He read the names, then slid the cards into his pocket. “Have you heard anything on where this book might be?”
“No. But like I told Barclay this morning, I don’t think it ever left the country.”
“So now what?”
“Divide and conquer. I have a feeling that Trip is going after it. Which is why you need to follow him tonight. Failing that, he trusts me. I think I’ve convinced him to hand it over once he gets it.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I think it’s a little late to be asking that, don’t you?”
It was almost five, the streets around Trip dark. He watched the building until he saw Byron coming outside into the gated courtyard to light up a cigarette. Thank God for bad habits, he thought as Byron flicked his lighter, cupping the tip of his cigarette against the cold wind, the tip glowing as he inhaled. Trip pulled his hood over his head, shoved his hands in his pockets, then walked to the locked wrought-iron fence, saying, “Spare a cigarette?”
“Sure.” Byron reached into his pocket, then looked at Trip for the first time, really seeing him. “Are you mad, coming here?”
Trip pulled his hood down lower in case anyone might be looking out the windows. “I need to know what you know about this book.”
Byron glanced behind him, then motioned Trip to one side of the gate, where a tall hedge in the courtyard blocked the view from the office. “That depends. Why?”
“You’re all in danger,” Trip said. “You need to get rid of it.”
“As much as it’s worth? Besides, it’s our only insurance. I have a wife and a kid—”
“Dorian is dead.”
“Exactly,” Byron said. “So I’ll be damned if I give up the only thing that’s probably keeping me and my family alive right now.”
“The only reason you’re alive right now is that they think I took it with me to the States. They killed Dorian when they thought he had it, and since they didn’t find it there, they either think I brought it back or it never left. And which do you think the logical conclusion will be?”
Byron stared at him in disbelief. “You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to keep it?”
A feeling of dread swept over Trip as he envisioned any number of things happening to the book. “What on earth did you do with it?”
“Don’t worry. It’s safe.”
“ ‘Don’t worry’?” He reached through the wrought-iron fence, grabbed Byron by the front of his jacket and pulled him so that Byron’s face was wedged against the cold iron bars. Byron’s eyes widened as Trip demanded, “Where is it?”
“Good God, man. Calm down. Marty has it. He’s always had it.”
Trip let go of Byron, took a step back, his knees almost giving out at the thought that his ex-brother-in-law was behind this. “Marty . . . ? Why?”
“Because he’s a money-hungry sod, that’s why. I’m not sure, but I half suspect he’s the one who pointed the finger at Dorian.”
Trip tried to wrap his head around the thought. Nothing made sense. “Marty wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t he? Who do you think set you up to take the fall for those accounting errors?”
Trip refused to believe it. And yet it all started making sense. “They tried to kill me . . . Ever since I called Dorian about my suspicions of embezzlement . . .” He should have listened when Dorian tried to warn him about Marty. “This is crazy. Does Marty even know what it’s about?”
“See, that’s your mistake. Blowing it all out of proportion. Marty and Vince made the thing to protect us. And it has—”
“You bloody idiot! They’re trying to kill everyone who knows about it! You think Vince’s car accident was really an accident? Probably the only reason you’re still alive is that they’re waiting to see what your next move is.” Trip leaned against the wall in defeat, feeling as if the world was crashing down around him. He was too small against such a big power, and to hear he was being betrayed by his own brother-in-law . . . “I have to get that book from Marty. They’ll kill him the moment they suspect he’s got it.”
“They’re watching me, too, which is why I don’t dare walk out with the thing, even if I knew where Marty hid it. They’re watching all of us.”
“You have to convince him, then. Warn him. It’s our only hope.”
“What if I found a way to get him to bring it to you without anyone knowing?”
Trip hesitated. He didn’t necessarily like Marty, even if at one time Marty had been married to his sister, but that didn’t mean he wanted anything to happen to the man. Still, what choice did they have? Any of them? “Tell him I think it’s too dangerous for him to carry anywhere. But I have someone who can help. Someone I trust.” Trip pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Byron. “This is a long shot, but if Marty can get it to this person, we might have a chance.”
Byron took the card, glanced at it. “A chance for what?”
“To stay alive.”
Byron flicked his cigarette to the ground, the glowing ember shattering into tiny sparks as it hit the brick walk. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Byron. Back when this started, Dorian told me we’re pieces of the puzzle, and they don’t want anyone putting it together. Tell that to Marty. Tell him to be careful.”
“We’ll be fine,” Byron said, then turned and walked back through the gated courtyard to the door of his building. He opened it, the light from inside spilling out, silhouetting him for a sharp, clear moment before the door sliced the air with a snap, taking all the light with it.
Dread swept over Trip as he stood in the dark. He’d been a fool to ignore what had been so obvious. How had he not seen that this would all fall apart? He only hoped Marty would do the right thing before it was too late.
Hands shoved in his coat pockets, he started toward the street and walked maybe half a block when a black sedan pulled up alongside him. The back tinted window rolled down and a man he’d never seen before said, “You’re Trip?”
Trip’s heart started beating double time. “Don’t know anyone by that name.” He kept walking. The car followed at the same pace.
“You have a sister named Beatrice? A niece named Emmie? Cute thing. Blonde. Turns five in a couple days?”
Trip froze. His tongue turned leaden in his mouth.
“Get in,” the man said, and he opened the car door. “You and I are going to have a little chat.”
23
MURDER-SUICIDE IN QUEEN’S PARK HOME
Martin Branford saw the headline out of the corner of his eye, while reaching for one of the teddy bears tucked in with the travel mugs at the cash register. He put the bear on the counter, then handed the cashier his money.
“Cappuccino extra dry!” she called out to the barista as she placed the bear in a green gift bag, its brown velveteen head visible over the top. “Sorry I didn’t have a larger bag. Must be for Emmie, then? She started school yet?”
“Next year. I’m picking her up after work today. My ex is finally letting her spend the weekend,” he said.
“Bring her by in the morning. We’ll make something special.”
“I will . . .” Marty lifted the paper from the rack, shoving his briefcase to the side to read while he waited for his coffee, wondering how any bloke could feel so overwhelmed to take his family’s life. Deciding the article was too depressing, he intended to skip over it, except the company name jumped out at him.
Affinity Data Enterprises.
Marty worked for A.D.E. . . . A wave of nausea swept through him. Suddenly the gift, coffee, and the dreaded contact with his ex tonight were quickly forgotten, and he had to read the entire thing again to make sure he wasn’t imagining it.
An accountant from Affinity Data Enterprises shot and killed his wife and 13-year-old son at their home, and fatally shot himself, police said.
The bodies of Byron Nicholas, 38, his wife, Judith, 34, and their son, Byron Jr., were found Tuesday night in their bedrooms. Police were called after a nei
ghbor heard the couple arguing and then later heard gunshots. The neighbor stated that the couple had been arguing for quite some time over finances. A Metropolitan Police Service spokesperson said it appears to be a murder-suicide, and a note from Byron was found in the home. The deaths remain under investigation.
“Oh my God . . .” He stared at the article, his stomach twisting. The words turned incomprehensible as he frantically tried to reread it. There had to be a mistake. Byron and his family dead?
The names in the paper refused to change, and he dropped it on the newsstand, grabbed his briefcase, then turned toward the exit, nearly running into the man and woman standing behind him.
“Marty!”
He stopped, looked at the cashier in confusion.
“Emmie’s gift?” She held the bag, the teddy bear tucked inside a sea of white tissue. “And don’t forget your coffee,” she said when he came back for the bag.
“I—of course. Thanks.”
He left the coffee, but took the bag, fumbling with the handles as he slipped it over his arm to dig his mobile from his pocket. He pushed the door open with his hip as he called work. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians clothed in heavy coats, hats, and scarves, their heads down against the cold wind, and he stood against the building out of their way. “It’s Marty. Is Clarence there . . . ? Yes. I’ll hold . . .”
Clarence came on the line. “Marty? You’ve heard?”
“In the paper. What happened?”
“Just like it said. The police think it was murder-suicide.”
“I—I can’t believe that.”
“It happens. Heaven knows he was under a lot of pressure with the new contract. I heard they were having financial difficulties.”
“But he was fine last night. He didn’t say anything about finances.”
“You were with him?”
“He popped into my office before he left for the day.” He went over the conversation in his head. It was cryptic, yes, but under the circumstances, understandable. Certainly nothing that led him to think Byron would murder his wife and son, or take his own life, he thought, glancing into the shop window. He saw the auburn-haired woman who’d been standing behind him pick up one of the bears and show it to her companion. The man, Marty didn’t recognize. The woman . . . seemed familiar.
“Did he give you anything?”
Marty drew his gaze from the pair inside. “Sorry. I lost my train of thought.”
“Byron’s papers. Documents? Books? He didn’t give you any, did he?”
His heart skipped a beat. Someone had to have gotten to Clarence for him to be asking about the book. “No. Of course not. Did you look in his office?”
“Not there. Would he have taken anything home?”
“Byron? Never.” Marty started down the sidewalk, then stopped, wondering if he’d truly been blind. “Clarence. You don’t think . . . ?”
“Think what?”
“What if it wasn’t suicide?”
“Of course it was. Financial difficulties. His wife was threatening to leave him. Boyfriend, so I’m told. That’d put anyone over the edge.”
“I hadn’t heard about the boyfriend . . .”
“Are you coming in?”
“I—I’m almost to the Tube.”
“See me when you get here.”
Marty dropped the phone in his pocket, going over his conversation with Byron last night. He’d been prattling on about Trip and that damned book. No. It was something else. Something Byron said in his attempt to get him to turn over the book . . . Something Trip had told Byron. Jigsaw puzzles . . . ? That was it. Someone wanted to make sure the pieces didn’t fit. That no one ever put them together. They were all pieces. Every one of them.
Sure Byron’s conversation was strange, but murder-suicide strange?
Marty walked toward the Underground on autopilot, thinking about the book. Byron almost had him convinced to tell him where he’d hidden it. Marty, however, knew the value of the thing, even if Byron and Trip didn’t. It was worth millions. He’d never have to work again.
Murder-suicide . . .
He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea. Byron loved his son. Yes, he was under pressure, but not enough to take his or anyone else’s life. Certainly not his family’s?
Puzzle pieces . . .
Marty followed the other commuters down the stairs, dug out his wallet, touched it to the reader to deduct his fare from his Oyster card, then pushed through the turnstile to catch the next train. The woman he’d seen in the coffee shop walked up a minute later, sipping her coffee as she took her place beside him on the platform. She eyed the teddy bear and smiled. “Someone’s going to like that,” she said.
“My daughter,” he replied, trying to be polite. He was glad when the train arrived, and quickly boarded. Several empty seats were available, and he took one on the opposite side of the car, wondering how he or anyone else at work was going to get anything done. First Vince Stern’s car accident, and now Byron Nicholas and his family.
Someone wanted to make sure the pieces didn’t fit . . .
Byron’s face flashed in his mind, his curiosity over what the book looked like, the probing questions. It was another reason he’d decided against showing it to Byron. Almost as if Byron had hoped to take the book for himself.
Just as he had.
Marty opened his briefcase, but looked up just as the woman from the shop turned quickly away. He had the distinct feeling that she didn’t want him to know she’d been watching him. Or was he being paranoid, overthinking what was surely a simple matter with a simple explanation? She was not watching him. People killing their spouses and committing suicide wasn’t that rare. One merely need open the paper to see it happened. Byron was no different, he decided. Besides, it wasn’t any business of his.
Puzzle pieces . . .
He held the briefcase tighter, and his heart started pounding.
Someone wanted to make sure the pieces didn’t fit . . .
Marty thought about the contract they’d been working on. Each of them assigned something different, always secluded . . .
Murder-suicide . . .
The air grew hot, stale, the passenger compartment claustrophobic. Suddenly it seemed everyone was watching him, including the auburn-haired woman.
Three more stops until his office. At the next, several passengers poured on and he gave up his seat to a woman holding a baby. He moved near the door and stood facing inward, briefcase in one hand, Emmie’s gift in the other. Just go to the office. No need to mention the business card Byron had given him.
He fixed his gaze on the floor as the warning came over the loudspeaker.
“Mind the gap . . . Mind the gap . . . Mind the gap . . .” On the third and final announcement he pivoted on his foot and slipped through the doors. They whooshed shut behind him, and he heard the train pull away as he rushed toward the exit, not even bothering to fish out his wallet to touch the Oyster card as he passed through the gate, then rode the escalator up.
He was not paranoid. That woman had been staring at him. He went to that coffee shop all the time and had never seen her there. Nor on this train. Why today?
When he stepped out into the street, he started shaking, not from the cold, but the rock-solid belief that Byron would never have committed such a crime. He would never have killed his wife or son no matter how upset. And with that realization, all his paranoia returned, and he looked back, saw the woman emerging from the Underground, her silver-haired companion behind her.
He hurried around the corner, then ducked into a restaurant, the first open business he found. The hostess, a young brunette woman, greeted him as he walked in. “One for breakfast?”
“Yes. Can you point me to the washroom first?”
“To the left through the double doors.”
“Thank you.”
He walked quickly, trying not to bring attention to himself. The scent of bacon and roasted tomatoes filled the air as he passed th
e kitchen on the way to the restroom. Once inside, he closed and locked the door, then leaned against it while he tried to gather his thoughts, calm his breathing. Vince had warned him about keeping the book before he was killed in that car accident. But he had needed the money. He owed more than his house was worth and Bea was demanding child support that he couldn’t pay.
A pipe dream. A foolish, deadly pipe dream to think he could extort money, sell the book, and get the easy life. They’d killed Byron and his family, and they were now following him. Which meant one thing. They’d gotten to Byron through his family. Probably tried to get him to tell them where the book was. And Byron had given him up.
Emmie.
His breath caught.
What he wanted to do was hide in this stale bathroom and never come out, but all he could think of was his daughter and keeping her safe. Feeling his heart pounding in his chest, he set the gift bag and his briefcase on the ground, then turned to the mirror over the rusty sink, the faucet dripping away. The man who stared back at him was anything but brave, but he tried to see himself as Emmie might see him. She didn’t care that her father was slightly overweight or had a receding hairline. She believed he could do anything, and when she put her small hand in his, he believed it.
He had to make it right for her. Protect her. After a steadying breath, he took out his phone to make two calls. The first was to his ex-wife. Her voice mail picked up, and he said, “Bea, it’s Marty . . . Something’s come up. I—I’m in trouble. I think someone got to Byron and his family. They’re dead . . . Oh, God. Bea. I need you to take Emmie to your mother’s in Cornwall. Don’t tell anyone. Stay there until you hear from me or the police. I’m sorry . . . I—Can you please tell Emmie that Daddy loves her? That I’ll always love her?” He wanted to say so much more, but he disconnected, glad now that he was divorced, that fate had stepped in and taken Emmie from him, out of harm’s way.
Now, the only thing left was to make sure that these people who were after him did not follow him anywhere near Emmie’s home. He pulled out the business card Byron had left for this reporter, the one Trip had given him, knowing in his gut that Trip must want him to contact the man for a reason. A good reason. He called the number, and as the line to the Washington Recorder rang, he eyed the teddy bear, then brushed his finger against the brown velveteen. It was nearly as soft as little Emmie’s blond curls . . .
The Black List Page 11
