The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  Glynis’s eyes widened at Phoebe’s question. “How do you know about that?”

  “Why don’t you tell us about it?”

  “It wasn’t sleazy. It wasn’t like that,she wasn’t like that. Joshua had to have everything his way. He wouldn’t let her be, and she got more and more unhappy. He expected her to be available round the clock for him, but he could do whatever he damn well pleased.”

  “Easy tiger,” Dub said as he rubbed Glynis’s shoulder.

  “All right.” Glynis took a long breath. “All right. She was miserable, and he wouldn’t give way on anything. He wouldn’t consider counseling, and nixed therapy for her when she got depressed. She didn’t have any money of her own by that time. Everything was in his name. When she came to realize divorce was going to be the only way, she’d come in here a couple times a week, more if she could manage it. She’d do setup, darkroom work, digital manipulation, anything we needed, and we paid her in cash.”

  “She met someone. She wouldn’t say how or where or who, but she was happy.” Dub pulled out a blue handkerchief, handed it to Glynis so she could wipe her eyes. “The light came back into her.”

  “When did the light come back?”

  “About six months before she died. She called him Lancelot, her pet name for him.”

  “How’d they contact each other?”

  “She bought a preloaded cell phone. His idea, right, Dub?”

  “Yeah, she said that he knew how to do what had to be done. Listen, the men responsible for what happened to her are in prison. What’s the point of dragging this out now?”

  “It’s going to help us on another case. Anything you can tell us about the man she was involved with could help.”

  “Well, I think he had a place on the west side where they’d hook up.” Glynis glanced at Dub, got a nod. “I saw her the day before it happened. She was flying. She said she’d decided to move out, to get a divorce. As soon as that was done, she and Lancelot were going to get married. She was going to take what money she had and move to Reno, establish the residency requirements for the divorce. She wanted it fast. She always wanted fast.”

  “Anything else that you know about him, anything she said about him? However minor a detail.”

  “I think he worked out—seriously. She talked about how he was really built, and worked at it. He was giving her tips on getting stronger physically.”

  “Blue eyes,” Dub remembered. “She bought him a shirt one day, said it matched his eyes. Blue rugby style. Nice. And he cooked.”

  “That’s right, that’s right. She said how sexy it was to watch him cooking dinner. I remember it surprised me, because he didn’t seem the type.”

  “Why not?”

  “Everything else she said, or the impressions I got, said ultra machismo. To be honest, I was worried about her. We both were. He seemed like the polar opposite of Joshua, and we wondered if she didn’t fall into all this as a kind of reaction. Hot-blooded, tough, physical. Blue collar.”

  “Why do you say blue collar?”

  “Sometimes she called him her blue knight. Maybe it was the eyes, though. But I got the impression he was a working stiff, you know.”

  Or maybe the blue was the uniform, Phoebe thought.

  “He was really pushing her to leave Joshua. He didn’t like the idea of her sleeping with another man, even though sex had become a non-issue between Angie and Joshua. She said it made Lancelot crazy to imagine it, and I think she liked that part. It made her feel sexy and vital again. But it felt like another kind of manipulation to me.”

  “She needed a breather,” Dub said. “Some time to get Angie back. But this guy, he made her feel like a goddess, like she was indispensable and indestructible. Nothing bad would ever happen to her when he was with her. He’d promised.”

  “But it did,” Glynis said softly. “The worst happened.”

  “He never contacted you after her death?”

  “No.”

  “Where are her cameras?” Phoebe asked.

  “I don’t know. She kept them at the mystery man’s. She had two, and for a while I checked eBay, the pawnshops, the secondhand stores. Just in case he sold them. It’d be nice to have them back, those pieces of her.”

  “You’d recognize them?”

  “Yeah, at least if I had my hands on one of them I would. She painted this little pink rosebud on the bottom of her equipment. Like a signature. Pink roses were her favorite.”

  “Pink roses like on the grave where Roy was chained.” It was energizing, Phoebe thought, to have that much confirmed. “Lancelot’s our guy.”

  “Yeah. Now we just have to find a blue-eyed hard-body who can cook and lives on the west side. Or did three years ago.”

  “Add in cop. How does the cop from the west side meet the sad princess from Gaston Street?” Closing her eyes, Phoebe tried to think it through. “She did charity work, attended snazzy events. A lot of cops moonlight as private security. And let’s see who’s turned in their papers in the last three years—cops between thirty and forty because he’s going to be young, and he’s not going to have time to pull tours while he’s planning his revenge.”

  “If we’re walking down the right road, she would’ve had that second cell phone on her when she went into the bank. Her personal effects would’ve gone to the husband.”

  “Yeah.” Missed that step, Phoebe realized, and nodded appreciatively at Liz. “You’re right, and if so, he’d have checked the incoming and the outgoing. He’d know. Better let him simmer first, take this other angle. Then we’ll go back on him.”

  Phoebe glanced toward the eastern sky as she got into the car. The storm wasn’t going to wait much longer.

  27

  “It could be other law enforcement, it could be military, even paramilitary,” Phoebe said. “But everything points to cop to me. Gary Cooper—sheriff. He doesn’t lose, not Grace Kelly or his honor. That’s the way it was supposed to be. But on what could symbolize a wedding day, the day Angela Brentine was reclaiming her independence, taking the next step toward becoming her lover’s wife, she’s killed in a gun battle. Killed by the bad guys, sure, but also—in the subject’s mind—because I stood by—the townspeople—and didn’t take action, or didn’t allow action to be taken. Guilt by cowardice is part of the theme of the movie.”

  “You were neither guilty nor cowardly,” Dave said.

  “To him, I’m both. And he’s obsessed about this for three years. Plenty of time to work it all out. Lancelot not only cuckolded the all-powerful king, but was Guinevere’s champion. He saved her when Arthur could or would not. This guy sees himself as the hero, more importantly, Angela’s hero. And he can’t accept the failure, or the fate. There has to be blame. I’m to blame.

  “Next, the grave where he killed Roy. Jocelyn Ambucean was a young bride-to-be. She died days before her wedding, drowned in the river during a storm. She was, it’s said, running away to Tybee Island and her lover rather than go through with the marriage arranged by her father. He likes the symbols—angel watching the grave—Angela—the grave of a woman running toward true love, the pink roses. He likes giving me clues. He wants, at the end of it, for me to know why. I have to know why for it to matter enough.”

  “I’ll get the names for you.”

  “Joshua Brentine. He’s not going to want to admit his wife was cheating on him. It’s insulting and demeaning. His pride is worth a lot more to him than the lives of two strangers, or anyone else who might be a target.”

  “Admitting isn’t the same as confirming.” Dave cocked his head. “If he believes you already know.”

  She smiled. “No, it’s not, thank you for reminding me. I believe I can make him think I have more than I do.”

  “I’ll call down, see how long it’ll take to get the information you need.”

  “Thank you. I’m just going to call home while you do that, let them know I might be late.”

  She stepped out, had barely pulled out her phone when D
ave stuck his head out of his office door. “Computers are down in Human Resources. New system, apparently. Could take a few hours.”

  “Well, Jesus, aren’t there paper files?”

  “And going through those doing a search like this would probably take longer than waiting for technology to flip back on. Go on home, see your family, get some dinner. They’re going to let me know as soon as they’re back up.”

  “All right, all right. Why don’t you come on with me? Have some of that dinner, too?”

  It was tempting, but she looked exhausted. “Rain check. I’m going to grab a little time at home myself with a beer and the ball game. If you’re right on this, it’s going to break for us, and break quick. Go recharge a little.”

  The minute he stepped outside, Dave cursed himself for not tapping Phoebe for a ride home. Even with only three blocks to go, he’d be lucky to get home on foot before the storm hit.

  Hell, while he was at it, he might as well curse himself for not taking her up on the dinner invitation. He wanted to see how Ava was holding up for himself. Wanted to see…

  Lousy timing, again, he reminded himself. She, all of them, were in the middle of a crisis.

  She’d been engaged the first time he met her. He’d had absolutely no business falling in love with her. None. But he had. Hadn’t done anything about it, he reminded himself as he hunched his shoulders against the wind. Stayed the family friend. Good old Dave.

  Talked himself out of believing he was in love with her, after she’d been married a few years, had a baby. Yeah, he’d talked himself out of it, and gotten married himself.

  And Ava got divorced.

  Lousy timing, right down the line. With a healthy portion of guilt on his part. Because no matter how much he told himself he’d wanted to make his marriage work, no matter now much he told himself he’d tried his best, he knew there’d always been Ava.

  Now, just when he was beginning to think, to hope, maybe, just maybe, she and everyone in Mac Namara House were in crisis.

  What choice did he have but to stay the family friend? Good old Dave, who was heading home to his empty house to nuke a Hungry-Man.

  Cue violins.

  The wind whipped along, sending tree limbs bending and swaying as he clipped down the sidewalk, annoyed with his own self-pity. If he’d bothered to pay attention, he could have changed out of his suit into his sweats at least. Then he could’ve jogged the distance home while he was wallowing.

  Lightning slashed through the sky before he’d crossed the first block, and thunder rolled threateningly in its wake.

  He quickened his pace at the next pitchfork of lightning, and decided he might make it home after all without getting electrocuted or drenched.

  And at least the wind was cooling things off. The entire day had been oppressive with that heavy, waiting heat.

  He could see his house now, imagined shedding the suit, popping the top on that cold beer.

  He swung onto his little walkway, bounded toward his door. He heard the quick toot-toot, glanced back. He fixed a smile on his face when he spotted the spiffy red sports car zip toward the curb.

  Maggie Grant, twice divorced, wanting to flirt. She embarrassed him a bit at the best of times, but just now, he wanted to get in, shut down and take an hour for himself.

  He sent her a cheery wave and kept going.

  She tooted again—beep-beep-beep, more insistently. Dave stuck the key in his lock, turned it as he gave her another wave.

  “Yoo-hoo! David! I’m so glad to see you. I need the help of a big, strong man.”

  Ten more seconds, Dave thought. Ten more and he’d have been inside, out of her reach.

  “Ah, my phone’s ringing, Maggie. Let me—”

  “It’ll only take a minute or two. I’ve got all these bags. I don’tknow what I was thinking. The rain’s going to start pelting any second. Would you be a hero and give me a hand getting all this inside?” She popped the trunk, sent him a melting smile. “Please?”

  “Sure.” Sap, sucker, stoop, he berated himself. “No problem.”

  “It’s going to be a wild one.” She shook back her hair. “Kind of night you want to be cozied up with a friend and a nice glass of wine.”

  Now he was going to have to avoid the wine, and the friendship, Dave thought as he stepped back down to the walk. The first fat drops of rain pelted down. The wind slapped, shoved, and he cursed as he heard his unlocked door slam open. For one second he hesitated: finish the damn good deed, dash back and shut the door. Even as he pivoted to do the latter, he spotted the man standing across the street.

  Blue ball cap, sunglasses, windbreaker.

  Then the world exploded.

  Phoebe didn’t know how to feel when she saw Duncan’s car outside her house. One part of her was relieved—now she knew where he was, and that he was safe. The other part was just plain pissed that he’d been so uncooperative that morning.

  Then she stepped inside, out of the fury of the storm, and heard her daughter’s delighted laughter. It was hard to keep a good mad on when she heard her daughter happy.

  Then she walked to the parlor and saw Carly, Carter and Duncan sprawled on the floor playing Monopoly. It looked like Carly was slaughtering both men.

  “I can’t have landed on you again,” Duncan complained. “These dice are loaded. This is bull…malarkey.”

  “You were going to say thes word.”

  He smiled thinly at Carly. “Whats word?”

  “Bullsh—”

  “Carly Anne Mac Namara!”

  Carly stifled a giggle, then looked over innocently. “Hi, Mama. I’m beating the pants off Uncle Carter and Duncan.”

  “So I see. Where’s everyone else?”

  “The women are in the kitchen, where they belong.” Carter sent her a toothy smile. “Get on back there, woman, and make us a snack.”

  “Oh, what kind of snack would you like?” She walked over, set down her bag. “Just let me”—she rapped her hand at the side of Carter’s head—“see if that knocked any sense into you. And nobody’s going to be snacking on anything this close to dinner. For which, I assume, you plan to stay,” she said to Duncan.

  “An invitation has been issued and accepted. Going to smack me upside the head, too?”

  The glint in those dusky eyes warned her he still had a bit of a mad on himself. Well, fine. “We’ll see how the evening goes. I assume, too, you got all those oh-so-important things done on your schedule today.”

  “I did. How about you?”

  “Inroads.”

  “Why are you mad at Duncan, Mama?”

  “That may involve quite a list. So for now, I’m going to run upstairs and change. Carly, after you’re finished trouncing these two, why don’t you see if you can help set the table? That means the men will be clearing and seeing to the dishes.”

  “What part of KP does she get?” Duncan asked Carly.

  “I’ll be…answering my phone,” Phoebe said as it rang in her bag. She pulled it out. “Phoebe Mac Namara.”

  Her color simply vanished, as if a light had been switched off in her face. Duncan was already getting to his feet when she got out the next shaky words.

  “What happened? How…” She turned to walk out of the parlor. “How bad is he? No. No. Where? I’m on my way.”

  She had her game face on, Duncan noted, when she turned back. But there was fear lurking in her eyes. “I have to go.”

  “But you just got home.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, baby.” She leaned down to give Carly a hard hug. “I’m sorry. Would you run on back and tell Gran not to wait dinner for me? I’ll be back soon as I can.”

  “Did somebody get hurt?”

  “Uncle Dave had an accident, so I need to go check on him. Right away.”

  Tears swam into Carly’s wide eyes. “Is he hurt really bad?”

  “I hope not, and they got him right to the doctors so they can take good care of him. But I have to go, baby. I’ll call as soon
as I can. Run tell Gran I’ll call soon as I can. Carter,” she said as Carly dashed off.

  “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about us. Car accident?”

  “No.” She gripped his arms. “Stay inside. Please. Make sure everyone stays inside. I’ll call.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  She didn’t argue with Duncan, simply ran to the front door and through. “They took him to Memorial. He rigged Dave’s front door. The son of a bitch rigged the front door on Dave’s house. That’s what they think. They don’t know…”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “He’s alive.” Phoebe closed her eyes as Duncan whipped the Porsche into the street. “He’s alive.” She turned her phone over and over in her hands as if she were afraid it would ring and tell her otherwise. “He had to get inside the house if the door was rigged. He had to get inside Dave’s house.”

  “He’s not going to get inside Mac Namara House, Phoebe.”

  “He doesn’t want to.” Fear, grief, guilt stirred an uneasy mix inside her. “It’s not going to be like that. If he’d wanted to get in there, he wouldn’t have put me on alert. He’s got something else in mind. But he wants me wounded. He wants me hurting when it comes down to what he’s got in mind. And oh God, Duncan, I am.”

  She burst through the emergency room doors, her badge already in her hand. She held it up to the first nurse she saw. “David Mc Vee.”

  “You need to check with—”

  “No.You check. Now.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  She spun around and bulleted toward Sykes. “Where is he? What’s his status?”

  “They’re working on him. Can’t get much out of them, but I talked to the paramedics who brought him in. Broken arm, some burns, lacerations. Head trauma—there’re some worries there. And there could be internal injuries. I was still in the house when the call came in. I followed the ambulance in.”

  “I want two guards here in the ER. Two guards wherever they take him.”

  “Already done.” Sykes nodded when Duncan came up behind Phoebe. “Lieutenant, there was a witness. A neighbor. She was shaken up some, got a few cuts. They’re stitching her up.”