by Andrea Stein
So, what truth could someone like Peter Flynn offer? What could he know that no one else did? But she could not get it out of her head. If Flynn knew anything, anything at all that might have made it better – that her grandfather was not a crook, that there was nothing Caitlyn could have done to save him – well, what would she pay for that kind of absolution? Because money was all she had left to offer.
Caitlyn turned into her computer and typed “Peter Flynn” into the search box. First was the website, then a link to an article in some obscure publication that had actually quoted Flynn. Next was something from Flynn’s shoe manufacturer and then, finally, something she hadn’t been expecting.
It was a news article, from a few days ago, just after her last conversation with him. The name Peter Flynn was highlighted, and Caitlyn clicked through to the website of a paper from Westchester County.
Her eyes scanned the article, and she caught her breath. A Peter Flynn had been killed in an attempted mugging on his way home from Manhattan. The story was brief, with few facts, saying only that an early morning commuter had found Flynn’s body near the train station. It appeared that he had been killed the night before. There were no witnesses, and the family was refusing to comment. He was survived by his wife, Helen, and son, Peter Jr.
Caitlyn leaned back in the chair, her eyes not on the computer screen, but on the painting she had taken from the house and moved to her office, an abstract landscape with a farmhouse leading down to a small inlet. She focused on it, letting her mind sort through what she had just learned.
It didn’t have to be the same man, for instance; Flynn could be a common name. And it could be a coincidence that this Flynn had died only a few days after she had spoken to him, and that the Flynn she wanted to speak with had not returned her phone calls.
She picked up the phone and dialed the phone number from Peter Flynn’s website.
“Helen Flynn?”
There was silence, and then in a voice barely above a whisper, a woman answered, “Yes, who is this?”
“My name is Caitlyn Montgomery. I’m so sorry for your loss, but your husband had some information for me.”
There was a strange, strangled sort of cry, and Caitlyn felt her own stomach lurch. The phone went dead in her hand, and she replaced the receiver slowly, her free hand drumming out a tattoo on the edge of her desk. She stared at it and debated what to do. It was true, then. It appeared that Peter Flynn was dead and that, for some reason she didn’t yet understand, the family wanted to keep it very quiet.
She did not have long to think it over. Her phone rang, and she picked it up.
“Caitlyn Montgomery?” It was a man’s voice, youngish and smooth and with none of the hoarseness she had grown to associate with his father.
“Peter Flynn Jr.?”
“Yes.”
“Your father had some information for me.” It wasn’t entirely true, but she was hoping that the son didn’t know that.
“He’s dead.” Peter Flynn Jr. said.
“I know. I’m so sorry,” Caitlyn said, and she was, even though she hadn’t liked the man.
“What do you want?” the voice was guarded.
“I’m not sure, really. Your father was asking me for some information about the company I work for, and he said he knew something about my grandfather. He died, too,” Caitlyn rushed on.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Caitlyn Montgomery. I work at the Randall Group.”
There was a pause, and then a whispered conversation, one that Caitlyn couldn’t pick out the words for.
“We should talk. But not on the phone.”
“Okay,” Caitlyn agreed and took down their address.
<<>>
Heather looked up as she came out of her office, surprise on her face as she saw Caitlyn tying the belt of her overcoat tightly around her.
“Are you going out?” There was a staff meeting at four.
“Yes. I have to go meet with a potential client. Westchester,” Caitlyn said. When Heather still looked puzzled, she added, with a raise of her eyebrows and a spread of her hands, “A big client. Tell Sam I won’t be back until much later.”
Heather nodded and looked as if she were about to say something more, but Caitlyn was already gone, the skirts of her camel-colored coat swirling, long black hair streaming out behind her.
Was there any chance, Caitlyn wondered, that she would be able to find out what she wanted to know? The man who had promised her the truth was dead. Would the why behind her grandfather’s death always stay just out of reach?
Chapter 40
She went out into the parking lot, her key in one hand. Looking around, she frowned. Sam’s Lexus was gone, not in its reserved spot. Instead, there was a blue SUV with tinted windows. Caitlyn hoped the interloper would still be there when Sam returned. Nothing upset him more than someone stealing his parking space.
It was close to the shortest day of the year. The sky was heavy with gray clouds hanging low, like waterlogged fabric just waiting to give way. Intermittently, a splash of rain would hit her windshield, and she could feel the road under her tires, slick and treacherous. In sharp contrast, as dusk came on, the Christmas decorations glowed and winked from every lamp post and window as she made her way through Queensbay, up the hill and out to the highway.
Caitlyn looked in her rearview mirror. There were cars on the road, soccer moms in their minivans and SUVs, ferrying children from one place to the other. Their headlights overpowered the low-slung Mercedes, and the spray from their tires kept her windshield wipers going at maximum force.
If there was no traffic, if the weather was better, if she found where she was going, she could easily be at Flynn’s house in about an hour. At this rate, as the drivers slowed because of wet conditions, it would take her closer to two, perhaps two and a half. She focused, trying to drive as fast as she could without breaking the law or endangering anyone else. The Mercedes hummed along, the sound of her tires against the pavement a reminder that they should be replaced.
Her first thought was that the blogging business must pay much better than she imagined. The Flynn house was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a newish development set among the wooded landscape of Westchester County. After sitting in traffic just outside of town, she had made it without incident to the town of Paulet. Then she needed to check her phone for directions. A left, a right, another left, winding her way through the dark and twisted lanes until she saw the low brick wall and the brass letters that announced the name of the development Peter Flynn Jr. had given her. Lafayette Heights. She turned in, and the street lamps lit up a collection of new homes, in different styles, all with the generous use of fieldstone. Everything gleamed wetly, and she could see there were several homes where the owners must have already decamped for their holidays, because their windows stared out at her darkly.
Caitlyn made a right onto Pinewood Court and found number four. It was the biggest of them all, she thought as she pulled the car up to the Belgium block curb, bumping it gently. There were no decorations in the windows of this house, but there was light. Watching for a minute, she saw a figure move through the rooms, and she followed the shadowed progress against the drapes until it disappeared.
Gathering her portfolio and checking herself in the mirror one last time, she got out of the car and shivered and looked around. A car crept by the entrance to the court, slowed and kept going. The temperature had dropped quite a bit, and as she walked, she crunched ice crystals underfoot. A neat brick path led the way to the front door. As she approached, a light, triggered by her motion, flashed, and she blinked.
Like many of the others, the house was gray fieldstone on the lower half, topped with cream colored clapboards and blue trim. The door was up a few brick steps and under a smallish overhang, squarely in the center of the house. Windows on either side rose up two stories to a pitched roof. She raised the brass knocker and le
t it fall two times, straining, waiting to hear the sound of movement in the house. Behind her, raindrops, just beginning to freeze, hit the road and the brick pathway, the sound like sharp, stinging needles.
The door opened, and a man, not more than thirty-five, round-faced and pale, stood there. She introduced herself.
“Pete Flynn,” he said. He did not bother to shake her hand, so she let it drop to her side and followed him into the foyer. Stairs swept up in a curve to meet the second floor landing. A grandfather clock, newer than the house, stood in one corner of the foyer, next to a small cherry wood table topped by a marble slab. A large vase, filled with expensive flowers, sat atop it.
He led her into the living room just off the foyer, and from a quick glance around, Caitlyn ascertained Flynn’s taste in furniture ran to the conventional. The pieces were reproductions of antiques, good ones, and had cost quite a bit on their own. But the whole place, with the expensive silk upholstery and great vases of flowers, had the look of being very arranged, as if someone had been copying rooms, down to the most mundane details, from magazines.
A woman sat there, probably in her early sixties, with thick gray hair in face-framing curves, dressed in a navy suit that showed off slightly plump legs. She looked up as Caitlyn and Pete came in but said nothing. Pete took a chair, and Caitlyn sat down gingerly in a small settee across from the woman.
“This is my mother, Helen Flynn.”
Caitlyn cleared her throat, offered her condolences, and then plunged right in.
“I wanted to talk to your father about some information he had that was of value to me.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. My dad was a writer.”
Caitlyn looked at him. “He told me he was a journalist, and he had some information about one of his stories, one of his old stories, that might be of interest to me.”
“And why was that?” Helen Flynn looked at her sharply.
“Because I’m Lucas Montgomery’s granddaughter. Does the name ring a bell?”
Another look passed between Pete and his mother, and in the silence, Caitlyn could hear the ticking of the mantle clock, one beat out-of-step with the grandfather clock in the hall.
“My father was killed suddenly last week. He has a small office in the city. He was doing some research, meeting with some people and took the train home. He was working late, not unusual, and it wasn’t until early in the morning that my mother realized he hadn’t come home,” Pete said.
Caitlyn nodded and wondered if the Flynns had separate bedrooms, or if they had been in the habit of ignoring each other’s comings and goings.
“He appears to have been the victim of a robbery, a mugging that went wrong.”
“Why do you say ‘appears’?” Caitlyn asked.
“My husband was not a fool. If someone wanted his wallet, he would have handed it over. Nothing he had was of great value. No fancy watch or jewelry. He didn’t carry that much cash, preferring to use credit cards,” Helen said, her voice firm.
“The police are certain about this?” Caitlyn asked.
“Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything else to explain it. His wallet was gone.”
“I don’t suppose anyone saw anything?”
Pete shook his head. “You saw the town. After nine, it pretty much closes up.”
“And no one heard anything, not even the shot?”
Pete shook his head again.
“I’m sorry,” Caitlyn finally said, and she meant it. She knew well the feelings of grief and confusion a sudden death could bring. “So do you think it has anything to do with something he was working on?”
“He was working on his book,” Helen said matter-of-factly.
“What book?” Caitlyn asked.
“The one about your grandfather. The Curse of the Sound, he was going to call it. A bit of a departure, I told him. Your family history reads a bit more like a soap opera than the financial pages, but he was having a blast researching it.”
“Why a soap opera?” Caitlyn asked, her mouth going dry. They – she – had fought hard to keep things secret, and the thought that they might be exposed set her on edge.
“Well, let’s see… affairs, suicides, wayward daughters, financial cat and mouse…and that’s just the past. Now there are broken engagements, mysterious falls, self-made millionaires, plus unexplained profits.”
“What are you talking about?”
Helen laughed. “I was his editor and his first reader, my dear. My husband was a very good investigative reporter – too good. He bent the rules, and well, the media decided to stay away. But he was good at gathering information.”
“What kind of information?” Caitlyn leaned forward, almost ready to shake the old lady by the throat. She felt Pete shift, as if to protect his mother.
Helen looked at Caitlyn, her eyes shrewd. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?” Caitlyn was almost shouting, and Pete stood up, nervous.
Helen settled back on her seat. “He was right. You are ignorant.” “Ignorant of what?”
Chapter 41
Heather Flynn hadn’t told her anything more. She’d just left and told Caitlyn to get out. There hadn’t been much of a choice, especially not when it was two against one. As she pulled the car away from the curb, her wheels slid on the wet ground. It had stopped raining, or snowing, but the roads were covered with a thin layer of frost, and she needed to run the defroster before the paper-thin sheet of ice broke up into webbed bits that were swept away by her windshield wipers.
It would take her awhile to get home, but she could not wait. She would have to see Adriana tonight. There was enough information in her pocket to allow her to make a guess in the right direction about what Peter Flynn thought she could tell him. The entire story hadn’t died with him; that much she was willing to bet. Adriana Biddle was the last surviving member of a quartet that had very much wanted to keep things quiet, but Flynn hadn’t thought about her.
As she drove out of the Lafayette Heights development and through the sleepy town of Paulet, she observed, as Pete had mentioned, that though the hour was not late, the streets were dark and deserted. No one would have seen anything, and she thought of Helen’s words about Maxwell: “Peter thought he was killed for a reason.”
She hit the highway, the car fishtailing as she took the turn too fast. Holding the car steady and controlling the skid, she glanced in the mirror. Headlights, high beams, reached into her car and filled it with light. She honked angrily, and the car fell back, though still with the brights on. It was one of those sports utility vehicles, and the lights shone directly into her car.
Cautious, she set a slow pace, but the other car seemed in no hurry to pass her, and they stayed that way, while other cars with less careful drivers whizzed by them, everyone mere inches and seconds from losing control. Caitlyn felt the tenseness in her shoulders as she hunched forward and concentrated.
By the time she reached Queensbay, the rain was completely stopped, and the roads seemed better. Her high-beam friend had dropped off somewhere behind her, and she had even turned on the radio for a little music.
Adriana’s lights were still on when Caitlyn pulled up to her house.
Chapter 42
Noah walked up the hotel corridor slowly. He had agreed to this meeting, but now he wished he hadn’t. Still, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he felt compelled to find out what the man had to say.
He knocked on the door, and it swung open. Noah found himself face-to-face with Michael St. John.
“Noah Randall?”
Noah nodded and followed Michael’s invitation into the suite. The door swung quietly shut behind him, a small breeze of air raising the hair that was growing over his collar.
“May I take your coat?”
Noah handed his overcoat and watched as
Michael placed it on a hanger.
“Tea, coffee, a drink?”
They moved over to the living area of the suite, where full-length windows commanded a majestic view of downtown Manhattan.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Noah said. Michael was drinking scotch and soda, and he poured another one and handed it to Noah.
There was a small silence between them, while Noah sipped his drink and studied Caitlyn’s ex-fiancé.
Michael St. John was perfect. He looked, spoke and walked like an advertisement. His blonde hair was straight and smoothed back. His shirt was of thick cotton and was perfectly tucked into his wool trousers. Expensive shoes, buffed to a high shine, were on his feet. When he smiled, he showed a whole mouthful of brilliant white teeth. Even now, in his hotel room, he wore a jacket and a tie.
“I don’t know what Caitlyn’s told you about me.”
“Not much,” Noah said roughly and then told himself to cool it. There was something about this man.
“No, probably not. Things ended badly. I suppose you’ve heard?”
Noah shrugged, not willing to commit.
“Well, I can’t say it’s an easy story to tell. I’m here as a courtesy, really.”
“A courtesy?” Noah said carefully.
“As such. I understand that your father hired Caitlyn after she came home.”
Noah nodded.
“Truthfully, I’m a little surprised.”
“Why?”
