by J N Duncan
“Sure thing, Jack. You okay?”
She shook her head. “Not particularly. This case is really starting to get on my nerves.”
He gave her a grim smile and went to work. Jackie led Laurel out of the vault. No reason to be in there until they were done, and the feeling Laurel had was wigging her out, as evidenced by the heavy sigh she gave upon passing the threshold. Jackie touched Laurel lightly on the elbow as she stopped. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. This guy is just really bad, Jackie. It’s going to get worse, you know.”
Words of encouragement. “Then we better hurry up and catch this fucker.” She turned and looked at the vault door, going over the frame and edges of the large metal door. There was not a scratch or ding on it. “Hey, Morgan!” she shouted across the lobby at him. He had moved over by the main door, likely hoping to sneak out. Jackie pointed up at the video camera.
“It’s clean,” he replied. “Not a thing on it.”
“Security company?”
“On my to-do list,” he said with a humorless grin.
“I’ll track that down later, Jackie,” Laurel said.
“I want a report on what you got before you bail on me, Morgan.”
He nodded and went back to talking to one of his officers who had popped his head in through the door. Jackie looked around in thought, trying to think how someone could have gotten into the vault without causing any damage. “Someone had to have let him in.”
Laurel agreed. “Sure looks that way.”
“Or gave our perp the code.”
“That could be, or maybe they work here.”
“We’ll check them all out, but that is way too obvious for this.” Jackie stared at Laurel, noticing the little crinkle in her forehead had never gone away. She was still stressing. “What else?”
“Huh?”
“You have another theory. I can tell by that look, and it’s probably one of those shitty ghost theories that I’m going to hate.”
Laurel gave her a hesitant smile. “Probably.”
“Jack? Got something here,” Mike’s voice called out from the vault.
Inside the vault, Mike sat crouched on the balls of his feet next to the victim. In his hand he had a pair of large tweezers, which grasped a card-sized object.
“What is it?”
He held it up for her. “Looks like a tarot card to me.”
“Oh, really?” Suddenly interested, Laurel leaned over Jackie’s shoulder to look. Her gasp hissed in Jackie’s ear. “Wow. I think I know what that is.”
“Yeah? Mike, you get that bagged up for us? I think I’d like to show it to someone.”
“Sure. Let me dust it and log it in, and it’s all yours.”
A few minutes later, Jackie held the sealed card out to Laurel. “You okay to be touching this? In case it’s… evil or whatever? I don’t want you puking on my shoes.”
Laurel grabbed the card, turning it over in her hands. “I’m prepared for it this time, thank you very much.” She squinted, holding the card close to her face. “I think this is handpainted. If it’s an original, this thing is worth a lot of money. I have a printed version of this deck at home. They’re… There is something odd with this.”
“Odd like what?”
Laurel held the card squarely between her hands, the edges digging into her palms, and closed her eyes for a moment. “It’s got that thing’s presence all over it, but there is something else, something. ..” She sighed. “I don’t know. It’s really faint.”
They walked out a few minutes later, after forensics had finished and found nothing else out of the ordinary. Jackie had begun to wonder. “Did it feel like Mr. Anderson again?”
“Could be.”
“I think we need to go have a little heart-to-heart with Nick Anderson and company.”
“Good idea. I think we should see them again, too.”
Jackie took out her phone and called up Gamble. “Hey, Gamble. You back out at Anderson’s?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s out at the ranch here, Ma,” he said in a horrible Texas drawl. “You comin’ out?”
“Yeah, bonehead. We’ll be out in a bit.”
“Sweet. I want to see the inside of this place.”
There were details to go over at the scene, but Jackie felt positive there would be little to gain from it, and she was itching to talk to Nick. The crew could handle things, question the employees, and finish gathering what little evidence she knew there would be. This guy was squeaky clean and operating with methods they could not get their minds around. Worse, he was working fast, which meant there was no more time to waste. So, after delegating tasks, they were on the road to Nick’s.
They crested a hill and found Gamble’s car parked across from a sprawling ranch-style log house, and Jackie slid to a stop next to him. “Keep an eye on things out here, Gamble. I want to know if anything goes on while we’re in there.”
“Aw, come on. I want to see inside.”
She smiled and rolled the window back up, ignoring the bird he flipped her as she pulled across into Nick Anderson’s driveway. She stopped next to a slick-looking BMW motorcycle. A thick growth of oak and maple lined the edge of the garage and ran down the side of the house to the back. The grassy mound of the front yard sloped down around the opposite side and faded into a field of long grasses and wildflowers. Out beyond the field was another dense copse of trees. The house itself was one of those custom log-cabin deals and spread out in a long, angled line. Jackie guessed four to five thousand feet easy.
Laurel whistled. “I want to live here. This is awesome.”
“Come on,” Jackie said. “And quit drooling. Feds don’t drool.”
“You can honestly tell me you wouldn’t give just about anything to live out here in a place like this?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“You are such a liar.”
Jackie spread her arms. “What the hell would I do with a place like this? It would take all damn day to vacuum the stupid thing. Who wants to spend their weekend doing that?”
“Can’t you see yourself sitting on the back porch, sucking down lattes, watching the sun set?”
Jackie stopped at the front door, eyeing the rainbow of stained-glass windows lining either side. “I’ll bet you it’s a bachelor’s cesspool inside.”
“Five bucks says one look inside and you’d live out here in a second, minus the possible serial killer, of course.”
“Oh, of course.” Jackie rolled her eyes. “Make it a Starbucks with a cinnamon roll, and you’re on.”
“Done!” she said, far too cocky for her own good.
The door opened before Jackie could hit the doorbell, and Nick Anderson stood in the doorway, his eyes raised in mock surprise. “Hello, Agent Carpenter, Agent Rutledge.” He offered them a faint, welcoming smile and stepped back to let them inside. He wore faded blue jeans and a Northwestern University sweatshirt. His feet were covered in bright white socks. He watched them coolly with those same, unnaturally bright eyes.
Jackie paused for a moment. “You expecting us, Mr. Anderson?” The lack of nerves bothered her. Most people got nervous around federal agents regardless of their guilt or innocence. They tried too hard to be cool. Nick Anderson looked relaxed, unworried.
He gave her a little shrug. “After seeing this morning’s news, I figured there was a good chance.”
“We have a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind. As you expected, I’m sure,” she added and stepped past him into the foyer.
“Anything I can do to help.”
The foyer opened up to the second floor. A landing led to what appeared to be an office of some kind. Skylights let the sun pour through onto a slate floor. A large grandfather clock quietly chimed the quarter hour on one side. Beneath the landing, two large archways led into the main living space, and Jackie could see the wall of windows beyond, surrounding an enormous stone fireplace made of river rock. No fire blazed away in it now, but s
he could well imagine. Unfortunately, the place was immaculately clean.
Laurel nudged by her with a smile and stepped into the living room. Jackie followed. Starbucks was going to be on her after all.
Chapter 21
Laurel stood before a painting of an Old West town churned into a muddy swamp by a powerful storm. “You have a knack for painting, Mr. Anderson, and an apparent fondness for the Old West.”
He gave her a nod of thanks. “A fascinating part of our history, in my opinion. Would either of you care for coffee or tea?”
Laurel smiled. “Tea, thank you. Agent Rutledge prefers coffee.”
Jackie frowned. She was not in the mood to be taking anything except information from Nick Anderson today. Her thought was quickly lost, however, as her eyes roamed the expansive, light-filled living room, which opened on to the other side of the loft area. It was a very warm room, stained a rich, reddish brown in the trim and a similar tone in the solid, craftsman furnishings. There was a certain modern, Western flair to the decor in his home, surrounding you in earth tones and natural materials and accented with wood and brass. For owning a company worth millions, the wealth was very understated. The sunken area before the huge river-rock fireplace had a charm and coziness all its own. Jackie ignored the pang of jealousy. Who wouldn’t like to curl up in front of that fire?
“Do you like any flavors in your cappuccino, Agent Rutledge?” he called over to her. “I’m not partial to them myself, but I’ve a cupboard full of the stuff if you have a preference.”
Jackie glanced over at the kitchen. Nick was working before a restaurant-style espresso machine. “No. I really don’t need the coffee. I just need some questions answered.”
“Have a seat then. I’ll have these ready in a minute. Shel, did you want one, too?”
“Nope. I’m good, thanks.”
Jackie spun on her heel and found Shelby Fontaine standing in the far corner by the archway leading out to the foyer. The far side of the living room had a pool table, and she stood by it in black jeans, a black T-shirt with the Pink Panther emblazoned on the pocket, bare feet, and sunglasses. She had a bottle of beer in one hand and raised it toward Jackie with a smile.
“Good morning, agents.”
“A little bright in here for you, Ms. Fontaine?” Jackie failed to hide the sarcasm.
“No, just a little hungover,” she replied with a little laugh.
“Are you available for a few questions, Ms. Fontaine?” Laurel said.
The smile got a little bigger when she turned toward Laurel who sat now by the fireplace. “Anytime.” She slinked her way over to the U-shaped configuration of overstuffed couch cushions in front of the fireplace. A round glass table sat in the middle of them, a twelve-inch bronze statue of a cowboy rearing up on his horse in the center. Shelby flopped down across from Laurel like a big, lazy cat and put her bare feet with their bright red toenails up on the table.
There was something unnerving about the woman that Jackie could not put her finger on it. Maybe it was just Laurel’s “touch of death” vibe that put her on edge, but something was telling her that Shelby Fontaine was not the “diva poser Angelina wannabe” that she appeared to be. So why the front? They needed to get her alone.
Jackie reluctantly moved down to the seating area and stood next to Laurel, who gave her a faint “thank you” smile. Cordial cop just went against Jackie’s grain. She wanted to be able to pace around while she questioned Nick, point fingers, and look down on the suspect. It was a far better position to be in than this “over for coffee” setup in which she now found herself.
The sounds of frothing milk finished, and Nick walked over, carrying a tray with steaming mugs on it, and set it on the table next to the cowboy statuette. A smooth, white froth topped two of the bowl-sized cups, while a third had the string of a teabag dangling down the side. A small white teapot sat next to it. Jackie almost smirked. The cowboy was serving tea. How cute. It was a nice suck-up move. He seated himself on the empty couch, closer to her than to Shelby. What sort of odd relationship did these two have? The image of the old newspaper clipping popped into Jackie’s head then, the story of a pissed-off Shelby Fontaine decking one Nicholas Rembrandt on the courthouse steps.
Jackie picked up her coffee and took a sip. The black liquid beneath the deceptively docile-looking foam was pure venom. It was coffee concentrate, distilled smoky heaven. The bastard.
“Is it too strong for you, Agent Rutledge?”
There was no hint of a smile there, but Jackie could sense it lurking in the background. “No. It’s fine.”
There was a quiet chortle from Shelby, who said nothing and sipped on her beer.
“So what can we answer for you today?” he asked. “I’m assuming you know where I’ve been the past twenty-four hours, given the constant surveillance we’ve been under.”
So this was how it was going to be. Smart-ass. Jackie took a deep breath, her gaze lifting upward to see the other side of the open, upstairs room. Nestled behind the rail was the unmistakable mass of a piano. He played piano, too? What else could this man do?
“Are you familiar with the Woodbridge Federal Credit Union?”
Nick nodded. “I do my banking there.”
That figured. “Does the name Adam Moreland ring any bells?”
“Can I assume that’s the boy who got killed?”
There was the slightest hint of something there in his voice. Sadness perhaps? Remorse? “Yes, Mr. Anderson. He was drained of blood just like the other boy, laid out on a pile of pennies in the bank vault.”
He simply nodded at her, his mouth drawing just a bit tauter. It was a momentary expression, quickly covered by a drink from his coffee mug. Shelby sat up, suddenly interested in what Jackie had to say. A tap from Laurel had Jackie turning to find the tarot card in the little baggie. Jackie kept her face expressionless and took the evidence from Laurel’s hand.
“We did find this interesting piece of evidence, Mr. Anderson.”
He leaned forward to look. “Oh? What is it?”
The tone of his voice held genuine curiosity now, and Jackie wondered why that might be. She handed the baggie to him, her gaze zeroing in on his face, watching for any changes in expression. He plucked it from her fingers, holding it up and turning it around to examine both sides. Shelby leaned forward to see, and unlike Nick’s steady, nonplussed stare, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arched high in surprise over the top of her sunglasses.
“Interesting,” he said. “It’s a tarot card.”
“Yes. A very old, handpainted tarot card. Forensics still needs to get us an accurate date, but, assuming it’s not a fake, we’re guessing it’s roughly a hundred and forty years old.” It was pure conjecture, but Jackie wanted to play the hunch anyway. Still, he was frustratingly blank. The man must have been made of stone.
Shelby, on the other hand, did not run so cold. Her mouth had quirked into a half smile. “Roughly? Are you an expert on antique tarot cards, Agent Rutledge?”
“I am,” Laurel chimed in. “I have a set similar to this at home. I collect them, and this style dates from Civil War times, more or less. It’s a valuable collector’s item.”
“I see,” Shelby said. She turned toward Nick for an instant, and the smile looked decidedly smug before she took another drink from the bottle of beer.
Nick’s look of stone disappeared for a second, transforming into a flash of annoyance. Jackie caught the exchange out of the corner of her eye, and that was all she needed.
“Is it familiar to you, Mr. Anderson?”
He smiled and handed it back to her. “Please. Call me Nick.”
“Fine, Nick.” Her voice took on a harder edge. “Do you recognize the tarot card?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“So you don’t know anything at all about this specific hundred-and-forty-year-old tarot card?”
He stared at her then, holding her gaze, with those bizarrely bright, hazel-brown eyes. Jackie force
d herself to hold it, pushing down the impulse to look away from the penetrating look. It was a Laurel look, one of those peering-into-your-soul sorts of looks that made your stomach squirm up into knots. Finally, he blinked away the contact.
“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
Bullshit. Bull… fucking… shit. “I think you’re lying to me, Nick.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You’re lying-not telling me the truth, hiding something. I’ll bet you know exactly what this is,” she said, waving the card at him, “or know what it means in relation to this murder investigation.” She took a long drink from her coffee and set it down on the table before getting to her feet. She needed to pace. “I have a little hunch, Nick.”
“Okay.” The cool facade had a trace of hesitancy in it.
“I think you probably know something about that penny we found on the first victim. Hell, maybe it’s even yours, but, oddly, it’s missing from evidence now. I don’t suppose if we got a search warrant that we’d find that penny of yours tucked away in a drawer here somewhere?”
Shelby leaned back on her couch, one arm behind her head while she sipped on the beer. There was a pleased grin on that gleaming, red mouth. Jackie wondered for a moment why she would be pleased by this turn of events. Did she want Nick to get nailed, perhaps?
“I told you, Agent Rutledge, I’m not-”
She waved him off. “Something is very wrong with this case. My bullshit meter is redlining, and it just about shorts out pointed at you, Nick.” Jackie stepped by Laurel and walked around behind the couches, circling behind Nick. She wanted to push his defenses. “And, Ms. Fontaine, why do you find this so amusing?”
She grinned. “I’m just have fun watching Nick squirm. Not many women can do that to him.”
Jackie stopped in her tracks. She didn’t appreciate the tone. “I’m only after the truth here, Ms. Fontaine. Squirming is not the issue. I have two dead boys with the blood drained out of them, and if for some reason you all have information pertaining to my investigation, I’d suggest you share, because, trust me, I’m this close to hauling you both in for obstruction.” Laurel gave her one of those “calm down” looks, but Jackie ignored it. A pleasant conversation was not what was needed for this. She needed to dig under that thick skin of his, and being nice had gotten them nowhere.
