

  Mark opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it. Annabelle realized
she’d fed him a straight line, and that he’d been smart enough not to take advantage of it.

  They drove for a time, each of them lost in thought until Mark observed, ‘‘Stanhope liked the ladies, but she wasn’t his type.’’

  ‘‘He liked the girl-next-door,’’ Annabelle agreed. ‘‘Friendly and outgoing. Brooke Mercer is beautiful, but she’s a little too . . . upscale. I picture him doing business with her, but dating the lady who runs the saltwater-taffy shop.’’

  Mark slowed the vehicle in order to turn off the main highway, then handed her Brooke Mercer’s hand-drawn map so she could continue her navigator’s job. ‘‘It was probably just sex.’’

  ‘‘That’s what I think,’’ Annabelle agreed. ‘‘But I can see how the role of tragic lover left behind would appeal to that woman.’’

  Mark arched a brow. ‘‘Didn’t care for her much, did you?’’

  ‘‘She wasn’t mourning my friend.’’

  With that, Annabelle turned her attention to the surroundings. Their path had taken them out of the box canyon that nestled the town of Telluride and up a twisting, turning narrow mountain road that provided stunning views.

  Annabelle gazed at the craggy, snowcapped peaks and realized she’d missed these mountains. During her childhood, her best friend had invited Annabelle along on her family vacations to Colorado. She’d looked forward to that one summer week for the entire fifty-one others. She’d often thought that it was the trips to the Rockies that had instilled within her the need to see and do and experience. That need had eventually pulled Annabelle away from the family farm and small-town life and steered her into the military.

  Now as her ears popped with their ascent, she found herself wanting to share the thoughts with Mark. She couldn’t do it, however, because that would mean cracking open a door she’d intended to leave shut for good.