Extreme Exposure (18 page)

“How are you doing?” he said.

“These notes are starting to get easier to read. She writes in a kind of shorthand.”

“I noticed that this morning,” he said. “I took a look while you were still sleeping. She seems to have an aversion to vowels.”

“Maybe she was worried about somebody getting their hands on them.”

He gestured to the bag. “There are clothes in there for you.”

She smiled, reached into the bag, and grabbed her clothes, disappeared into the bathroom to change. He wanted to stop her, kiss her, but she was too quick.

Rubbing his temples, he tried to think. His father’s illness was way worse than he’d let on to Emily. Surgery sounded like a very real possibility. If it went ahead, he had to go home. But how the hell was he going to keep her safe in the meantime?

After she was done in the bathroom, he shaved and changed. When he came out, Emily looked up. “On July 12, that’s, um, less than two weeks before she was murdered, Amber said she was worried about the lawyer representing her in the insurance case. She said she didn’t trust him.”

He sat down. “Does she say why?” When Emily shook her head, he said, “I wonder what that was all about. What would you do if you didn’t trust your lawyer?”

She thought about it. “Go the law society? The police?”

A call came in on Matt’s cell phone. He listened, took notes, and when he was done, she looked at him expectantly.

“That was the reporter in Riverton. There was a driving under the influence incident involving Celia. He talked to a cop friend.” He referred to his notes. “It happened on June 11, a Friday evening. There was a call from dispatch about a car weaving all the road, heading north on Highway 11.”

Emily said, “That’s the main road going north-south outside of town.”

He looked back at his notes. “Anyway, the cop found the car still running and pulled her over. She refused to take a sobriety test, but he smelled alcohol on her and suspected she was drunk. But she was never charged.”

“Did the cop follow it up?”

“Yeah, and he was told to shut up. He didn’t push it.”

She furrowed her brows. “I still don’t understand how this could relate to Amber’s murder.” She stood up suddenly. “I wonder who Celia’s lawyer was. You think it could be this Ackerman character?”

“Good question. We should find out.” He checked his watch. “I have to go see the police. I’d better call a cab. I shouldn’t be driving with this cast.”

“I’ll stay here. I’m on a roll with these notes. If I keep at it, I should be done in an hour. Don’t worry, I’ll put the chain on the door.”

“Keep that phone on. I’ll call you and let you know how I’m doing.”

After a nod, she dipped her head back to the notes.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

F
or the first time since Amber had been murdered, Emily had the feeling that identifying the killer was within reach. It all seemed to come back to Amber’s lawyer, Joel Ackerman. The lawyer had done something questionable. Amber had talked to Jason about it, but he had been too scared to tell her and Matt what it was.

Matt’s question came back to mind: What would she do if there was a problem? She hadn’t thought of it at the time, but she would go to MacDonald, of course. Obviously, Amber hadn’t, because the judge would have told her if she had. But maybe the judge could find out if Amber had approached the judge in her case.

She had to talk to Harold. Standing up, she stretched. She could call her mother and ask for Harold’s phone number, but her mother might object. She decided to walk to the courthouse, which was about ten minutes away. She wanted to get out of this room, anyway. Grabbing the cell phone and her notes, she took the Do Not Disturb sign off the door and left.

Outside, the day was warming up. It was too early for lunch, so the downtown sidewalks were mostly empty, except for a handful of shoppers who stopped to gaze inside boutique windows or inspect outdoor sales racks.

The courthouse was an imposing stone building, built more than a century earlier in a neoclassical style, with a wide Greek portico and four columns spaced evenly along the front. After passing through a security scanner, she approached the reception desk, explained who she was, and asked if Judge Harold MacDonald was available. Told to wait, she sat on a bench and called Matt on his cell phone. There was no answer and she wasn’t given the option of leaving a message. No surprise there, considering the police interview was likely just beginning.

Five minutes later, the judge came down, escorted her up the balustrade steps to his chambers, a large room with dark wainscoting and one window that overlooked a side street. Taking off his robe, he hung it on a hook behind the oak door and gestured to a chair.

“It’s lovely to see you. Sit down. Sit down. I just wrapped up a preliminary hearing, so I’m finished for the day. Did you come about the house?”

“The house?”

“You said you wanted a tour of the house.” He sat down, facing her across a large metal desk.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

He seemed taken aback, so she said, “But I’d love to have a tour. It’s just that right now I need your advice.” She took a minute to explain and showed him Amber’s notes.

He looked at the notes, brows furrowed. “She didn’t call me, and I certainly would have told you if she had. Who’s the judge in the case?’

Emily found a court document. “William Houston.”

“I know Bill. I could ask him whether Amber approached him. He’s not in here today, but I could call him.”

“Would you?”

“Why don’t you come out to the house? We could have some lunch, I can give Bill a call, and we can go through these notes. Maybe something will jump out at me.”

She hesitated, knowing Matt would wonder where she was. But she could call him to explain.

The judge stroked his moustache. “Something’s been bugging me about all this.”

She sat forward. “What do you mean?”

“Something Celia was telling your mother the other day at the party.”

Her stomach knotted. “You mean Celia knew something about Amber’s death?”

He gave his head a quick shake. “Oh, no, I certainly don’t think she had anything to do with what happened to Amber. I can’t imagine that.” But there was a trace of doubt in his voice.

She shuddered, remembering Celia’s anger over the continued investigation. Maybe Celia had worked on getting family members on her side.

“I think it was about the lawyer. Yes, that’s what it was. It was a problem with the lawyer that Celia recommended to Amber.” Tilting his head, he paused. “Have you talked to her lawyer?”

“He refuses to see me.”

“That’s not surprising. But maybe he will talk to me.”

She sat forward, kicking herself for not coming to her mother’s partner earlier. “Would you?”

“I can call them both, the judge and the lawyer, right after lunch. Will you come to the house?”

“How far is it?”

“Twenty minutes at most.” His vibrating phone skittered across the desk but he ignored it.

“I just have to make a quick call, let Matt know where I am.” But when she tried the number, there was still no answer.

He said, “Where is he, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The police wanted to talk to him about the bombing,” she said.

He grimaced. “That may take a while. We can try again when we’re up at the house. He could join us.”

“That would be great.” Standing up, she felt strangely conflicted, knowing she would soon discover who had killed Amber and why. The answer was dangling in front of her as if on a string, almost close enough to snatch. It would soon be over.

But dread made her heart squeeze. What if the truth came too close to home, if Celia or her mother had been involved? Could she bear that?

*  *  *

Standing outside the police station, Matt checked his phone. Three missed calls, all from Emily. She must have found something. Calling her number, he got no answer. He left a message asking her to call. Maybe she was using the bathroom.

After a couple of minutes, he tried the number again. Still no answer. His stomach clenched. Had they found the hotel room? Found her? Heart racing, he hailed a cab, gave the hotel address, saying he would tip extra if the cabbie hurried.

The cabbie tried, but the downtown traffic was sluggish. In front of them, a bus stopped with a hiss of its air brakes. There was no room for the cabbie to pass. Pounding his fist on the seat, he watched while people got off, others got on.

Fifteen minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the hotel. Tipping him, Matt jumped out, raced into the hotel and up the stairs. At the door to the room, he hesitated, not knowing what he would find.

She wasn’t there. There was no sign of a struggle. The room looked neat, tidied up. A quick search failed to turn up a note or a cell phone, which suggested she had it with her. Had she gone for a walk? Why wasn’t she answering? Hands shaking, he tried her number again. Getting no answer, he slammed his fist against the wall. Not setting up voice mail had been a huge mistake. One he wouldn’t have made if he hadn’t been so busy getting her into bed.

Sitting on the chair, he took some deep breaths, ran a hand through his hair.

There’s an easy explanation. The ring’s on mute.

No, it didn’t make sense. The phone wasn’t on mute. Something was wrong. Fear spiked in him, sent his heart racing. If anything happened to her, he didn’t know what he would do. He jumped up, sprinted to the door. Waiting was not an option. He had to do something. He took the steps down to the lobby two at a time. At the front desk, nobody had seen her leave. She hadn’t left a message. The woman at the counter found him the number for Mona’s hotel. After being transferred twice, he got through to her.

“Maybe she lost the phone,” Mona said after he explained why he was calling. “Or maybe she’s busy. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” Dishes clattered in the background, suggesting she was in a kitchen or dining room. “If it makes you feel any better, Harold isn’t answering my calls either. It’s not like him not to get back to me. Really—”

Matt cut in before she could continue. “If you hear from her, have her to call me, okay?” He asked for the number to her direct line and programmed it into his phone, although he didn’t know if he could trust Mona Blackstock. She had an ex-con washing dishes in her hotel kitchen.

Back in the hotel room, he gave it a more thorough search, checking under the beds in case a note had fallen there. Nothing.

Don’t panic. In a minute, she’ll walk through the door with a perfectly reasonable explanation.

After ten minutes, unable to sit still, he went down to the lobby, asked again if anybody had seen her. Received the same answer. Outside, he scanned the sidewalk in front of the hotel, deserted except for three women carrying logo-imprinted paper shopping bags and, in the distance, a dozen toddlers walking two abreast with two adult chaperones.

Panic surging through him, the knot in his stomach hardened into a rock. What if those men had taken her? Should he call the police? They’d laugh at him. One of the shoppers brushed by him as she passed, and he flinched.

He tried Emily’s mother again.

“Haven’t heard anything.” She must have left the dining room, because there was no background noise this time, just an eerie quiet. “I haven’t heard from Harold, either. It’s certainly not very responsible. I know he’s not in court this afternoon. It’s just not like him.”

“Okay.” He wanted to get off the phone, try Emily one last time before calling the police.

She laughed harshly. “Maybe the two of them are together.”

For a moment he couldn’t speak. Had Emily gone to see him? She had promised to see his new house.

He took a deep breath. “Where does Harold live?”

“I was joking.” She spoke derisively.

“I’m not. Maybe she’s up there, and he’s giving her a tour. That’s why they’re not answering. Maybe they’re outside.”

Mona gave him the judge’s address, phone number, and directions, telling him it would take about twenty minutes to get there. “Have him call me.”

Hanging up, he tried Emily’s phone again and then the judge’s. Still no answer. But he felt a sudden light-headedness. They were together, ignoring their phones. It would explain everything.

A broken right arm was less than ideal for driving, but he didn’t want to be stuck up there without a ride. He got in the car, thankful that he had rented an automatic, pulled out of the hotel parking lot, and drove through slow traffic to the main road that bisected Riverton before heading north on Highway 11 out of town, following it through the expanding suburbs as it wound through green fields toward the mountain. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes had already passed. Somewhere along here, Celia had been stopped in June on suspicion of drunk driving.

Ten miles from town, he turned right on Mountain Road, a narrow gravel track that ran alongside a lake for several miles before it reached the base of the mountain. The road dropped off abruptly to the lake, so he dropped his speed, glanced across the glistening whitecaps to the green fields on the other side.

At the end of the lake, the road began its ascent up the steep slope. Passing four houses, he drove half a mile farther to the top of the mountain until he reached the black iron gate that Mona had told him marked the entrance to the judge’s property.

The gate open, he glanced at the security camera before driving down the lane and parked the car at the side of the house, a big timber frame with an attached three-car garage. He couldn’t see a car, but it could be in the garage. Leaving the keys on the floor mat, he jumped out, ran up to the front door, and rang the bell.

There was no answer. Ringing it again, he noticed the camera mounted on a beam above the door. The judge wasn’t joking when he said he took his security seriously. Somewhere, maybe a mile away, a chainsaw whined.

Pacing, he felt his stomach harden again. He had been wrong. And he’d just wasted half an hour. He had to call the police. The cell phone was in the car. Turning, he jumped off the porch.