Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (16 page)

“You can’t bully me, so can it,” Weaver replied.

I cheered her chutzpah, playing with fire. I didn’t doubt Hamilton’s claim of influential friends, maybe even the FBI director. I crossed my fingers
her record would protect her.

She completed a quick pat down and holstered her weapon.
“What are you doing here?” Weaver didn’t back down. “Thrasos was relieved of
all security responsibilities at the estate. The sheriff passed that message to
you personally. The estate is off-limits to everyone except FBI and family.”

“So what’s she?” Hamilton pointed at me. “I hadn’t heard
Jake had gone Mormon. I thought he only married one whore at a time.”

I longed to jump down Hamilton’s throat with my own zippy,
curse-laced repartee. But Weaver seemed quite capable of reaming this guy’s
butt on her own. “Marley’s here because I invited her,” Weaver replied.

“And I’m here because Kyle Olsen invited me,” Hamilton spat back. “I’m not some broken-down security guard. I’m in charge of security
for Jolbiogen, and Kyle Olsen asked me to retrieve corporate documents from the
Glaston house. We don’t want any more secrets falling into the wrong hands.”

Weaver didn’t flinch. “You can tell Kyle Olsen the FBI has
assumed responsibility for the contents of the Glaston house. We’ll make
certain any papers remain secured.”

“Not reassuring,” he purred. “Let me go about my business,
or I’ll take this up with your boss. I have his blessing.”

“I’ll wait to hear it from his lips,” Weaver said.

“You’re unbelievable.” Hamilton’s voice rose. “Perhaps
you’re not very bright. My men did most of your homework. We handed you the
case against Julie on a platter. Motive, emails. Good God, woman, what are you
waiting for? A signed confession?”

“I just plod along at my own pace. I’m a suspicious cuss.
Never accept a gift until I’ve unwrapped it and given it a few pokes.”

“I hope no one else dies while you’re poking,” Hamilton said. “I checked in with the agent on the gate. Told him I had FBI approval. If
security were still Thrasos International’s domain, your man would have
notified you, and we wouldn’t be having this cock-up.”

I decided Weaver shouldn’t have all the fun. “If your
visit’s so legitimate, why skulk around alone in the middle of the night? You
could have asked Agent Weaver to accompany you while you secured papers anytime
in the last twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t have to answer questions from you.” Hamilton spun on his heel.

Weaver called after him. “Maybe not, but I’d like to hear
your answer, too.”

He never responded, never looked back. He walked away,
confident Weaver wouldn’t resort to force to stop him.

“What’s he up to?” I mumbled.

Weaver thumbed her walkie-talkie and arranged for an agent
to escort Hamilton from the compound. “Wonder how long it’ll be before my boss
calls.” She sighed. “Five minutes? I’m not helping my career.”

“Might as well finish this treasure hunt.” Weaver extracted
a key from her pocket and unlocked the Glaston’s front door. Inside she made a
beeline to the elevator. She’d been there before. I trotted behind.

Weaver punched a button for the second floor. When the lift
stopped and the door slid open, we began our search. The bedroom to the right
had a sizable amount of unaccounted for square footage directly behind the
lift.

We climbed back in the elevator and ran our hands over the
ornate paneling on the right hand side. Nothing. We puzzled over the control
panel and tested the buttons. They performed as advertised. Frustrated, we held
down buttons in varied combinations and sequences. The elevator jerked like a
peripatetic puppet at our conflicting commands.

After ten minutes of trial-and-error, Weaver found the
open-says-me, pushing all of the Braille embossed pressure pads in concert. The
right panel disappeared as a motorized pocket door glided open with
whisper-like perfection.

Weaver and I ducked into the confined space. The elevator
panel slid shut. “Hope it proves as easy to get the hell out of here,” she
muttered.

The cubbyhole resembled a large walk-in closet with padded
benches attached to one wall. Room for six people in a pinch, if they weren’t
claustrophobic. The space held a small desk, too. Weaver donned gloves to rifle
through it.

“A damn peculiar place for a desk,” she said. “I searched
Glaston’s home office. It’s ten times the size of this coffin.” She picked up a
paper. “I recognize the doctor’s writing. He kept papers here.”

While Weaver snooped, I scanned the cubbyhole’s interior. An
almost invisible seam threaded through a section of the tiled floor. In one
area, the gray grout looked extra glossy. I touched it with my finger. The
wet-looking substance was a putty-like plastic. “Weaver, I think I found a
trapdoor.”

The snug fit hid it in plain sight. With a little
maneuvering, I lifted the lid to the stowaway space. At first—and
second—glance, the contents disappointed. A few pieces of antique jewelry lay
beside a single sheet of folded paper and a cloth-bound journal.

With gloved fingers, Weaver shook the lone paper by a corner
to unfold it. “It’s printed on Jolbiogen letterhead. A summary of DNA test results. It must be connected to the stolen research.”

Looking over her shoulder, I read the header: “Results, DNA Trial, May 10.” The document listed thirty subjects by patient number—no names. No mention of
pathogens or targeted gene sequences. Under conclusions, it said patients 1333
and 1342 had the same father, and patient 1300 was the father of subject 1355.

“Sounds like paternity testing. Why squirrel it away in a
safe?” I wondered aloud. “Can the FBI’s computer gurus search Jolbiogen files
to match these patient numbers with names? That might help us figure out why
Glaston kept it.”

“There is no us,” Weaver reminded. “I’m looking into this.
You’re butting out. I’ll talk to our forensic guys, but they already have a
full plate tracing possible hacks into top-secret research and Olsen family
medical files. Whoever the Jolbiogen thief is, he—or she—certainly knows how to
play a computer keyboard.”

Weaver opened the journal. “Looks like Dr. Glaston’s
personal journal. We’ll leave everything as we found it. After our crime scene
specialists process the scene, I’ll read the journal, see if it offers any
clues.”

A button to call the elevator sat in plain view. Weaver
pressed it. The panel slid open and we descended in ghostly silence to the
first floor. Neither of us spoke during our uneventful stroll back to the main
house.

“It’s about time.” Darlene stood. “What did you find?”

Weaver briefed them regarding the desk contents but
conveniently omitted our encounter with Hamilton. Guess she didn’t want to rile
Darlene more.

“Okay, it’s late, and I have work to do,” she concluded.
“First task is to get Jake’s note analyzed and verify he wrote it. Please,
don’t even think about any more sleuthing.”

The agent left, and we fell into a funky silence.

“Guess we should go, too.” Ross and I edged toward the door.

“Please stay just a couple minutes more.” Darlene walked
over to a credenza covered with snapshots. “I spent the afternoon poring over
scrapbooks to pull together a tribute to Jake, one that focuses on happier
times. I’d like your opinion, Ross. The funeral director said he’d mount the
snapshots on a magnetic board before tomorrow’s visitation.”

We studied the photos. In them Jake morphed from a rakish
college student into an adoring new dad. In middle age, he performed duties as
the proud ribbon-cutter for Jolbiogen’s headquarters. In his seventies, he
sported a carefree grin as he looked adoringly at Darlene. The pictures offered
nary a clue about who would want this man, his daughter and son-in-law dead.

“Jake was a good man.” Ross bit his lip. “Sure hope they
find the bastard who killed him.”

Amen, to that. And I hoped they did so before anyone else
turned up dead.

Jake’s body floated just out of reach. I could tell he was
dead, but his animated hand busily scribbled messages on a piece of paper. The
page remained blank. Invisible ink.

“What are you trying to tell me?” I demanded.

A disembodied voice answered. “I told you. You lost it.”

A loud pounding prompted me to cover my ears. “What is
that?”

Jake fixed me with his wall-eyed stare and refused to
answer.

The image dissolved. The banging grew louder. I woke.
Someone pounded insistently on Aunt May’s front door. My monster headache
intensified the racket.

Where was May? I hurried into her bedroom. Bed neatly made.
She’d decamped for the day. I snatched a hot pink velour robe hanging from a
hook, zipped it, and headed to the door. Hemmed floor-length for my aunt, the
robe hit me mid-calf.

“May? You here?” I called en route. Silence.

The door offered no peephole or safety chain. “Who is it?”

“Weaver.”

Though muffled by the closed door, her schizophrenic speech
pattern—a Southern drawl spoken with an allegro cadence—identified her.

I cracked the door open. “Come in. What time is it?”

“Eleven o’clock. Your aunt left five minutes ago. It seemed
a good time to chat. Get dressed. We’ll take a drive.”

Recalling that May’s house might be bugged, I didn’t quarrel—though
I longed for a kitchen detour and strong coffee. Instead I vamoosed to the
bedroom and threw on a short-sleeved sweatshirt and jeans. I returned in two
minutes flat. Brushing my curly hair isn’t obligatory when I’m on a clock. My
husband always swore he couldn’t tell any difference between my combed and
uncombed locks.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

Sliding into the front passenger seat, I got a pleasant
surprise. The agent had requisitioned two large coffees. Steam curled
tantalizingly from sipping slips cut into the Styrofoam mega mugs occupying the
holders between the seats.

“Thanks.” I reached for the nearest cup.

Weaver put the car in gear and rocketed away. A wave of hot
coffee sloshed out the top. I didn’t complain. “Is everything okay with my
aunt?”

“Far as I know.” The FBI agent glanced over at me. “She got
a call from her real estate office, mumbled something about leaving you a note,
and took off. Based on her phone conversation, she slept soundly. Had no idea
you didn’t return until the wee hours.”

“Are you bugging May’s apartment?” I demanded.

“Yes. Remotely.” Weaver shrugged. “A scan told us someone
else had bugged the condo remotely—and that someone didn’t have a court order.
So we put a fishing boat in your cove. His tuner picks up voices in the condo
just fine. It’s not that we don’t trust you and your family. We just felt it
prudent to hear what our eavesdroppers were hearing so we could anticipate any
action.”

“My lord, I can’t believe someone bugged May’s house.”

“Didn’t surprise me. We disabled a half-dozen bugs at the
Olsen estate, and we’re jamming to prevent any long-distance monitoring. So
they went after a softer target. Anyway this is good news. Now we can script
what we want your eavesdroppers to hear.”

Weaver’s good news didn’t thrill me. “I’m not acting out any
script that drags May into danger.”

The FBI agent’s chuckle didn’t signal amusement. “You’re awfully
righteous for someone who plunked her cousin in a shooting gallery. But no, we
won’t do anything to endanger your family.” When she looked over, her eyes
narrowed. “Will you please sit quietly and sip your coffee while I bring you up
to date?”

Her dressing down didn’t sit well. She’d recruited me with
General Irvine’s blessing. The woman acted awfully uppity for a pipsqueak who
was fifteen years my junior and needed my help. Do they teach arrogance in FBI
school?

I gritted my teeth. Maybe she had reason to be perturbed. I
hadn’t exactly been acting my age.

Weaver filled me in on the frantic activity that took place
while I sawed logs. It started early morning, when experts examined the
contents of the safe room vault. The clothbound journal proved an evidentiary
goldmine. Jake’s son-in-law definitely penned the self-congratulatory tome. In
it, Glaston boasted how easy it was to filch the military research. He also
crowed about the deal he negotiated with buyers. Unfortunately, he didn’t
identify them.

Weaver pulled onto an overlook at the Kettleson nature
preserve and shut off the engine. “Now that we know Glaston was the seller.
General Irvine’s working his contacts. Not your problem. Before you start
asking questions, let me finish.”

Exhaustion shadowed her eyes. Not the time to spark debate.

“Glaston wrote a cryptic entry about his ‘fair-weather
friends.’ Said they’d served their purpose and were in for a nasty surprise
once he was safely away. He added it was too bad he wouldn’t be around to see
the high and mighty fall. Not a big leap to believe his collaborators killed
him.”

Weaver opened her car door. I took the cue, exited and
rounded the car. The trumpeter swans seemed less vocal today. Weaver slouched
against the fender.

“Glaston’s journal let us pick up the money trail,” she
said. “The good doctor salted away two million in a Swiss bank account. His
journal indicated ten million more would be wired after his buyers conducted a
successful ‘field test.’”

“The farm workers infected with that toxic cocktail?” I
asked.

“That’s our guess. Unfortunately, Glaston’s foreign bank
account was emptied and closed the day he died. The first installment vanished.
We’re guessing the man’s accomplices double-crossed him. The good doctor had a
new ID—passport, driver’s license and bank accounts—in a safe deposit box with
his plane ticket. He definitely planned to bolt.”

A pair of trumpeter swans took flight, an effortless escape.
Glaston hadn’t been so lucky.

“Why did he take the risk? The man lived in the lap of
luxury. His wife stood to inherit a fortune that makes twelve million seem like
peanuts.”

Weaver kicked at the gravel in our pull-off. “Mrs. Glaston’s
liver was shot, and asthma and alcoholism precluded a transplant. He feared his
wife would kick the bucket before Jake. If that happened, his lifestyle would
implode. He wasn’t named in Jake’s will, and Gina’s trust directed the
remainder to her son. When Glaston learned Jolbiogen’s new president planned to
shoulder him out, that was the capper.”

Whoa. About time. The FBI could finally exonerate Julie and
Darlene. “So Jake found out about the theft and Glaston killed him?”

“Maybe.” Weaver stared into the distance. “Or the doctor’s
accomplices killed Jake first and then the Glastons.”

I stretched. “At least Julie and Darlene are in the clear.”

“Not quite.” Weaver straightened. “While we know Glaston was
the master thief, my boss has nominated Julie and her mom as his ‘high and
mighty’ co-conspirators.”

“What a crock! They had a mutual-hate society. They’d never
have helped Glaston.”

“Unless they were blackmailed. Hamilton’s provided a tidy
new theory—Glaston blackmailed the mother and daughter into cooperating. The
women killed Jake when he discovered the conspiracy, then they did away with
their blackmailer so he couldn’t fix the blame on them. Hamilton’s almost
convinced my boss—his best buddy—that ‘marrying money doesn’t change trailer
trash.’”

Sensing my pending tirade, Weaver jerked her arm up like a
cop stopping traffic. “Save your breath. I don’t buy it either, but I need a
compelling rebuttal. Glaston left no clues to identify his accomplices or his
buyers. We need to set a trap.”

We? What happened to there being no us?

The FBI agent described a plan to draw out the real killers.
The goal was to convince them Darlene had found a second riddle, identifying
another site where Jake had stashed evidence. I’d confide this tidbit to Ross
while we chatted in May’s bugged living room.

Weaver said my conversation should emphasize four points.
One, Darlene had turned the new riddle over to the FBI. Two, Weaver had placed
her under guard. Three, suspecting a leak inside the agency, Weaver had decided
to go solo to retrieve the missing evidence. Four, neither Darlene nor Weaver
had entrusted me with any clue about the note’s contents.

“That should goad the killers into coming after me.” Weaver
sounded gleeful. “But you have to make it clear no one else knows what the
riddle says. I have to be the sole target.”

The plan seemed rife with personal risk for Weaver. I told
her so. She waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve taken precautions. No one else
will be in any danger.”

Her conviction sent a shiver down my spine. It sounded an
awful lot like my justification for allowing Ross to tag along on my jaunt to
the Tipsy House.

After Weaver deposited me at May’s condo, I checked the
front of the refrigerator, our family’s never-fail bulletin board. A note from
my aunt said she’d collect me for lunch at twelve-thirty. Egad. All of fifteen
minutes to get ready. She’d also ordered me to cogitate on banquet menus for
her wingding. A meeting with the Village West coordinator was set for two p.m.

I showered, dressed, and entered the vestibule just as May
swung by. “Hi, Marley. Get your fanny in gear. We’re burning daylight.”

Actually there wasn’t much light to burn. At least the
drizzle wouldn’t hurt my wet hair.

May’s gaze snagged on my finger-combed hairdo but she
swallowed any comment. “Thought the tearoom would be nice.”

The renovated Victorian proved a cozy spot for lunch. We
both ordered the daily special, a cup of creamy mushroom soup with lemon-laced
chicken salad on a crusty croissant.

May fanned out the banquet selections across the unused
portion of our table. She’d completed her initial cull, relegating most “heart
healthy” selections to the dustbin.

“Hell’s bells, this is a party, not a Weight Watchers’
coven. People can get back on their diets after we celebrate.”

Detrimental though it may be to the longevity of the Carr
and Woods tribes, this diet-delay philosophy is deeply ingrained in family
tradition. It’s trotted out for any and every celebration from Mother’s Day to
thank-goodness-it’s-Friday.

Okay, I subscribe. Good food is one of life’s greatest
pleasures. I surrender easily to eggs benedict, crispy onion rings and
cheesecake. That makes exercise my main strategy to keep from weighing in on
freight scales. The thought made me shudder. I’d actually seen a military
doctor at Fort Bragg herd a pendulous, pregnant dependent onto a freight scale.

Hmmm. Maybe I’d fit in a run after lunch.

Our Village West meeting went swimmingly. May sweet-talked
the group planner into an added “local” discount. By two-thirty, we were back
home. When May retreated to her boudoir for a power nap, I opened a book, a
mystery set in Rome. After rereading the same page twice, I closed the
paperback. The Spirit Lake murders were far more intriguing.

Maybe if I organized my thoughts I’d discern a pattern, or
at least find a clue. I tore a piece of paper from May’s grocery pad and drew
columns.

I headed the first column: “People with motives to murder
Jake.” The second column read: “People with motives to murder the Glastons.”

In column one, I scribbled Glaston’s name. Then flipped my
pencil, eraser ready for action. If Glaston was inclined toward murder, why not
kill his father-in-law right out of the starting gate? Once he ensured his wife
would outlive her dad, he only needed to wait till Gina kicked the bucket. No
need to mess around stealing secrets.

I started to erase his name and stopped. Instead I wrote “fear
of exposure” beside it. Perhaps Jake confronted his son-in-law but gave him a
grace period to turn himself in. That could have pushed Glaston into murdering
Jake.

Okay. Column two, people with motives for the Glaston
murders. I tapped my pencil a full five minutes, while I chewed my bottom lip
raw.

A double cross? Perhaps Glaston’s accomplices were willing
collaborators who murdered him only after they discovered his plan to burn
them. Was Glaston supposed to share his proceeds from the sale?

Below double cross I penciled in “blackmail” and doodled
“opportunity.”

The Glaston murders spoke volumes about his fellow
conspirators. They’d filched phalloidin from Jolbiogen. Insiders? They knew how
to handle it. Training? They’d accessed the Olsen estate.

Three people met all the criteria—Eric, Kyle and Julie.
Well, maybe there was a fourth. I knew next to nothing about Nancy, Jake’s
first wife.

“Great nap.” Aunt May yawned theatrically as she wandered
into the room. I put down my pencil, pocketed the paper with my doodles.

“I’m going to jump in the shower,” May said. “You’d better
get cracking, too. Ross and Eunice are picking us up for Jake’s visitation in
half an hour.”

***

The funeral home foyer reeked of flowers. I fidgeted in line
waiting my turn to sign the guest register. May handed over a pen, and I
scrawled my name. The inked pages indicated we were latecomers. That made the
sparse gathering inside the large reception area a surprise. Thirty people
tops. The early arrivals hadn’t stayed long.

A stout man hurried to greet us. “Do you remember, Sam
Larsson?” Ross whispered in my ear. Without my cousin’s prompt, I wouldn’t have
known Sam from Adam. The plump mortician bore little resemblance to the
mischievous boy I’d known.

My eldest Carr cousin and Sam were inseparable in high
school. Whenever the Larsson mortuary was vacant, my cousins and I bowled in
the sanctum. With chairs folded away, our featherweight plastic balls sailed
over the polished hardwood floors.

“Good to see you, Ross.” The mortuary’s owner stuck out his
hand. Ross introduced me. Sam gave a slight formal bow. “Nice to see you. I
recognized you, right off.”