by Joel Goldman
“Mrs. St. James,” he said with a slight nod.
Sarah was carrying a file tucked under her arm. With her free hand, she brushed the front of her knee-length, navy blue dress and straightened her already straight collar.
“Inspector Murdoch. What a surprise.”
Murdoch pointed to her file. “I hope you’re not in such a hurry that you don’t have a moment for me.”
Sarah glanced at her watch. “Actually, I’m afraid this isn’t a good time. I’m late to meeting.”
Murdoch cocked his head to one side, giving her a half smile. “I won’t keep you long. Just a few questions.”
Sarah sucked in a breath. “Well then, I suppose you can walk with me. The meeting is just down the hall in our executive conference room.”
He fell in step alongside her. “You seem a bit worked up. Who are you meeting with that has you in such a state.”
She glanced at him. “I’d rather not say. Confidential library business and all that.”
“Of course. How’s the Magna Carta exhibit going?”
“Quite well, actually. The turnout has been more than we expected.”
They reached the solid wood, double-doors to the conference room. Sarah reached for one of the handles but Murdoch laid a palm on the door, holding it closed.
“I must say,” he said, staring hard at her, “you did an excellent job patching up the holes in the pedestals after you opened them up.”
The color drained from Sarah’s face. “I…I…I don’t know what you’re referring to, Inspector.”
“Mrs. St. James,” he began, but was cut off by Lady Tresch.
“Sarah,” she said with a steely smile, “who is this gentleman that is keeping us from our meeting?”
“I’m Inspector Gerald Murdoch, Metropolitan Police, Serious Crimes. And who might you be, madam?”
She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head back. “Lady Lillian Tresch.”
Murdoch dipped his chin in small acknowledgement of her status. “Lady Tresch.”
“What brings the Metropolitan Police to a meeting of the Magna Carta trustees?” she asked.
“I came to see Mrs. St. James, though I’m pleased to know that her meeting is with the trustees.”
Lady Tresch gazed at him. “And why is that, Inspector? Does your business with our curator concern us?”
“It may, my Lady.”
She pulled the door open. “Then, by all means, please join us.”
Murdoch followed Lady Tresch and Sarah into the conference room. Eight men and women were seated around the table, chattering. He recognized Sir Robert Howell sitting at the far end. Some of the other faces were familiar but he couldn’t summon their names. All conversation stopped when they saw him.
Lady Tresch said, “This is Inspector Gerald Murdoch of the Metropolitan Police. I found him outside our door questioning Sarah about some matter he says may concern us. I invited him to our meeting so that we might learn more. And, since he tells me he’s in the Serious Crimes Unit, I trust that whatever it is, we should take it seriously.” She took a seat at the end of the table opposite Sir Robert and looked up at him. “How might we assist you, Inspector?”
Murdoch recognized that he was on shaky ground. He’d hoped to get Sarah to admit that she’d lied about the motion sensors and leverage that confession into information about Cassie Ireland and Jake Carter. He couldn’t question her in front of the trustees. Nor could he raise doubts about the integrity of the Magna Carta exhibit without one or more trustees complaining to the Commissioner about what they would characterize as his unfounded speculation that, if made public, would damage their reputations and the fortunes of the library. But, he could still use this opportunity to his advantage.
“Thank you, Lady Tresch. Pardon me for distracting you from your business. I’m investigating the murder of Malcolm Bridges.” He watched their reactions. Most looked down or away and fidgeted in their seats.
“Yes,” Sir Robert said. “Terrible business. You have our complete cooperation, though I’m not certain how we can be of any help.”
“I’m aware that you engaged the services of Global Security.”
“That’s right,” Sir Robert said. “We asked them to conduct a security audit of the library. Strictly routine, of course.”
“Of course. I met their operatives, Ms. Ireland and Mr. Carter, here on the first day of the exhibit. I ran into Ms. Ireland again at the Bridges’ residence when I went there to inform Mrs. Bridges that her husband had been murdered.” He paused, letting that sink in without further explanation. The fidgeting increased, some of the trustees shuffling papers, others sneaking a peek at him. “I didn’t think much of it at the time,” Murdoch continued. “Mr. Bridges had designed and supervised the construction of the Magna Carta display cases and the installation of the security systems for the exhibit. It was natural that she would want to speak with him.”
“It’s unfortunate she didn’t have the opportunity,” Lady Tresch said.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it,” Murdoch said. “However, earlier today, things took a bit of a nasty turn. Two men were found shot to death in a warehouse in the Limehouse district. Ms. Ireland and Mr. Carter were seen walking toward the warehouse immediately before the shooting and away from the warehouse immediately after. My colleague, Inspector Patel, has declared them persons of interest in these murders and has issued an alert so that they might be found and questioned. At the moment, they seem to have disappeared. I was hoping Mrs. St. James might know their whereabouts.”
Lady Tresch shot Sarah a sharp look. “And, do you, Sarah?”
Sarah swallowed, her face still pale. “No, my Lady. But I will tell the Inspector the moment I hear from them, if I do.”
“As shall we all,” Sir Robert said. “And, speaking for the trustees, I must say this is quite shocking news and we will immediately terminate their services. Now, may we be of any further assistance, Inspector?”
“No,” Murdoch said. “I believe I have all I need for the moment.”
FORTY-ONE
CASSIE, JAKE AND McNULTY stopped in front of the office of a motel on the outskirts of Liverpool at ten o’clock. It was a non-descript, one-story, gray brick building. There was no sign promising free wifi or a free breakfast. Just the word Motel written in neon, the letters flickering as if they wouldn’t make it through the night. A light was on in the office illuminating a sign in the window offering rates by the week, night or hour.
“I think we can do better,” Jake said.
“I don’t,” Cassie said. “Less chance we’ll be remembered at a place like this.” She handed McNulty a hundred-pound note. “Get us rooms.” McNulty left. She turned to Jake. “I’ll find costumes tomorrow in Liverpool, but we won’t need them if you can’t get us tickets to the ball.”
Jake’s phone pinged. He read the text, grinned and tapped a reply. “Got ‘em. A Duke I bailed out of a bad hand a couple of years ago let me have them for twenty-five thousand pounds.”
“Twenty-five thousand pounds,” Cassie said. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Plus, tickets to the final round of the World Series of Poker. Don’t sweat it. Global Security is good for the money. What’s the plan once we’re inside the castle?”
“We look for proof that Lord Tresch is – or isn’t – Shaw,” Cassie said.
“It’s a castle. Probably a big one. We can’t exactly go on a treasure hunt without attracting attention.”
“Really? Well, I guess we’ll just have to ask him. If he admits to being Shaw, we can tell him we’d really like him to return the Magna Cartas and stop trying to kill us. That could work.”
Jake said, “I know you too well. You’ve probably got it figured out. Tell me.”
“We start by finding out who he’s been talking to. The best way to do that is to copy the data on his phone. Just like I did with McNulty.”
Jake perked up. “If he’s like most people, he can’t stand not having his phone
even if he’s wearing a damn costume. All you’ve got to do is bump into him, lift the phone without him realizing it. That sort of thing. I can’t do it but I’m sure you can.”
She looked down her nose at him. “You think I’m a common pickpocket?”
“Are you saying you got an A in sewers and an F in pickpocketing at asset recovery school?”
“Trust me. I could lift your socks and your shoes would never know it. Your idea might work. I’ll find some out of the way place to copy the data and slip the phone back in his pocket.”
“Wrong,” Jake said. “Better to pass the phone to me and let me do the copying so you can keep an eye on Tresch.”
“Makes sense. I’m glad I brought you along.”
“You didn’t. I brought you along. Show me how to use the app.”
“Nothing to it, really. Just lay them side-by-side and follow the prompts.”
McNulty returned, holding a key in each hand. “Two rooms is all they had left.” He cast a knowing glance at Jake. “How do you want to divvy them up?”
Cassie snatched one of the keys. “I’ll see you boys in the morning. Sleep tight.”
FORTY-TWO
JAKE FOLLOWED McNULTY into their room. The walls, once white, had dulled to gray. Flakes of paint were scattered along the baseboard. The ceiling was a kaleidoscope of water stains. The lone window, a narrow rectangle of opaque glass, was clouded with steel mesh bolted to the frame. The only light came from a dim lamp on the nightstand wedged into a corner between the wall and the double bed. When McNulty turned on the light, a pair of cockroaches zigzagged across the floor.
Jake wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Equal parts bleach and cat piss, I’d say.” McNulty pulled back the thin blanket and frayed sheet covering the bed and lifted a corner of the mattress, bending over for a closer look. “Nothing movin’ that I can see but I’d wager a pint that the bedbugs will be glad for our company.”
“We’ll live. It’s only one night.”
McNulty winked. “And you’d pass it a might more comfortable if you was to share it with Cassie instead of the likes of me.”
“She’d rather I dance with the bedbugs.”
“Why? It’s plain as day the two of you fancy each other.”
Jake shrugged. “You’d have to ask her.” He raised his palm. “But don’t. Let’s just say we’re bouncing back and forth between lip lock and deadlock.”
“Is there someone else?”
Jake let out a sigh. “Yeah. She thought he was dead until we found out he was part of the gang that stole the Magna Cartas.”
“Blimey. I don’t envy you cutting through that thicket though she’s a woman worth the scratches and scars. I can tell you that.” He clapped Jake’s shoulders. “But either way, I’m sleeping in my car. There’s just some things I won’t do and spending the night with you in that bed in this room is one of them.”
After McNulty left, Jake sat on the bed, nearly falling backward as his butt sank until the mattress was nothing more than a wafer between him and the bedsprings. He hoisted himself up and onto the cold floor, legs stretched out, back against the wall.
Tired but unable to sleep, he used his phone to research Culzean Castle, including watching an episode of Ghost Hunters that had been filmed there. He downloaded and studied the castle’s floorplan, memorizing the location of rooms close to the ballroom where he could copy Lord Tresch’s phone.
Jake wanted to show Cassie the floorplan. He got to his feet and was halfway out the door when he retreated to his room. If he knocked at this hour, she’d think he had more in mind since he could do that in the morning. She wouldn’t be wrong and if she was suddenly okay with that, she knew where to find him.
***
CASSIE STRIPPED HER BED, shook the linens off outside and remade it. She climbed on and stretched out, cushioning her head and shoulders with two lumpy pillows stacked against the wall. Eyes closed, she focused on her breathing, letting the steady in and out rhythm soothe her. Twenty minutes later, she opened her eyes, stood and worked through a series of yoga poses to loosen the interconnected kinks woven through her muscles like braided iron.
Finished and refreshed, she used her phone to find a costume rental shop online and reserve outfits for Jake and her, grinning at his. She also made reservations at a Hotel in Maidens, a village a few miles from the castle, where they could change.
That done, she laid on the bed and closed her eyes again knowing she needed the sleep but she couldn’t stop replaying the day’s events and imagining what might happen tomorrow. Resigned to insomnia, she called Sarah St. James.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Oh, no,” Sarah said. “Not at all. To be truthful, I can’t remember the last time I slept. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“I know. The trustees got cold feet after they found out about Malcolm Bridges. We’re supposed to sit tight until the ransom exchange.”
“It’s worse than that. You’ve been sacked.”
Prometheus hadn’t said anything about that. “Fired? When did that happen?”
“Late this afternoon at a meeting of the trustees.”
“Hang on a sec.” Cassie pulled up the call log on her phone. Prometheus had called her at three-seventeen. “What time was the meeting?”
“Five-thirty.”
Cassie checked her phone again. She hadn’t missed any calls or texts from Prometheus. She sent him a text. Understand we’ve been fired, not just told to back off. Can you confirm?”
She asked Sarah, “What happened?”
Sarah told her how Inspector Murdoch had caught her by surprise and complimented her on patching up the screw holes on the pedestals. “The next thing I knew, Lady Tresch was at the conference room door and invited him to the meeting and he told the trustees that you and Jake had disappeared and that you were persons of interest in a double murder in some warehouse. Are you persons…I mean did you…”
“Yes, the police want to talk to us but we’re in the clear. How did the trustees take that news?”
“It was an epidemic of heart attacks and strokes. If you ask me, they were mostly afraid of seeing their pictures on the front page of the tabloids. Sir Robert said that they would sack you and then Inspector Murdoch left.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“It was awful. They’re cowards if you ask me. All, that is, except for Lady Tresch. She was furious with them for agreeing to pay the ransom and for sacking you. She blasted Sir Robert for making a mess of the whole thing and said it was a tragedy that the only trustee with the balls to stand up to the thieves was a woman. She said the rest of them were so weak they’d blow away in a stiff breeze if they didn’t have rocks in their pockets. And, that if you had killed anyone, she bloody well hoped it was the thieves. Difficult as she is, I must say I admire her for her spine. The woman is made of steel. She reminds me of you in that regard.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“So, what now? Are you and Jake just going to walk away?”
Cassie was reluctant to draw Sarah into their plans. The risks were too great. But, they might need her help. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“Sure? Are you crazy? What assurance is there that the thieves will keep their word? They are thieves, after all. I’ve staked my career on getting the Magna Cartas back. Lord knows how many laws I’ve already broken. I’d rather cast my lot with you and Jake than a bunch of dithering old men.”
She told Sarah about Lord Tresch, the foundation and the gala at Culzean Castle. “It’s the only lead we have. I’ll let you know what we find out.”
“Dear God. If Lady Tresch had a hint of this, she’d draw and quarter her husband. Shall I tell her?”
“Don’t say anything to her. They’re in the middle of a nasty divorce. I don’t want to make things worse if it turns out we’re wrong.”
“Very well. But if you change your mind, you can tell
her yourself. She mentioned the gala and said she would be there because the children that benefit from the foundation shouldn’t suffer just because her husband is a jackass.”
Cassie ended the call thinking she should tell Jake what she’d learned. All she had to do was send him a text asking him to come to her room. She stared at the door picturing what would happen after she let him in. They’d sit on the bed because there was nowhere else to sit. They’d banter and flirt. Then one of them would brush against the other, pretending it was unintentional, knowing it wasn’t. His hand, her knee, his shoulder, her arm. It wouldn’t matter. There would be no turning back. Her pulse quickened as a surge of warmth and longing washed over her. Perhaps it was time.
Cassie opened her phone and typed the message. Her finger hovered over the send icon. The anger and hurt Gabriel had caused her and her fear of loving and losing Jake welled up and paralyzed her. She erased the message and rolled over, frustrated that she kept succumbing to these negative emotions. If she did that with her work, she’d fail and she was tired of failing at love. No more, she told herself. No more.
