MONA LISA
EYES
by
M.D. GRAYSON
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
Other Books by M.D. Grayson
Copyright Page
This novel is dedicated to
my friend Nancy.
You are the gentle breeze—
the warm ray of sun on my face
first thing in the morning.
Prologue
July 5, 2012
9:45 p.m.
THERE WERE PEOPLE AROUND. CROWDS OF people. There were always people around. “Sophie—over here!”
“Sophie—smile!”
“Sophie—wave!” People always wanted her, to be seen with her, to have their picture taken with her. Seattle wasn’t as bad as London, but still, there was little peace. Sometimes she was okay with it—even found it flattering. Most times, though, it was a little much, and she wished she could be seen but not bothered—just left alone. Still other times, she wished she was invisible altogether—the proverbial fly on the wall. Those times she mostly just stayed home.
It was worse when Nicki was around and talked her into going. Sophie Thoms watched her older sister enter the Genesis Club like royalty, arm in arm with friends Judie and Josh, the instant center of attention in a place where everyone competed fiercely for the spotlight. She smiled as she watched the trio make their way across the floor toward her booth. Nicki, dressed in a short, clingy black dress, was in her element—smiling brightly while pretending to ignore the admiring glances, the jealous looks, the calls.
The popular Goth club was packed shoulder to shoulder with Seattle’s leather and lace devotees. Siouxsie and the Banshees belted out “Cities in Dust” over the PA at sound levels loud enough to cause ripples in Sophie’s Perrier to the beat of the music. Dim red overhead lighting made it impossible to tell whether the person in front of you wore heavy eye makeup (safe bet here), or whether it was just the shadows playing tricks.
“Love your dress!”
Sophie turned, startled to see the waitress bringing a new round of drinks to the table. She relaxed upon seeing the familiar face. “Yeah?” She lifted an arm to show the tight black sleeve adorned with layers of black lace. “You like?”
The waitress nodded. “That’s sick! I love it. You guys have the best dresses—you always look beautiful whenever you come in!”
Sophie smiled. Even if she didn’t share Nicki’s unconditional love for the crowds, she had to admit that she’d always shared Nicki’s love for the dramatic—the long, flowing black dresses, the studs, the bold makeup. It was a way of enjoying a little fantasy in the midst of her day-to-day reality.
In London, the Goth scene had been an important way for Sophie to declare her independence from her demanding father in an unequivocal, in-your-face manner. Now, several years later and half a world away, it had become a simple way of setting aside the duties and accountabilities of a demanding job. Today, even if just for a few hours, the clubs were Sophie’s way of shedding her buttoned-up daytime persona and becoming someone else—someone who could still be dark . . . mysterious . . . naughty, even. She smiled at the waitress. “Dressing up’s half the fun, right?”
“Sure.” The waitress giggled as she picked up an empty glass. “And getting undressed is the other half.”
Sophie flushed. “I suppose it depends on who you’re with.”
The waitress stopped and thought for a second, then shrugged. “Nah,” she said, shaking her head. She laughed and moved on.
“Sophie!” Nicki cried as she fairly bounced into the seat beside her. “Oh my God! You should have gone outside with us. It was bloody marvelous.”
“Yeah, right,” Sophie said, looking closely at her sister. Nicki and Josh liked to pop outside every twenty minutes or so for “refreshments,” but Sophie never went. The head-rush, the giddies, the dilated eyes, the flushed cheeks, the rapid-fire speech—all that was Nicki’s thing, not hers. “Here, wait a second,” she said as she reached over and flicked away a small white crystal from Nicki’s upper lip.
Nicki smiled. “I’ll have you know I was saving that for later.”
“Sorry.”
Nicki gave her a fake frown. “Ah, poor Sophie. You’re always looking out for me, aren’t you?”
Sophie gave her a little scowl.
“No?” Nicki said, dramatically surprised. She sniffed hard, then leaned forward. “Okay. What’s the matter? You’re not having fun?”
Sophie gave her a wry smile. “Sure. Bucket loads.”
“Yeah, right.” Nicki, despite her buzz, still sensed an underlying tension in Sophie’s voice. She stared hard into her younger sister’s eyes, serious now. “Well, not that you asked, but if you had, I’d say you’re working too fucking hard, little sis.”
“Me?” Sophie smiled. “Not really, I’m—”
“Ricky!” Nicki squealed, “Oh my God!” Nicki’s attention spun away from Sophie as a tall, handsome man approached. She hopped back out of the booth and threw herself at the man, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.
Sophie just smiled and shook her head.
“Who’s that?” Josh asked. He and Judie had slipped into the booth on Sophie’s other side.
Sophie shook her head. “Don’t know. Probably some bloke she just—” Sophie was interrupted by her cell phone buzzing against her hip. She’d been expecting a call and had been practically sitting on the phone to make sure she didn’t miss the vibrating buzzer.
She looked at the number and then answered quickly. “Did you get it?” she asked. She listened intently for a few moments, then nodded. “Brilliant. Okay, right. I’ll be there.” She rung off and put the phone away.
“Well folks, I’m afraid that’s gonna do it for me,” she said, sliding toward the edge of the booth. “I have an early meeting in the morning.”
“What?” Nicki demanded, as Sophie stood up. She let go of the tall man. “You’re leaving? Already? You can’t leave yet, Soph! We just got here!”
Sophie tapped her watch. “Wrong. We’ve been here for over an hour, and I told you earlier I couldn’t stay late. Eight o’clock in the morning I have a meeting.”
Nicki gave her a confused look, mouth slightly open. “Jesus, Soph. Eight o’clock? You were serious about that?”
Sophie reached back and grabbed her purse. “Yep. Gotta go.”
Nicki looked at her carefully. “You sure you’re alright?”
Sophie smiled. “Nicki, I’m fine. I haven’t had anything to drink at all.” She gave Nicki a little smirk. “Or any other type of refreshments, for that matter.”
“Yeah, right,” Nicki said. “But really? You’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Really. And if you’re thinking about trying to talk me into staying—don’t even start.”
Nicki stared into her eyes for a moment and said, “Well . . . if you must.”
Sophie nodded her head. “I must.”
Nicki leaned over to Sophie, and the two hugged. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
Sophie nodded. “Perfect. Love you.”
“I love you too.”
Sophie looked at her. “You be careful, Nick. I mean it.”
Nicki stuck her tongue out, then said, “Go home, party pooper. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Nicki watched Sophie turn and make her way through the crowd to the front door. It was the last time she would ever see her sister.
PART 1
Chapter 1
I LEANED OVER THE BEAUTIFUL GIRL and watched her for a few moments. She slept soundly, lips parted, and her dark, shiny hair was splayed across the pillow. It never ceases to amaze me
that Antoinette Blair ended up in my bed, after all these years. Me—Danny Logan. I kissed her gently on top of her head. “I gotta take off,” I said softly. It was 6:00 a.m., still dark outside with a typical Seattle October light rain falling, and I needed to get a training run in before work. I looked at her and shook my head. Where I find the discipline to drag my sorry self out of a warm bed with Toni Blair in it, I’ll never know.
“Be careful,” she murmured, stirring. She rolled over and turned away from me. As she did, the sheet fell away, revealing a long shapely leg and a bare, heart-stopping ass. Toni likes to sleep with no pajamas on (lucky me), and for a moment I was sorely tempted to jump back in the sack. Alas, I’ve learned my lesson about what you might call “uninvited advances during dreamtime.” Toni places a high value on her sleep, and I have to be very careful about how I go about waking her up. Do it wrong, and I’m almost guaranteed to get a hard elbow to the ribs. I sighed. I had a race coming up. I needed to get the run in anyway.
Still facing away, she sleepily said, “Stop staring at my butt, perv.” She reached back and drew the sheet up. “And remember we’ve got the Wards at nine.” Then she murmured something I couldn’t understand before falling back to sleep.
Two hours later, I sat in my office at Logan Private Investigations, or Logan PI as we call ourselves, and reviewed the numbers while I waited for the Wards to arrive. There’ve been 113 murders in the Seattle area from the start of 2008 through September 2012. This may sound like a lot, triple digits and all, but actually we’re pretty lucky around here. One hundred and thirteen murders in nearly five years is a tiny number compared to almost any other big city in the country (Chicago gets that many every few months if you base the numbers on 2012). New York, Los Angeles, Baltimore—pick one. All of them are much more dangerous places than Seattle—even adjusted for population size. There’s undoubtedly some sociocultural explanation for this, but I prefer to believe that it’s because up here in the Northwest, we’re just a little more laid-back and easygoing than people in those other big cities. In general, people around here don’t seem to be wound quite as tightly as they are in a lot of those other places. Give us our Gore-Tex and our lattes, let the ’Hawks steal one from the Packers every now and again, and we’re happy campers. Like I said, we’re lucky up here.
Then again, I suppose how you view luck depends on your perspective. If one of the 113 who were murdered was your wife or husband or son or daughter or—as in the case of the Wards who were due in soon—your niece, well, then you probably look at the numbers a little differently. And you probably don’t feel so lucky.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet us on short notice,” Cecilia Ward said with a very polished British accent. The morning rain dripped from her black London Fog trench as she shook my hand, looking me straight in the eye, seeming to size me up. Her gaze was steady; her grip was as firm as most men’s. She’d arrived a minute ago, precisely at 9:00 a.m., accompanied by her husband, Oliver. Cecilia was an attractive woman—late forties, I’d guess. She was trim, and her blonde hair was worn stylishly short with long bangs. As she unbuckled her coat, I saw that she wore a dark tweed business suit and a white chiffon blouse buttoned at the neck. A dark leather purse with brass buckles hung from a strap over her shoulder and she carried a slim, matching attaché case in her other hand. My fifteen-second first impression: this was a very efficient woman, probably all business. She could have been on her way to a sales meeting or, in her case, perhaps a board meeting.
I smiled. “It’s our pleasure, Mrs. Ward. We were pleased to get your phone call yesterday.” I released her hand and turned to Toni. “Allow me to introduce my partner, Antoinette Blair.”
Cecilia nodded. “Ms. Blair,” she said primly. She turned to the man beside her. “And please allow me to introduce my husband, Oliver.”
Oliver was a tall, distinguished-looking man with dark hair beginning to turn silver at the temples. I guessed him to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. Like his wife, he too was elegantly dressed. He wore an expensive navy pinstripe suit over a crisp white shirt with a lavender silk tie—and even a matching pocket square. The pair made what the Brits would call a very handsome couple.
We shook hands. “Mr. Logan. Very pleased to meet you,” he said with an accent that matched Cecilia’s. “Your firm comes highly recommended.”
I tilted my head. “Highly recommended? Really? I’d like to hear more about that.”
He smiled. “Well, it seems . . .”
“Oliver, dear,” Cecilia interrupted, reaching up and touching him on his shoulder. Her touch was gentle, but the effect was immediate—Oliver froze mid-sentence. He looked over at Cecilia. She looked at him for a moment, then turned to me. “We’re on a bit of a schedule, here, Mr. Logan. I wonder if we might just get started.”
Oliver looked at me and shrugged. That settled it, then. The boss had spoken, and who was he to say anything about it?
I turned to Cecilia. I was right: no chitchat, all business. I smiled. “Certainly. By all means. Follow me.”
We hung their coats, then led Oliver and Cecilia back to our conference room, which overlooks a currently rainy, gray Lake Union. After we were all seated, Cecilia wasted no time in getting started.
“Mr. Logan, obviously we’re here about the murder of my niece, Sophie Thoms. To get right to the point: we’d like to hire you and your firm to represent our family in the investigation. I assume this is the type of work you do?”
“Potentially,” I said. “We’ve done similar work in the past.”
“Good. Perhaps it would be appropriate, then, for Oliver and me to tell you what’s happened.”
I smiled. “Please do.”
“Very well, then. On the night of Thursday, July fifth, my niece Sophie Thoms accompanied her sister, Nicki, and a small group of friends to a local nightclub called the Genesis.” She formed the words deliberately and said them as if they had a sour taste. “Nicki stayed late—no surprise there. But sometime near 10:00 p.m., Sophie received a telephone call. After the call, she told Nicki she was due at work early the next morning, so she intended to leave and drive herself home.
“The next day, July sixth, Sophie failed to show up for work—she works at the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation, our family charity. At first, we were . . .” She searched for the right word, then found it: “concerned, but not alarmed. That changed, though, when we hadn’t heard from Sophie by the following morning. Oliver contacted the authorities and reported her missing. More than a week passed with nothing happening before some genius at the Seattle Police Department finally connected Sophie’s disappearance to the fact that a young woman’s body had been pulled from the Cowlitz River one hundred miles south of here on July sixth—the very day Sophie had failed to report to work. Later that same day, Oliver accompanied a local detective to identify the body. Sadly, it was indeed Sophie.”
During the ensuing pause, I looked at her for a moment, and for the first time noticed the drawn, tired look in her eyes—the battle-weary look of someone who’d been on the front lines for too long. I suppose I could understand if the last few months had not gone down easily for Cecilia.
“And then,” Oliver said, “after I identified Sophie, the very next day we collected her body and flew her back home to her parents in London.”
“Right,” Cecilia said. “And the local police have been bumbling about, looking for her killer ever since. To no avail.”
The clock ticked quietly for several seconds before Toni said, “We’ve seen the news coverage. We’re very sorry for your loss.” She shook her head. “It’s so very senseless.”
Oliver nodded as he clenched, then unclenched his hands. “It is, isn’t it—completely senseless. My niece did nothing to deserve this.” His voice carried a mixed tone of sorrow and disgust. He leaned forward across our conference room table, as if to make it easier for Toni and me to hear him. “She was twenty-six years old, for Christ’s sake. She had her whole life
in front of her.” He looked back and forth between us for a second, and then he rocked back in his seat.
Cecilia reached down into her attaché case. “I took the liberty of bringing in a few newspaper clippings on the off chance you hadn’t seen them already.” She pulled out a few papers with scanned newspaper articles on them and slid them across the table to me.
HEIRESS DISAPPEARS!
Police say few clues
I recognized the headline. The story had been so big—Sophie Thoms was a name so well known—that almost immediately the national news networks also picked up on it and began running with it. Within days, every talking head on television was pontificating about the disappearance of the young woman.
“It was a completely miserable week,” Cecilia said, “the week after Sophie went missing. We had no idea what to think. I mean, if Nicki had been the one to disappear, we wouldn’t have worried so much. Nicki does things like that from time to time.”
“But not Sophie,” Oliver said.
“No,” Cecilia agreed. “Not Sophie. Sophie was the responsible one of the pair, even though she was younger. She was not one to simply disappear. I was very worried something was horribly wrong.”
Toni and I had followed the case closely this past July—I guess we were as obsessed about a missing-celebrity case as anyone else, especially given our experience with another missing celebrity, Gina Fiore, the year before. We didn’t know Sophie, but based on the lessons we’d learned in the Fiore case, I think we both suspected that it was likely a wealthy young woman like Sophie Thoms had chosen to disappear, just as Gina Fiore had chosen to do the year before. Sophie had probably decided that a break from the dull routine of fund-raising was in order and had secretly jetted off to the Mediterranean for a month. That was our theory, anyway. As a matter of fact, we figured she was probably getting a big kick out of watching the search efforts while safely tucked away in someone’s Lake Como villa.
Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) Page 1
