“Kenji. He may have taken part of my grandfather’s journal.” She told Miles about the missing razor and his face grew hard.
“I’m sure these are some sort of formulas, Darby.” He pointed at the numbers. “Kenji not only speaks Japanese, but he works in pharmaceuticals. Perhaps he understood what these formulas mean.”
Darby pictured Kenji standing at the window, frowning at his cell phone. Had he been attempting to send photographs of the journal before she’d entered the room? Had he then resorted to removing the pages with a razor?
“Miles, if these are formulas they could be extremely dangerous.” She grabbed her jeans and pulled them on. Her stomach was flopping and she felt slightly sick. “We’ve got to find out what’s going on, and fast.”
_____
Donny Pease sprinkled brown sugar atop his oatmeal, grabbed his spoon, and took a satisfying bite. What was it about getting hitched that could make a man famished? He polished off a few spoonfuls and took a swig of coffee. Tina was munching away on her Special K cereal, dialing Darby Farr with a long red fingernail.
“Tell her about the prime rib,” he suggested, wishing he had a few raisins to vary the oatmeal’s consistency. They’d eaten the night before at a family-run restaurant down the road where the special had been glistening hunks of prime rib, big as serving platters.
“I will,” she promised, leaning back in the plastic chair.
Donny looked around the breakfast room, a beige box with a few fake ferns and a machine that dispensed milk and juice. Styrofoam bowls were heaped next to plastic drinking glasses and Styrofoam coffee cups, along with baskets containing sweeteners, fake creamer, and those little sticks for stirring. The only hot dish had been the oatmeal; the only other breakfast choices cold cereal and packaged donuts.
Okay, so this motel, located just over the border in Canada, wasn’t anything to write home about, but Tina had assured him that it was just fine because the inn they were staying at in Nova Scotia was on the fancy side.
Donny heard her chirp a hello to Darby and relay the news they’d just received about Alcott Bridges’s death.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” she said. She held her hand over the mouthpiece. “Darby and Miles already know about Alcott, because they were the ones who found him! Imagine that?”
Donny could imagine it, and didn’t exactly want to. He’d had his share of finding dead bodies on Hurricane Harbor, thank you very much.
Tina asked Darby to call Alcott’s lawyer. “He represents the estate, and says he wants to get the house on the market by March.”
She listened to Darby, twirling a red curl as she waited. “I know it’s kind of soon. But Alcott was eighty years old, so it’s not like it’s a surprise.” She picked up her spoon. “Darby, I’ll just die if that horrible Babette gets the listing. Will you scoot on over to see the lawyer as soon as you can?”
Darby must have said yes, because Tina sighed happily. She described the delicious prime rib while pushing her cereal around in her bowl in an absentminded way. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. “What? You mean the FBI guy?”
Donny waited, his heart beating a little harder, until Tina finally hung up the phone. “Donny, listen to this: that Kenji guy, the one who stayed overnight at Darby’s house? He might be a crook.” She told him about the journal and shuddered, her red curls bobbing with anger. “First those shoes and now this. What is this world coming to?”
He scooped the last of the oatmeal from the Styrofoam bowl and licked his plastic spoon. “Could’a told you he wasn’t any Boy Scout,” he said. After all, only two kinds of people went driving around in a Maine nor’easter: idiots, and desperate men who were up to no good.
_____
“The jail?” Bitsy Carmichael squealed, half in disgust, and half in delight. “I’ve never set foot in a jail.”
“Not even in your wild Vegas days?” Charles Dupont ruffled her spiky blonde hair, amused by her excitement at the prospect of visiting the Manatuck County Correctional Facility, otherwise known as the jail.
Bitsy thought back. One particularly wild night had taken her to the sheriff’s office, but that was about it. “Nope—never.”
“Then this will be a first.” He parked the car and pointed at the door. “That’s where we go in. We’ll have to see how far you can come with me. The prisoner may or may not want to see both of us.”
Bitsy raised her eyebrows. Surely a man hard up for female company was going to want to see her! She gave a sweet smile. “I’ll be as charming as possible, Charlie.”
They crossed the plowed parking lot, Bitsy stepping gingerly in her pink fur-lined boots. She wore her leopard coat and pink hoop earrings, frosty pink lipstick, and furry white gloves.
“Charlie?” She stopped in the middle of the lot, her hands on her leopard-lined hips. “Are you happy I came back to Maine?”
He pursed his lips. Why she was choosing to ask him this question now in the parking lot of the jail was a mystery. “Yeah, I am.” He knew that she was the same woman who’d abandoned him before, and that she might take off again, without warning, just as she had fifteen years earlier. And yet he was still glad for the time, glad for her company, glad to watch her prance across the parking lot in her ridiculous, wonderful getup.
She thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. A small smile crept across her face.
“Me, too,” she said, linking her arm with one of his. “I mean, when would I ever get to escort a handsome police chief into a jail?”
They’d reached the entrance, a big, metal door painted olive drab. Charles pulled it open. Inside, a uniformed guard sat at a table, flipping through a cooking magazine. He glanced up and quickly dipped his head in greeting. “Good to see you, Chief.”
“Thanks. Evan, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” The man blushed. He was little more than a boy, really, maybe twenty or so years old. “Who are you here to see?”
“Leonard Marcus.”
The man looked at a computer screen. “He’s in B. You know how to get there?”
“Yeah, I remember.” He placed a hand on the small of Bitsy’s back and steered her toward a door. “Thanks, Evan.”
A loud buzzer sounded, followed by a hollow clanking sound, and Chief Dupont pushed open the door. Bitsy trotted behind him, her heart beginning to pound.
The corridor was long and dim, devoid of any windows except for several small skylights at the top of the halls. Another uniformed man stood inside the corridor, rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet.
“Help you?” He seemed surprised to see them.
“I’m Charles Dupont, Chief of Police for Hurricane Harbor. This is my wife, Bitsy. We’re here to see Leonard Marcus.”
The guard nodded. “It’s not visiting hours, Chief, but we can make an exception for you.” He leafed through some papers on a clipboard and then looked up. “Marcus is right down the hallway. He doesn’t get many visitors.”
They walked down the corridor, following the guard, past cells where men sat on their bunks or at small desks. One man was doing one-handed push-ups, grunting with exertion every time he raised his amply-muscled body. Another stood by the cement block wall, book in hand, reciting poetry in calm, gentle tones, as if he were reading to a beloved grandchild.
“Hey, Walt.” The guard waved at the next inmate who was reclining on his bed. “Going to watch the basketball game later on?”
“You bet.”
“Augusta’s going to take it, you’ll see.”
The guard’s goading received a loud snort of derision from the prisoner. “No frickin’ way. You’ll see.”
The guard smiled at the Chief. “You follow the tournaments?”
Chief Dupont shrugged. “Of course. Can’t live in Maine and not pay attention to the February games.”
Bitsy thought back, remembering the fervor of the semifinal and state high school basketball championships. Droves of people filled gymnasiums across the state throughou
t the season, but especially in February at tournament time. Was it the freezing temperatures, lack of daylight hours, or scarcity of other activities that made the sporting events so popular? To say basketball was big was like saying lobsters had claws. Both were obvious, undeniable facts.
The trio stopped short before a dark cell. “Hey, Marcus!” called out the guard. “You got company.”
Bitsy peered into the cell, bracing herself for what she might see. The image of a thin, jittery drug addict with a murderous glint in his eye was what she expected; a vision conjured up from countless episodes of crime and courtroom dramas.
The prisoner rose from his bunk. He was tall and fit, with graying hair cut stylishly short. His face was lined, but handsome, with a trim mustache and well-groomed eyebrows. He stole money from loads of people, Bitsy reminded herself. And yet he was undeniably attractive.
Charles introduced her as well as himself, and explained they were there to ask some questions about Lorraine Delvecchio.
Leonard Marcus nodded gravely. “I heard she passed away,” he said, his voice surprisingly sonorous. “Do your questions have anything to do with her death?”
“In fact they do,” Charles Dupont said. He looked into the prisoner’s eyes. “I believe she was murdered.”
Leonard Marcus put a finger to his lips and seemed to ponder the statement. He reminded Bitsy of an English professor ensconced in a book-lined office at some ivy-walled college, not an inmate of the Manatuck County Correctional Facility.
The air was still, scented with the odor of dozens of incarcerated bodies. The murmur of other prisoners was background noise for the occasional heavy clank of the locking doors. Bitsy noticed she was holding her breath in anticipation of his response.
Leonard Marcus finally spoke. “Murdered,” he said slowly, nodding again as if considering the concept. He looked up at Bitsy and then flicked his gray-green eyes to Charles Dupont. “You’re saying someone shoved Lorraine Delvecchio off the Breakwater.” He put his hands in the pockets of his orange jumpsuit, a gesture that looked somehow elegant “It’s very likely that she was indeed murdered. The question, dear Chief, is by whom?”
_____
Alcott Bridges’s lawyer was the head of an old Manatuck family firm, Anderson & Anderson. He answered Darby’s call with a hearty hello and then thanked her for responding so quickly.
“This is a somewhat unorthodox request,” the lawyer began, “but I wonder if we couldn’t meet this afternoon? I’m leaving town for a legal seminar in Miami, and I’d like to jet off to Florida knowing that this disposition of Alcott’s property is underway.”
Darby thought a moment. She and Miles were headed to a large estate on Hurricane Harbor to meet Ed Landis, a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Darby had met Ed several months earlier, and had known he was the one to call with her questions regarding Tokutaro’s journal.
“Can we meet just after noon?” she asked the lawyer.
“Terrific. Do you know where my office is?”
“Yes.”
Darby finished the call and looked up, feeling Miles’s eyes upon her.
“Are you okay?” His voice was gentle. “I know this whole thing with the journal is upsetting.”
She nodded, struggling to contain her emotions. “It’s just that I was so relieved to think my grandfather was above suspicion, that he hadn’t played a part in the taking of so many innocent lives. What if Kenji Miyazaki lied to me about the translation? What if this journal proves incriminating to my family?” She bit her lip, keeping the tears at bay.
He pulled her close. He was wearing the Irish knit sweater he’d brought from San Francisco and Darby, despite her distress, was smitten.
“There, there,” Miles cooed. “What did Ed Landis say on the phone? He’ll have a translation typed up for you by tonight. I think it’s going to turn out that your grandfather was innocent, but at least you’ll know the truth, right?”
Darby moved her head in agreement, not trusting herself to speak.
He gave her a hug. “I’ll go start the Jeep and get it nice and toasty for you. Okay?”
Again she nodded. Miles gave a reassuring smile, pulled on a hat, and headed outside.
Darby took a deep breath. Miles was right—the truth was what she needed. She picked up two coffee cups and carried them into the kitchen. She felt emotion welling up once more, but this time it was anger and she did not tamp it down.
Kenji Miyazaki invaded my home and quite possibly stole my property. She gritted her teeth. Had he been after whatever secrets the journal held all along?
She thought back to her conversation an hour earlier with Hideki Kobayashi, the president of the pharmaceutical company where Kenji also worked. During the dapper businessman’s purchase of an estate in South Florida months earlier, the two had developed an easy friendship.
It had been difficult to call him with her suspicions regarding Kenji.
At first the older man had said nothing, and then he exhaled a long, slow breath.
“Your remarks sadden me, Darby. I have always thought of Kenji Miyazaki as a son. I have supported him in his climb up the ladder at Genkei, and yet …” he paused.
“What is it, Hideki? Tell me, please.”
“And yet I have wondered if there is another side to him. If so, he keeps it well hidden, like a tiger shields his claws, and yet sometimes I sense it is there, dark, and possibly deceitful.”
“What do you mean? Can you be more specific?”
Hideki Kobayashi sighed and Darby winced. This was causing the old man pain, and yet she had to know the truth.
“Kenji is ambitious.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No.” He paused. “Desiring power in itself is not a crime.”
Darby felt a twinge of impatience. “Do you trust him, Hideki?”
“Kenji has been helping me with a delicate situation, involving the theft of intellectual property from Genkei.”
“Corporate espionage?”
“Yes. We have tried to conduct our own internal investigation, but at last I consulted an expert in these matters. He came back to me only days ago with painful news. The stealing has been from Kenji’s division.”
Darby swallowed. “Hideki, I’m not sure what these formulas in my grandfather’s notebook are, but I’m worried enough that I’m going to the authorities.” She waited a beat. “I’ve contacted the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
There was silence on the other end. At last Hideki Kobayashi spoke, his voice weary and yet resolute. “Darby, you must take whatever actions are necessary. I will continue to believe in Kenji Miyazaki’s character until there is proof to the contrary, but please let the FBI know that I am ready and willing to cooperate.”
Darby brought herself back to the present. She pulled on her red down coat and grabbed her purse. Gone was her sadness, and even her anger, replaced by a determination to get the journal into the hands of a professional who could unlock its secrets.
Kenji Miyazaki was by now off the island. Darby pictured his boyish face, seemingly so open and friendly, felt again his passionate kiss, and gritted her teeth. Thank goodness I’ll never see him again. Unlike Lorraine Delvecchio, I don’t have to be tortured by memory. I can happily forget all about him.
She walked along the snowy path to the Jeep where Miles Porter waited.
ELEVEN
“SO WHAT DID LEONARD Marcus do that was so bad?” Bitsy asked as they walked across the snowy parking lot to the car. “He certainly doesn’t look like a criminal.”
Charles Dupont gave a wry grin. “No, he looks like a wealthy businessman, which is just what he was until he was indicted for money laundering and concealment of records in a federal investigation.” He opened her door and waited until she was tucked inside. “Right now, he’s serving time for driving under the influence. That’s why he’s here in Manatuck. Meanwhile, the Feds are building their case against him.”
“It appears that Marcus masterminded a pretty successful insurance scam. The authorities think he and his partner bilked thousands of investors out of some $700 million.”
“That’s unbelievable! Did they rip off anyone around here?”
“All over the world. They convinced people to buy life insurance policies held mostly in the names of people dying of AIDS. The proceeds were used to purchase several homes—including a $3 million waterfront place in Westerly.”
“Who owns it now, the Feds?”
“Not yet, but if he’s proven guilty, it’s theirs.”
“So he stole and Lorraine Delvecchio …”
“You’re not to repeat a word of that conversation.” Charles Dupont’s voice bore a hard edge.
“Sorry.” She put a finger to her pink lips, signifying that she would be discreet. “And what about Marcus’s partner? Is he locked up, too?”
“Hanged himself in his cell last year. Guess he didn’t like prison food.”
Bitsy giggled. “Oh, Charles! Gallows humor, right?” She rested her hand on his thigh. “I love it when you make me laugh.”
He shot her a look. “Then I’ll have to do it more often.”
The squawk of his police radio interrupted the quiet. Charles pulled over and put the car in park. “Chief Dupont.” He listened intently. “I know where that is. I’ll be there.”
He hung up, his lined face flushed.
“What is it?”
“Police work. The Manatuck guys need me later today.”
She frowned. “But it’s Sunday!” She looked out the window at the winter white landscape. “I wish you were already retired.”
“Soon enough,” he said. He looked at his watch. “We still have time to go to the shelter …”
“Yes!” She clapped her hands, her mood transformed in an instant. “I almost forgot, and now I’m as excited as a kid. Let’s head there right now, Charles! I can’t wait to get my hands on those puppies.”
_____
The turn-of-the-century Merewether estate lay blanketed under several feet of snow. Darby and Miles kept the engine running while they peered across the white landscape of the estate’s sweeping lawn, broken only by a snow-covered cedar playset. By now the storm had completely subsided, and slivers of blue sky were visible behind retreating clouds.
Final Settlement Page 15
