The Constantine Conspiracy (5 page)

“A park ranger, like my ID says.” She indicated the name tag above the pocket of her blouse.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure I trust you right now, not sure I trust anything. How long you been a ranger? Are you from this area? Who’s your supervisor?”

Bridge waved off his concerns. “I’m the one asking the questions for the moment,” she said. “We’ll get to yours later.”

Rick started to press her, but then gave it up as ill-placed. She was right; he needed to cooperate if he wanted help finding his dad’s killer. “Okay,” he said. “But this is nuts and I’m not sure what to say, do, think.”

Bridge took half a step his way. “Look,” she offered. “I’m not a police officer so my opinion probably doesn’t matter a lot. But I need to say this straight out. Something feels out of whack here.”

“A bloody corpse will cause that, don’t you think?”

Bridge brushed back a wisp of hair that had escaped her ponytail. “I’m not talking about that.”

“What are you talking about then?”

She hesitated, shook her head.

“What?”

“You’re not the run-of-the-mill family,” she finally said. “And this isn’t your typical death—murder or otherwise. A fancy alarm system that didn’t go off; a video with no images, you and your dad here all alone; no bodyguards.”

“So what does all that say to you?”

“Looks like an inside job,” she said.

Rick’s face drained. “Who are you accusing?”

“Nobody, really, but your family does have some issues, am I right?”

“What do you know about our issues?”

“Like I said, I’ve read about you, your whole family for that matter.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I research all the owners whose property borders the park. It’s part of my job.”

Rick sensed something off-key in her explanation, but she kept talking so he probed no deeper.

“Magazines say your grandfather is maybe the wealthiest man on the planet,” she continued. “Your mother is a major-league philanthropist, but prone to depression. And your dad, well, he is . . . was . . . the ill-bred interloper into the family of the über-rich. He never accomplished much, nothing stellar—”

“You think that’s a suicide note?” Rick interrupted before she could finish. “The three words, ‘i could not.’ The last confession of a man unable to meet the standards put on him by his demanding father-in-law?”

“It crossed my mind, yes. And you can be sure it’ll cross the mind of the cops who’ll show up here at any moment.” On cue, the sound of a siren wailed in the distance.

“But what about the knife?” Rick barked. “Not typical, is it? My dad didn’t kill himself!”

“The knife is confusing, yes. It’ll complicate any explanation anybody reaches. But this house has one of the world’s most sophisticated security systems, and it didn’t work—the alarm never went off and the cameras captured nothing.”

Rick backed away, suddenly furious. “The authorities will want to bury this, won’t they? Reach the easy conclusion. They’ll explain it exactly like you just did.”

“I don’t have a clue what they’ll do. But where’s the evidence to the contrary? Has your father behaved differently recently? Expressed any fears of anyone? Issued any warnings? Taken any extra precautions?”

Rick weighed the questions but found no response. The siren sounded closer.

“It’ll be better for you if they do conclude suicide,” Bridge said.

“How’s that?”

Bridge dropped her eyes for the first time. “Think about it,” she said. “It’s like I suggested—somebody inside made this happen. Either your dad or . . .”

Rick straightened. “You can’t mean what you’re implying.” “The statistics say otherwise. When you find a body, you look to those closest to the corpse to find the killer.”

“Me? You think the cops will come after me?”

“A guest is at the gate,” said the monitoring system.

“One moment,” Rick said.

“They’ll take a hard look at you,” Bridge said. “With nobody in the house but you and the cook, what else can they do?”

“They can search for the real killer!”

“And who would that be? If you didn’t do it, then you’re talking about a top-notch professional here, somebody with the ability to disengage your alarm system, scale the house, kill your father, place him at the computer, print out a suicide note, then make his escape with nobody the wiser. That sound like anybody you know?”

“A guest is at the gate,” repeated the monitoring system. Rick doubled over at the waist, his heart pounding, as he realized what he had to do.

“A guest is at the gate.”

Rick rushed to the screen over his dad’s desk. “Identify yourself,” he said to the system.

“It’s the police.” A round, bearded face showed on the screen and flashed an ID at the camera.

“Let them enter,” Rick said, moving as he spoke, hustling to his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” Bridge demanded, right behind him.

“You stay here!” he pivoted and faced her.

“I can’t do that.”

“Suit yourself.” He entered his bedroom, pulled his wallet, keys, cell phone, and a large stash of cash from his bedside table, stuffed them into a black shoulder bag from his closet and headed downstairs.

“You can’t leave!” Bridge shouted, again trailing him.

“Just watch me.” He bounded to the first floor. “Luisa,” he called. “Come to the garage, bring your cell phone!”

“I order you to halt!” Bridge commanded.

Rick faced her once more. “You said yourself, they’ll suspect me. I’ve had a few scrapes with the cops before, but you probably already know that, right, Miss Nosey? A DUI a couple of years ago, then an assault charge for punching a drunk fan one night in a club . . . plus two paternity suits and tests to prove the kids weren’t mine. I’m a bad boy, right? I can’t take a chance on jail, not even for a second. Some scuzzball inside will want to become famous. What better way than to stick a shiv into a golden child? The way the masses feel about the rich these days, who knows, they’ll probably give him a medal.”

“You’re not rational,” Bridge argued. “I understand why but you’ll be protected.”

“That’s not the only issue.”

“What then?”

“A feeling I have. If I don’t find who did this in a hurry, I never will.” Rick ran toward the garage again, Bridge keeping up.

“Where will you go?” she asked. “You’re clueless, said so yourself. You can go home, hire a lawyer, the best in the world.”

“Rewind, Miss Bridge. Regular folks versus the rich and famous. No love lost between them these days, or haven’t you noticed? People like me stole everything we own from all the rest, isn’t that correct? And like you said, I have no proof I didn’t do this. I don’t like my chances with a jury trial.”

“But running makes it worse, makes it look like you did it.”

Rick glanced back at her, still rushing. “I heard a motorcycle on the highway, minutes ago. Had to be—”

“I passed it coming here. A motorcycle headed east.”

“What?” Rick stopped as he reached an all-terrain Hummer in the garage. Luisa appeared beside him and handed over her phone. “Once I’m gone, return to your room,” he said gently to Luisa as he opened his arms. “And I’d like you to keep quiet about what you’ve seen today, if that’s okay.”

“I see nothing,” Luisa said as she hugged him. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

Rick patted her once, then she stepped away and disappeared into the house. Rick started again toward the Hummer, but Bridge grabbed his wrist before he climbed inside. “I can’t let you go,” she said.

“A guest is at the front door,” said the monitoring system. “One moment.” Rick turned toward Bridge. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m an officer of the state,” she said. “I have a duty to uphold.”

“A guest is at your door,” repeated the alarm.

“One moment!”

Rick unlocked Bridge’s grasp and grabbed the Luger under his sweatshirt.

“You won’t use that,” Bridge said, her eyes steady as he waved the weapon at her.

“Your guest is demanding entry,” said the monitor.

“I read about you, remember?” Bridge continued, her voice level, fast. “An Eagle Scout; a Harvard grad, history major, then two years in the Congo, teaching children to read. You’re a player, yes, gambler, party boy. But you’re more than that too, deeper, better, although you keep that hidden. You’ve got no heart to shoot anybody, especially a woman.”

Rick shrugged. “Believe what you want but I’m not staying here. So back away!”

Bridge studied him another half second, then retreated half a pace. “555-212-8000,” she said. “Call me; I’ll help you if I can.”

“We’ll go for gelato,” he said sarcastically even as he memorized the number while climbing into the Hummer.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

He picked a Bulldog hat off the seat beside him, slipped it on, and hit the ignition. The Hummer started and the garage door lifted.

“Your guest is insistent,” said the monitor.

“Let him in,” Rick called.

“I’ll say a prayer for you,” Bridge offered, stepping closer, her face almost serene.

“Don’t waste your breath.” He slammed the door, backed up the Hummer, shifted it into drive, and sped away. Rounding the corner, he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw Bridge walk out of the garage, her hands on her shapely hips.
Who is she?
he wondered again. More than she seemed, he suspected. Without knowing why, he sensed that he’d see her again and, although it seemed odd to think it at the moment, he certainly hoped that was true.

5

Boston

8:00 a.m.

P
riscilla Cobb, head of the Polygamists’ Political Union, stood before a bevy of microphones and attendant reporters on the front steps of her group’s rather modest offices. Although married to only one man, she planned to keep her singular marital status to herself during the press conference she’d called. A two-million-dollar contribution to PPU’s financially strapped coffers, from which she drew her salary, demanded not only a little secrecy but also a couple of harmless white lies. By the time anybody bothered to check the truth of her imminent announcement, her work would be complete and, more important, the check would be deposited.

“Thank you for coming so early in the morning,” Cobb began. “You are here because of an historic lawsuit about to be filed.”

A number of cameras captured her words. “As you know,” Cobb said, “the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is one of the states that allow same-sex marriage.”

The reporters yawned.

“As a result of that interpretation of the Constitution, other groups are now seeking to extend the views of what constitutes an appropriate marriage.”

One reporter rubbed his eyes while another reached into his pocket and pulled out a breakfast bar. Cobb cleared her throat and decided she best pick up the pace. “Given what’s going on in today’s culture, I’m here to announce that I, rather I should say, the Polygamists’ Political Union is filing suit in Massachusetts to petition for the right of a man and a woman to enter into marital union with more than one spouse at a time.”

The media stood a little taller, and Cobb smiled, even paused a moment. She had them now; might as well move to one of her white lies. “Yesterday afternoon, I joined in holy matrimony with a man who is married to two other women. This makes my second marriage and his third.” She held up her hands and showed a gold wedding band on the fourth finger of each hand.

“What are the names of the other two women?” shouted a redheaded woman to her left. “And the name of the second man you married.”

“The names aren’t important,” Cobb said, lowering her hands.

“Where was the ceremony? Who performed it?” a second questioner shouted.

Cobb pushed back her short black hair and, for the first time, felt a little pressure. Telling a few lies seemed easy; keeping secrets might prove more difficult. The thick man who had approached her a few weeks ago with this “life opportunity,” as he described it, had warned her of such a struggle.

“You’ll catch some guff,” the man said, his gray eyes probing Cobb’s face as if searching for the source of the universe. “Perhaps go to jail for a short spell.”

“Until they discover I’m lying.”

The stocky man nodded. “They’ll be hacked when they discover the hoax, but they won’t have any reason to keep you in custody once they do.”

“I’ll go free then?”

“I’d bet my best dog on it.”

Cobb had weighed the matter for less than a week. Two million dollars; at a 5 percent payout per year, she could take a hundred thousand a year for her salary without touching the principal. That prize far outweighed the possibility of a little public ridicule and a few days of jail.

“The particulars of who, when, and where will not become public,” she said, focused on the reporters once more. “Those kinds of facts aren’t crucial anyway. What’s significant is that the notion of one man married to one woman makes no legal sense in today’s progressive world. Once you redefine marriage—as several states now have—from the belief that it’s a union between one man and one woman, all kinds of options open up. If a woman can marry a woman, why can’t a woman marry two women? Why can’t a woman marry two men? Why can’t a man marry a multiple of women? Legally, the logic leads to the same place.”

She paused to let the words sink in. A few of her audience nodded but whether in agreement or not she couldn’t tell.

“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?” the redhead asked.

Cobb’s heart rate notched up. The real purpose of her announcement drew closer. “At one time, yes, but not anymore. I have renounced certain key tenants of the Mormon teachings, just not this one.”

“You moved to this state just over a year ago, right? Established state residency for just this purpose.”

“You’ve done some homework,” Cobb said. “Surprising. But yes, I moved here for this reason.”

“Polygamy is part of the Mormon church’s historic teaching, correct? Even though no one says much about it these days—at least in public.”

“Yes,” Cobb said. “That’s true. But it’s not just a Mormon issue these days. Other parts of the greater church are also beginning to rediscover this teaching. The Bible says we are to be fruitful and multiply. It is every man and woman’s duty, and their God-given right, to propagate the species. That’s why we can be Christian but also supportive of polygamy. The Bible plainly supports the notion of more than one spouse per person.”