by Amanda Quick
There were many answers but one in particular stood out because it sparked curiosity, wonder, and several nods of agreement around the table.
By the time she finished breakfast she had made her decision. She would do what countless others had done when they were forced to build new lives. She would head for that mythical land out west where a vast blue ocean sparkled beneath a cloudless sky, and orange trees grew in people’s backyards. A land where glamorous people created magic on the silver screen and got involved in titillating scandals in their spare time. A land where everyone was too busy inventing the future to care that she had no past.
She got back behind the wheel and started driving west.
Somewhere along the line she came up with a new name for herself: Irene Glasson. It had a Hollywood ring to it, she thought.
She found the highway to her future right where the other travelers had said it would be—in downtown Chicago.
Route 66 would take her all the way to California.
Chapter 2
“You failed.” Graham Enright folded his hands on top of the desk. “In addition to terminating Spencer, you were supposed to acquire the notebook.”
Julian was standing in front of the art deco portrait on the wall, examining it with the intent expression of a connoisseur. He could have passed for one if necessary. Not only had he received an excellent education that included an appreciation of the fine arts, but he was a born actor.
From his artfully cut blond hair to his fashionable suit with its perfectly knotted tie and elegant pocket square, he looked as if he played polo in his spare time. The accent and manners were pure East Coast Old Money, and it wasn’t an act. Julian’s ancestors had not actually arrived on the Mayflower, but they had been on board a yacht that docked soon thereafter.
“I assumed the notebook would be in Spencer’s safe,” Julian said. He looked and sounded bored by the conversation. “It was the logical place to look so I cracked it. Took me several minutes, by the way. When I realized the damned notebook wasn’t inside, I searched the study and Spencer’s bedroom. It would have been impossible to go through the entire house. The old mansion is huge.”
“Spencer probably had a second safe, maybe one hidden in the floor.”
Julian inhaled deeply on his cigarette. The brand was French. Very expensive. Very exclusive.
“What did you expect me to do?” he said. He did not take his eyes off the portrait. “Pry up every floorboard in search of a hidden safe? Sorry, I’m not a carpenter. I don’t do household remodeling work.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten rid of Spencer until you had that notebook in your hands.”
“Spencer kept a gun in her bureau drawer. At some point she became suspicious. She went for the weapon. I had no choice. It’s not my fault I couldn’t find the damned notebook.”
“The client is not going to be pleased.”
“That’s your problem, not mine. You’re management. I’m just a field agent, remember? True, I’m your only field agent but, nevertheless, I’m just hired help.”
Graham ignored the barb. “Enright and Enright has a contract to recover the notebook and get rid of anyone who might have had access to it. I expect you to complete the assignment.”
Julian turned around. “I’ll be happy to make further inquiries but I want something in return.”
Graham controlled his temper with an effort. He was not in a position to bargain. The reputation of Enright & Enright was on the line.
“What do you want?” Graham asked.
“A promotion to vice president of the firm.”
Graham pretended to give that some intense thought. Then he nodded curtly.
“Very well,” he said. “But I will expect results and I will expect them soon.”
Julian’s sensual mouth curved faintly. His gem green eyes glinted with amusement. “You really are nervous about this contract, aren’t you?”
“I want it completed satisfactorily, yes. The client is a new one with very deep pockets and wide-ranging interests. If we are successful, there is the potential for a great deal of future business.”
“You seem particularly keen to land this particular client. Why is it so important?”
“It represents a golden opportunity for the firm to expand its business into the international sphere.”
That got Julian’s attention, just as Graham had known it would.
“This client has international interests?” Julian asked.
Graham allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “It does, indeed.”
“What sort of interests are we talking about?”
“A wide variety. You read the newspapers. The modern world is an unstable place.”
Julian waved that aside. “That’s hardly a new development. The world has always been an unstable place. But until now Enright and Enright has confined its activities to the United States.”
Graham pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He went to stand at the window. He had a spectacular view of New York City, but in his mind’s eye he saw Europe, the Middle East, Russia, and beyond—all the way to the Far East. He intended to position the firm to take advantage of the opportunities that would abound in the future. It would be his legacy, he thought, the legacy that he would leave to his son and heir, who would, in turn, provide future generations of Enrights.
Not that he planned to leave that legacy to his son anytime soon. Graham was still in his prime, healthy and fit. He came from a long-lived line. Unfortunately, the men of the Enright line were not very prolific. After two wives—both deceased—he had managed to sire only one heir.
The law firm of Enright & Enright had been founded by his father, Neville Enright, amid the chaos following the Civil War. Neville had understood that the desires for money and power and revenge were forms of lust and, therefore, immutable aspects of human nature. Firms that catered to those elemental lusts would always prosper, regardless of stock market crashes and wars.
On the surface, Enright & Enright was a respected law firm that specialized in estate planning for an exclusive, wealthy clientele. But in addition, it provided very discreet services to those willing to resort to any means to achieve their objectives so long as they could keep their own hands clean. For a hefty fee, Enright & Enright was willing to do the dirty work for its clients.
In the aftermath of the War to End All Wars it had become clear to Graham that not only would there be more wars in the future, but there would also be an unlimited demand for the services that Enright & Enright provided.
It had also become obvious that the rapid advances in modern technology—faster modes of transportation and communications as well as more efficient weaponry—would open up new markets and new opportunities.
“The times are changing,” he said. “The firm must change with them. To do so we must cultivate clients such as the one that has commissioned us to retrieve the notebook.”
“A client with international interests,” Julian repeated softly. “Very interesting.”
He no longer sounded bored. There was something new in his voice. Anticipation. Graham was pleased and more than a little relieved. Satisfied, he turned around.
“The only way to secure this client is to find the notebook and get rid of anyone who might be aware of its value,” he said. “You will, of course, have the full resources of the firm at your disposal.”
Julian headed toward the door. “I’ll get started immediately.”
“One moment, if you don’t mind.”
Julian paused, his hand on the doorknob. “What is it?”
“Can I assume you have some idea of where to start looking?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” Julian said. “Spencer employed only three people. One of them has gone missing.”
Graham tensed. “Which one?”
“The priva
te secretary, Anna Harris. An orphan with no family and, given her career, very little money, unless she stole some from Spencer. She is the only member of the staff who disappeared, so it seems likely that she took the notebook.”
“I see.”
“The thing is, Anna Harris is not a professional like Spencer. She won’t know how to go about making a deal for an item as dangerous as the notebook without revealing herself to someone who is watching for it to appear on the underground market.”
“Someone like you.”
“Thanks to the firm’s connections I can keep an eye on that market. Don’t worry, Anna Harris and the notebook will show up sooner or later, and when they do, I’ll deal with both issues.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
Julian smiled his fallen-angel smile. “Because I wanted to know just how important this contract was to you.”
“I see. What makes you think that this Anna Harris knows the value of the notebook?”
“I’m sure of it, because she fled without helping herself to the necklace that was in the safe. She must have seen it. Why would a poor secretary leave such a valuable item behind unless she thought she had something of even greater value to sell?”
“Good point,” Graham said. “But I must say, I’m surprised that Spencer confided the truth about the notebook to her secretary.”
Julian’s brows rose. “Are you really? We both know that, sooner or later, private secretaries discover a great deal about their employers’ confidential business.”
Graham grunted. “Very true.”
It was unfortunate that the very qualities that made for a skilled secretary—intelligence, organizational talents, and the ability to anticipate her employer’s needs before he was even aware of them—were the same qualities that eventually caused problems.
He was always careful to hire experienced single women who lacked family and social connections. His current secretary was a fine example. Raina Kirk was in her thirties and alone in the world. There was no man in her life and no close relations. When it came time to let her go, there would be no problems.
“Don’t worry,” Julian said. “Anna Harris is just a secretary who made off with her employer’s property. Her first objective will be to try to sell the notebook. But it will be difficult for her to find a buyer for such an exotic item. Once she starts putting out feelers, she’ll give herself away very quickly.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. One more thing.”
Julian had been about to open the door. He sighed rather theatrically and turned back to face Graham.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Was it absolutely essential to make such a mess of the Spencer job? The murder is making headlines because the police believe that whoever killed the victim is a homicidal maniac.”
“Which distracts them from the true reason for the kill,” Julian said with exaggerated patience. “That was the point. They are now looking for a madman—or, possibly, a madwoman. They won’t make the connection to the notebook.”
He let himself out into the reception area. Graham saw him give Raina a warm, seductive smile just before he closed the door.
Graham sat down at his desk. Julian’s explanation for the bloody death was reasonable, but he could have taken a less spectacular approach. A motor vehicle accident or a suicide might have generated headlines—Helen Spencer moved in society—but neither would have involved the police.
He realized that what concerned him was Julian’s penchant for the sensational. He clearly enjoyed the thrill of the kill. Graham understood. We’re only young once, he reminded himself. Nevertheless, it was time that Julian matured and learned to control his impulsive nature.
Graham contemplated the portrait of himself that hung on the wall. The artist, Tamara de Lempicka, had used her talent to give him an aura of mystery and glamour. He appeared both intensely masculine and darkly sensual. The light turned his blond hair to gold. His green eyes glowed like jewels. Lempicka had called him Lucifer during the sittings and tried to seduce him. Her illicit liaisons were the stuff of legend. He smiled at the memory.
Better to reign in hell, he thought, especially when one commanded such a profitable version of Hades.
He was untroubled by thoughts of heaven and hell because he was not a religious man. He did not consider himself a vain man, either, but he had to admit that he was quietly pleased with the portrait. He was some thirty years older than Julian, but the similarity between the two of them was unmistakable. Anyone who saw Julian standing next to the Lempicka portrait would recognize the truth immediately.
Like father, like son.
Chapter 3
When Chicago was several miles behind her, Irene pulled off Route 66 to spend yet another night at yet another anonymous autocamp.
After a dinner of stew and homemade biscuits, she retired to her cabin and took the notebook out of the handbag. She had glanced at it briefly the night she fled the mansion, but she had been too focused on getting away from New York to take a closer look.
She sat on the edge of the cot and examined it by the light of the kerosene lantern. There was a name on the first page. It had been written in a tight, precise hand. Dr. Thomas G. Atherton. Below the name was a phone number. The rest of the pages appeared to be covered in some sort of code, all of it in the same handwriting.
She puzzled over the strange numbers and symbols for a time before it dawned on her that she was looking at scientific notations. It struck her that she was in possession of the personal notebook of a mathematician or a chemist. But that made no sense. Helen Spencer had never displayed any interest in either subject.
At dawn Irene awoke from a restless sleep with a sense of resolve. She was running. She needed to know more about what she was running from.
After a breakfast of eggs and toast, she used the autocamp phone booth to call the number on the first page of the notebook. The operator requested several coins.
“Where is this number located?” Irene asked, chucking money into the slot.
“New Jersey,” the operator said.
A moment later a polished female voice answered.
“Saltwood Laboratory. How may I direct your call?”
Irene took a deep breath. “Dr. Atherton, please.”
There was a short, brittle pause on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry but Dr. Atherton is no longer with us.”
“Do you mean he is no longer employed there?”
“Unfortunately, Dr. Atherton is deceased. Would you care to speak to someone else in his department?”
“No. What happened to Dr. Atherton?”
There was another short pause on the other end of the line before the receptionist spoke.
“I’m sorry, who did you say was calling?”
“Looks like I’ve got the wrong Atherton,” Irene said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
She hung up the phone and got back on the road. Two people connected to the notebook were dead. That did not bode well for her future. She would have to do a very good job of disappearing.
Chapter 4
Burning Cove, California
Four months later . . .
Irene stopped at the edge of the long lap pool and looked down at the body sprawled gracefully on the bottom. It was fifteen minutes past midnight. The lights had been dimmed in the grand spa chamber, but in the low glow of a nearby wall sconce, it was possible to make out the dead woman’s hair floating around her pretty face in a nightmarish imitation of a wedding veil.
Irene turned away from the pool, intending to run to the entrance of the spa to summon help. Somewhere in the shadows, shoe leather scraped on tiles. She knew then that she was not alone with the dead woman. There was a faint click and the wall sconces went dark.
The vast spa chamber was abruptly plunged into
dense shadows. The only light now was the ghostly glow from the moon. It illuminated the section of the spa where Irene stood. She might as well have been pinned in a spotlight.
Her pulse pounded and she was suddenly fighting to breathe. The nearest exit was the row of French doors behind her. But they were on the opposite side of the long lap pool. The side door that she had used to enter the spa was even farther away.
She concluded that her best option was to sound as if she was in command of herself and the situation.
“There’s been an accident,” she said, raising her voice in what she hoped was a firm, authoritative manner. “A woman fell into the water. We’ve got to get her out. There might still be time to revive her.”
That was highly unlikely. The woman at the bottom of the pool looked very, very dead.
There was no response. No one moved in the shadows.
Somewhere in the darkness water dripped, the faint sound echoing eerily. The humid atmosphere was rapidly becoming oppressive.
There were two possible reasons why the other person on the scene might not come forward, Irene thought. The first was fear of scandal. The Burning Cove Hotel was one of the most exclusive on the West Coast. Located almost a hundred miles north of Los Angeles, it offered a guarantee of privacy and discretion to those who could afford it. If the rumors were true, it had sheltered a list of guests that ranged from powerful figures of the criminal underworld to Hollywood stars and European royalty. Times might be hard elsewhere in the country, but you’d never know it from the luxury and opulence of the Burning Cove Hotel.
The stars and aspiring stars came to the hotel to escape the prying eyes of the always hungry reporters of the Los Angeles newspapers and the Hollywood gossip columnists. So, yes, it was possible that the watcher in the shadows feared being discovered in the vicinity of a woman who had just drowned. That kind of scandal could certainly taint a budding film career.
