The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “I’ll take care of it, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you.” She nodded because she saw Dave step in. “Let’s get started.”

  When Dave gestured to her office, she walked into it ahead of him.

  “You’ve got a lot laid out in a short time, Phoebe. Get any sleep in there?”

  “Some. Truth? It kept coming back when I drifted off. Roy chained on that grave, the explosion. I was better off awake and doing. I’m not so scared when I’m doing as I am when I stop.”

  “Your family?”

  “I don’t know. How long can I keep them shut up in that house? Fine for my mother,” she said with a tired laugh that wanted to turn bitter. “But the rest? I just don’t know. I’m going to go out, start talking to witnesses, connections to those four female victims. Something’s going to break out of it. I know it will.”

  “Take one of the men with you.”

  “I don’t have anyone to spare. We’re already spread thin with the details on my house, the ones taking Josie and Carter to work and sitting on them.”

  It made her sick to think of it, sick in mind, in heart, in the belly. “And I know that can’t go on much longer either. I know we don’t have the manpower or the budget for unlimited babysitting.”

  “They’re there today, so we think about today. How’s Ava…everyone handling it?”

  “Everyone, including Ava, is handling it as best they can. You might call her, or go by. It might ease her mind.”

  “Well. Hmm.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “About the interviews, I’d go with you myself, but I’ve got a meeting at City Hall. If you could pick someone out of the hat, not just the squad, who would it be?”

  Maybe,maybe either he or Ava would make a move before they were both collecting Social Security, but she wasn’t putting money on it. “Sykes is solid, and that’s why I want him tugging on the tactical team. Liz Alberta. She’s SV, I know, but she’s got a good ear. But I don’t know what her case load is, or—”

  “I’ll find out, see if it can be worked. Take ten minutes, call home. You’ll feel better, clearer in your mind.”

  “You’re right. You take five, call yourself, it would do the same for you.”

  They met Sanchez in Forsythe Park, and stood in the shade with his wise-eyed horse. The thick air of the morning had turned oppressive, so the rich brown hide of the horse gleamed damp.

  Close to Mac Namara House, Phoebe thought. Close enough that in uniform, mounted on his pretty horse, he could watch her home without anyone noticing.

  Sanchez stood about five-feet-eight by Phoebe’s gauge, with a tough, scrapper’s build. There was a little hook-shaped scar under the corner of his left eye, and a hard, stubborn line to his jaw.

  Was the man in the ball cap, the whistler, taller? She thought by an inch or two. But had she paid enough attention to be certain?

  “She didn’t care about the car,” Sanchez said, speaking of his sister. “She just wanted to get Marissa out. She fought them because she wouldn’t leave her baby, so they put a knife in her and left her bleeding to death on the street.”

  “You were in Germany when it happened?”

  He nodded at Liz. “They gave me hardship leave, let me come home for her funeral. My mother, I thought it would kill her, too. And my brother-in-law, he was like a dead man for days.”

  “You were only nineteen when it happened. You were training as a weapons specialist.”

  “I thought I’d make the army a career. See the world, fight the fight. But after Philli…I finished my tour and came home.”

  “And joined the mounted unit about two years after.”

  “That’s right.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s this about, Lieutenant Mac Namara? The one who put that knife in her, he’s still in. Have you come to tell me he’s getting out?”

  “No. Can you tell me where you were last night, Officer Sanchez? Between eleven and three?”

  “I could,” he said evenly. “I’d want to know why. I’d want to know why you’re asking me where I was around the time a man was blown up in Bonaventure.”

  “I’m asking you because a man was blown up in Bonaventure.”

  “What does it have to do with me?”

  “Let me ask you this first. You didn’t say how your niece was spared that day while your sister was killed.”

  “I told you, the bastards killed Philli because she fought them. Cops caught up with them at a garage; they’d locked themselves in with Marissa. Cops surrounded the place, got them to let the baby go and surrender.”

  “Who got them to surrender?” Phoebe asked him.

  “The cops.” His horse tossed its head at the impatience in Sanchez’s voice, and automatically he stroked a hand over its cheek to soothe. “The cops saved her life. Men like that? Men who’d kill a mother trying to protect her baby? What’s to stop them from doing the same to a little girl? Cops saved Marissa. It’s why I’m a cop.”

  No possible way this is the guy, Phoebe thought, and when she exchanged a look with Liz, saw they were in agreement. “I was the hostage negotiator in the crisis situation with your niece.”

  “You?” Some of his color drained, then poured back again, deeper, darker. “I didn’t know there was a negotiation.” His voice had thickened.

  “You didn’t ask for details?”

  “I…when I got here…everyone was in shock, in mourning. It was like a blur. Then I had to go back, finish my tour. When I was discharged and came home, I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to look back at that. I wanted—I wanted—”

  “To be one of the ones who saved lives, who helped people in trouble.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he managed after a moment, and nodded to Liz. “You asked where I was last night. I stayed the night at my girlfriend’s apartment. Here.” He took out his pad, his pencil. “Here’s her name, her number, the address. Is there anything else you need to know?”

  “This is fine. Thank you, Officer Sanchez.”

  When she took the paper, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet. “Marissa’s ten now. She’s ten years old now. Here’s her picture.”

  He flipped it open, and Phoebe looked down at a dark-haired, dark-eyed little beauty. “She’s gorgeous.”

  “She looks like her mother.” He put the wallet away, held out a hand. “Thank you, from my sister.”

  “Life’s a strange ride, isn’t it?” Liz commented as they walked the wide path back to Phoebe’s car. “You changed the direction of his life. Never met him, never spoke to him before today, but he’s doing what he’s doing, maybe is what he is, at least partially, because of what you did one day five years ago.”

  “Maybe. It’s just as true that due to someone’s perception of what I did some other day, two people are dead.”

  Liz followed the direction of Phoebe’s gaze toward the house on Jones. “Do you want to go in, check on them?”

  “No. Let’s go talk to the husband, just to tie this one up. Then we’ll try Brentine.”

  Delray was a quiet, gentle-eyed man. After five minutes, Phoebe decided he’d have a hard time squashing a spider much less killing a man in cold blood.

  She had a much different impression of Joshua Brentine.

  He kept them waiting twenty minutes in the reception area of his river-view offices. Clouds the color of angry bruises roiled in from the northeast, Phoebe noted. A wicked storm was just waiting to happen.

  They were ushered in by Brentine’s glossy, narrow-hipped assistant to an office with a wide view of the river that had been furnished more as an elegant parlor than a place of big business.

  The mix of elegance and power reflected the man, to Phoebe’s mind, who looked as if he’d been born wearing a perfectly cut suit. The burnished hair waved back from a high, aristocratic forehead; the hawk-sharp brown eyes didn’t mirror the smile his mouth offered.

  “Ladies. I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He rose from behind an antique desk, gestured to a seating area
with curved settee and wing-backed chairs. “My schedule is well packed today.”

  “We appreciate the time, Mr. Brentine. I’m Lieutenant Mac Namara, this is Detective Alberta.”

  “Please, sit. I’m forced to admit I have no idea why I’ve warranted a visit from two of our city’s most attractive public servants.”

  “The bank robbery which resulted in the tragic death of your wife has come up in a current investigation.”

  “Is that so?” Settling back in his chair, he looked politely puzzled. “How so?”

  “I’m not able to divulge the details of an ongoing investigation. According to the information in the file, you weren’t in Savannah at the time of your wife’s death.”

  “That’s correct. I was away on business. In New York.”

  Phoebe glanced around the office. “You must travel extensively, given the nature of your business.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And the bank where your wife was killed. Am I correct in saying that wasn’t the bank you used, at that time, for your professional or personal businesses?”

  “No, it wasn’t. I don’t understand why this has anything to do with something current, Lieutenant.”

  “We’re just confirming details, and I certainly apologize for the necessity of bringing up a tragic event that caused you such grief.”

  But you don’t appear to be touched by that, Phoebe thought. Not like poor Falk, reliving the death of Brenda.

  “Witness statements agree that Mrs. Brentine did have an account in the bank. That, in fact, she came in that day to withdraw all her funds and close that account. Maybe you could tell us about that, Mr. Brentine, as it was over three years ago. We haven’t yet been able to access the bank records on that transaction.”

  “Tell you what?” He rolled his shoulders. “Angela had a small, personal account of her own. Mad money, you could say. A few thousand dollars. Some terrible twist of fate had her deciding to bank that day, at the very time of the robbery.”

  “You didn’t know about the account?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t know about it. I said it was her little piggy bank, so to speak.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just wondering why the wife of someone in your enviable financial position would need a separate little piggy bank.”

  “I imagine she enjoyed the independence.”

  “But, according to the file, she wasn’t employed during your marriage.”

  “No, she wasn’t.” He lifted a hand from the arm of his chair, a palm-up gesture she recognized as impatience. “She was very busy taking care of our home, being a hostess, working with charitable organizations. I’m afraid I can’t help you any more with this, so if you’ll excuse me—”

  “But to withdraw all of it, at one time,” Phoebe persisted. “That’s what stood out for me when I read the case file in conjunction with this other investigation. That’s just puzzling.”

  “Unfortunately, neither you nor I can ask her.”

  “That is unfortunate. I expect she was going to buy you a present, or splurge on something foolish. I’m always splurging on something foolish if I get enough money in my hands. I bet she had a couple of close girlfriends. We women do, and we tend to tell them these silly details we don’t tell our husbands.”

  “I fail to see what that detail has to do with anything.”

  “You’re probably right. I’m just going off on a tangent. It just niggles me, I suppose. I hate not to know. Well, if you could tell us where you were last night, that would be helpful, and we’d be right out of your way. After eleven last night?”

  He said nothing for an icy ten seconds. “I don’t like the implications of that.”

  “Oh, there’s no implication at all. I apologize if it seemed otherwise. It’d be helpful if you’d verify your whereabouts. Otherwise…” Phoebe looked toward Liz.

  “That would niggle both of us,” Liz said with a big smile. “Then we’d be taking up a lot more of your valuable time.”

  “I was at the theater with a friend until after eleven, then we had drinks. I got home about one this morning. Now if there’s anything else—”

  “Just one little thing. The name of your friend. Just to tie this up so we won’t have to bother you again.”

  “Catherine Nordic.” He rose. “I have to ask you to leave. If you have any other questions, I’ll contact my lawyer.”

  “That’s not necessary. Again, I apologize for bringing up difficult memories. Thank you so much for your time.”

  As they walked back through reception, Liz glanced toward Phoebe. “Didn’t like him.”

  “Why, neither did I! Self-important putz. And wasn’t it interesting he didn’t want to tell us anything about his dead wife’s friends or that bank account? Tell me, Liz, if you were married to a very wealthy man, why would you be socking money away in your own account?”

  “Security, should said wealthy husband decide to dump me or vice versa.”

  “And if the marriage was in trouble?”

  “A girlfriend would know. I get a whiff of something else here. Cold-fish husband, and a controlling one you bet your ass—so you’ve got to sneak money into a separate account—a husband who’s out of town a lot while you’re kicking around arranging flowers and taking lady lunches.”

  “Affair.”

  “We are not only attractive public servants, but cynical ones.”

  “Hmm.” Phoebe ran it through her head as they rode the elevator down. “I don’t see the dead wife as the love of his life. Strikes me as he’s more or less x’d her out like he might a canceled meeting. But if she had a lover…maybe one she was planning on running off with. Broke open that piggy bank.”

  “Wrong time, wrong place. Her shooter and his cohorts are doing life, but that might not be enough for a brokenhearted lover. Have to blame somebody.”

  “And everyone got out alive but her. I didn’t get a medical team in, not in time.”

  “Couldn’t,” Liz corrected. “I read the file, too, Phoebe.”

  “If someone was in love with her, if someone was eaten up by guilt that she went to the bank because of him, ‘couldn’t’ wouldn’t mean squat. Let’s track down Angela Brentine’s friends, her hairdresser, her personal trainer. The kind of people an unhappy woman talks to. If she had a lover, one of them knows.”

  “I can get the best friend.” Liz took out her phone as they crossed the lobby and stepped outside. “I’ve got a friend with the paper. I’ll ask him to pull up the report on the Brentine wedding. Best friend was probably maid of honor, or certainly in the wedding party.”

  “Aren’t you handy to have around?”

  “The guy I used to live with thought so, until I showed him the door.”

  Glynis Colby was a long beanpole of a blonde in jeans and a linen shirt. Her photographer’s studio claimed a corner of the third floor of a rehabbed house near Greene Square. Various props, including an enormous teacup and an army of stuffed animals, were stacked around the walls.

  She called her assistant—a little guy with a streaked ponytail and a cherubic smile—Dub when she asked him to get everyone a cold drink.

  “I still miss her. It’s been three years and counting, and I’ll see something and think, I’ve got to call Angie. But she’s not here.”

  Here was the emotion Joshua Brentine had lacked. “You were friends a long time?” Phoebe asked her.

  “Since we were fourteen. Glyn, Angie and Dub—the unholy trinity. We were going to be famous together.”

  “I know your work,” Liz put in. “You took pregnancy photos of a cousin of mine. They were gorgeous. Then she came back with her little boy. You’ve got a good reputation—deservedly.”

  “We do pretty well, right, Dub?”

  He gave her hand a squeeze after he’d set down glasses. “Angie? She was the sweet part of the heart.”

  “We had this concept,” Glynis continued. “Angie specialized in wedding photography, I’d do pregnancy and children. A fu
n way, we thought, to generate repeat business. Plus, she just loved doing weddings, had such an eye for them. And Dub…”

  “I’d run the business.”

  “I was under the impression that Angela wasn’t working at the time of her death.”

  “No. Joshua didn’t like it. Or us.” Glynis slanted her gaze toward Dub, wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Bad influences.”

  “He hated me more,” Dub put in. “Homophobe.”

  Glynis poked him in the arm. “Oh, you just like to be number one. He hated me just as much. I was the slut.”

  “I was the gay man slut. That trumps. He met her at a wedding she was working,” Dub continued. “Big society deal and a huge coup for us.”

  “We’d only been in business for about eight months.”

  “She was beautiful. Really beautiful, and I meant it about the sweet.”

  “And she had enormous charm. Joshua swept her right off her feet.” Using both hands, Glynis made a broad, swooping gesture. “Acres of flowers—heavy on the pink roses she liked best. Candlelight dinners, romantic getaways. Six weeks later, she was engaged. Three months after that she was Mrs. Joshua Brentine.”

  “Then it started.” Dub’s mouth tightened as he picked up the story. “He pressured her into quitting her work. How could she snap pictures—as he put it—at weddings when, if the wedding was important enough, she’d be a guest?”

  “And she had a duty to blah, blah, blah,” Glynis said with a shrug. “She gave it up, gave it all up for him. She adored him. He didn’t like her socializing with us, so he made it difficult. Manipulating’s a Brentine specialty. So we’d grab lunch now and then, and she wouldn’t tell him, or we’d have dinner when he was out of town.”

  “Dangerous liaisons,” Dub added.

  “When did she start the affair?”