The Sixth Idea (7 page)

L
ydia Ascher was definitely not geriatric, not by a long shot. She was blond and blue and younger than they were by at least a few years, and well put together—really well put together—by some God who knew men were jerks but still passed out a brass ring every now and then just to make a bad day better.

Magozzi knew the type. Every man did. She was the head cheerleader in high school who would never give you a second look, but still, you went to every game just to watch her breasts move under her letter sweater when she raised up her pom-poms, making your heart go soft and other body parts do the opposite.

After the requisite introductions, she said, “The murder here last night. It was Chuck, wasn't it?”

There was no way to sugarcoat a murder, so Magozzi just nodded solemnly. Besides, she'd already put two and two together. “I'm sorry, Ms. Ascher.”

She took the news like any other person who was stunned by the sudden, violent death of an acquaintance—there was genuine sorrow and shock, but not the same variety as when it was personal. She was quiet for a long time, then looked down at her lap where her hands were curled in little balls. “Do you know what happened?”

“It's early in the investigation. Anything we told you would be speculation at this point.”

“Yes, of course.” She shook her head. “This is so sad. He was such a nice man, so excited to be in town visiting a new friend.”

Gino cocked an eyebrow at Magozzi. “Wallace Luntz?”

She looked up. “Yes, he said his friend's name was Wally. Does he know Chuck is . . . ?”

Gino winced, then explained the explosion, the 911 call from Spencer, and the fact that Wally Luntz had been shot by his intruder before his house had gone up like a rocket. That threw pretty Lydia for another, more significant loop—her face blanched and her eyes fixed on a distant point, like she was looking for answers to some confounding, internal mystery.

“Wally was murdered too?” she whispered.

“It looks that way.”

“Oh my God. This is horrible. I don't know what to say.”

“We're hoping you can help us fill in some blanks,” Magozzi prompted. “Do you know why Mr. Spencer was in town to visit Wallace Luntz?”

“All I can tell you is what Chuck told me.”

After twenty minutes, Magozzi was beginning to think that Lydia Ascher was a beautiful distraction, but a dead end in the pertinent information department.

The whole hydrogen bomb thing was interesting—fascinating, actually—but she'd said it herself—it was old news, declassified in the eighties. Certainly nothing that would put a bull's-eye on a couple of second-generation men who were whiling away their retirement researching family footnotes to the Cold War fifty-plus years after the fact. And that was the extent of her knowledge about Spencer. If he and Wally had been laundering money for the mob or running drugs for a Mexican cartel, he hadn't shared that with his seatmate from L.A. to Minneapolis.

Magozzi flipped to a new page in his notebook. “You mentioned that Mr. Spencer was trying to get in touch with other descendants. Did he?”

Lydia folded her lips together, and her brows tipped down. “He told me Wally and some others had reached out to him through his website. It's called the Sixth Idea dot net. He showed a little of it to me on his laptop after we got off the plane.”

Magozzi made a note of the site's name and thought about the notable absence of any electronics on Spencer, in his hotel room, or in his rental car. “So he did have a laptop computer with him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I think we're just about finished here, Ms. Ascher. You've been very gracious with your time, we appreciate it.”

“I'm sorry I haven't been much help. And I'm very sorry for what happened. I hope you'll find whoever is responsible.”

Magozzi gave her a card. “If you think of anything else, please call.”

“I will.” She stood and began to slip on her coat. Gino was quick to help her, because a happily married man had chivalry down to an
art form. Magozzi would have gotten there maybe half a second later. He should have been a half a second earlier.

She shook their hands, then paused. “You know, there's one thing I didn't mention. It's probably silly.”

“Nothing is silly, every detail can be a crucial one,” Magozzi reassured her, having trouble keeping his eyes off hers.
Good interview technique,
he thought. Yeah, right.

“Chuck and I had a cup of coffee after we got off the plane. There was a man in the café who just . . . well, he made me nervous.”

“How so?”

“Just a feeling. You know how sometimes people watch you, but they're pretending not to?”

Magozzi knew very well, because that's exactly what he was doing with Lydia Ascher, and probably what the man in the café had been doing, too. It was hard not to stare at a looker like her. “Yes. So you think he was watching you.”

Her forehead crinkled. “Actually, it seemed more like he was watching Chuck. In quick glances, you know?”

“What happened when you left the café?”

“He left after we did.”

“Like he was following you?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“Could you describe him?”

“I can do better than that if you have a minute.” She pulled a decent-sized sketch pad and a piece of charcoal out of the large tote at her feet and started sketching. There were few things that captivated people more than a truly gifted artist practicing their craft, and this woman was obviously gifted. Magozzi and Gino were both
leaning forward, craning their necks to watch a human face come to life under her hand. Compared to the soulless, computer-generated police sketches, this was a Rembrandt.

“Wow,” Gino mumbled. “You're pretty amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have one of those scary photographic memories?”

“Only when it comes to faces.” She pushed the drawing across the banquette table. “That's what he looked like.”

Magozzi, a former hobby painter himself, picked up the paper and stared at the painstakingly detailed charcoal face, recognizing true talent; and at the same time, also recognizing that he didn't have any after all. He looked up at her. “If this guy was in a crowd of a thousand, I could point him out in a heartbeat.”

Lydia shrugged uncomfortably. “That's kind of you to say. I hope it helps.”

After Lydia Ascher left, Gino dragged his hands down his face, giving a preview of what he'd look like thirty years down the road. “So, here's where we stand: we got a history lesson about weapons of mass destruction and a pretty incredible sketch of some guy who's probably a salesman from Omaha. What are you doing?”

Magozzi had his nose in his tablet computer. “Trying to get on Spencer's website. These two guys had to be into something.” He kept punching keys.

“Anything interesting?”

“Yeah. The Sixth Idea dot net doesn't exist.”

“Try something else, maybe she gave you the wrong address.”

“I've tried a dozen different variations of it. Dot net, dot com, all caps, all lowercase. If there was a website, it's gone now.”

“That's a little funky.” Gino looked up and brightened when a waiter approached with a carafe of coffee and a tray of pastries.

“Compliments of the manager, Detectives.”

Gino rubbed his hands together. “You just made my day.”

The waiter began pouring coffee into delicate china cups. “There's a note from Mr. Amundson. He didn't want to disturb your meeting.”

“Thank you.” Magozzi opened the envelope that was tucked beneath a vase with a rose and pulled out a piece of cardstock. “Huh.”

Gino had already eaten half a croissant and was eyeing something dusted with powdered sugar that looked deep-fried. “What does it say?”

“The hotel computer geeks couldn't recover the surveillance video.”

“That tears it. We've gotta call Monkeewrench. Espinoza's the only guy we've got in-house who'd have a prayer of getting this technical shit done, and he's down in Florida having a hernia operation.”

Magozzi narrowed his eyes. “He went to Florida for a hernia operation last year.”

“Yep. He says it's recurring.”

“So there's no doc between here and Florida who could handle it?”

“Not in winter. You want to call or should I?”

Magozzi grabbed his personal cell and punched number three on speed dial. Gino was number one. Grace was number two, and the Monkeewrench offices were number three. He thought about the order as the phone rang on speaker and what it said about his life.

Harley Davidson picked up on the second ring. “Leo! We saw the news about the Chatham murder. Something we can do for you?”

“Actually, we need a favor if you and Grace can spare the time.”

“Oh goody. Is it illegal?”

“Not the first part, but what you find might change things.”

“Sounds promising. Fire away.”

Magozzi gave Gino a thumbs-up. “Any chance you can get into a website that doesn't seem to exist anymore?”

“You got a name to go with that website?”

“Charles Spencer, Woodland Hills, California. The site name is The Sixth Idea dot net.”

Harley hummed. Nothing musical, more like a chant, something he often did while he was thinking. “Is that the guy who bought it in the alley last night?”

“It is. We've still got a lid on his name.”

“Gotcha. Anything else?”

“How about calling up about an hour of security camera footage that mysteriously disappeared from the Chatham Hotel's server?”

“This is sounding better and better. Send the pertinents, we'll get right on it.”

“Is Grace there?”

“On her way as we speak.”

G
race MacBride was getting better. She hadn't thrown caution to the wind just yet, but sometimes it seemed that she was positioning herself for the windup.

She no longer believed—as she had for most of her life—that every single person on the planet was out to kill her, but you had to be an absolute idiot not to realize that probably half of them were. By her count, she'd been up close and personal with at least six people who had actually taken a crack at it.

It wasn't the life of your average computer geek, but Grace wasn't average, and she was no idiot. This world was a dangerous place. The trick was identifying the good guys from the bad guys, and she'd been learning how to do that.

Not that Grace had totally lost her mind. She still wore her English riding boots most of the time, just in case there was some new maniac out there who wanted to slash her Achilles tendons; she
still carried her Sig Sauer 9mm wherever she went, still maintained the elaborate security system on her property. She eyed the mailman with deep suspicion, and paid careful attention to all the signs of potential danger that most people were foolish enough to ignore. If she ever missed one, Charlie had her back.

Currently, Wonder Dog was sitting up straight and alert in the passenger seat of her Range Rover, tongue lolling out of his mouth in anticipation as she made the short drive to Harley's Summit Avenue mansion. The Monkeewrench offices were there, but Charlie's interest wasn't in their work with computers, it was in Harley's generosity with breakfast sausages. “You're spoiled, you know that, Charlie?”

Charlie looked at her, wagged the stub of his tail and whined, as if to disabuse her of such a foolish notion. And Grace had to agree with him—he deserved to be spoiled, and he was always gracious when he accepted the many perks of his new life. When she'd found him freezing, cowering, and half-dead from starvation in an alley, she couldn't imagine anything in the world a human could do to make things right for him again. And yet he'd come around, just as she had. There were miracles in this life, like gaining the trust of a lost soul. She'd been one herself. And maybe she still was.

She pulled through the evergreen-draped gate into Harley's driveway, parked under the red stone portico that had once sheltered horses and carriages, and let Charlie out. He tore hell-bent for leather around the snowy yard, investigated the elaborate Christmas arrangements that adorned his front walk and steps, then revisited the yard to decorate a few tree trunks in yellow, contributing in his own way to Harley's seasonal décor, even though it didn't complement the color scheme.

Harley pushed open the big double front doors and stepped out into winter wonderland to greet them—he was a big, scary Father Christmas wearing biker leathers, jackboots, and a black beard that obscured his facial expressions, making him seem even more dangerous. And then the whole façade shattered when he crouched down, smacked his legs, and started murmuring ridiculous baby talk to Charlie while he gave him a doggy massage.

He looked up and winked. “Hey, Gracie. Magozzi just called. They've got a job for us.”

“Something to do with the shooting at the Chatham last night?”

“Yep. Sounds pretty interesting, right up our alley. Missing security footage and a disappearing website. Come on, get your waiflike self in here while the cookies are still hot.”

“You did not make cookies.”

“Oh yes I did. Sister Carmella's famous Christmas spice cookies. I could have eaten two dozen of those things if she would have let me. Took me ten years to get the recipe off that old bat.”

Grace scolded him with a smile. “You always said you liked Sister Carmella.”

“In the same way a hostage starts to like their captor. It was Catholic school Stockholm syndrome.”

Grace stomped the snow off her boots before she entered the marble entry foyer, which had been rearranged to accommodate a breathtaking twenty-foot spruce tree that was wearing more bling than a queen at coronation. This was the showpiece, but it wasn't the only Christmas tree in the house—he normally had four or five of them set up in various rooms, all decorated with different themes. Harley loved any holiday, probably because he'd never really had one as a kid.

And that was one of the extraordinary things about him—he'd had it as rough as any of them growing up, and she knew for a fact he'd never had a Christmas tree, had certainly never seen a present waiting for him under one in the multitude of foster homes he'd been shunted to before he was old enough to emancipate himself. And yet, as an adult, he'd never been bitter, had never shunned the things he had never had. On the contrary, he embraced them. In rather dramatic ways.

Grace suddenly wondered why she'd never put up a Christmas tree. She'd never had one growing up either. Maybe Harley had seen just enough magic at one point in his childhood to set his imagination soaring, and he was making up for lost time. She folded her arms across her chest and let her eyes travel up and down the pageantry. “This is spectacular, Harley. You outdid yourself.”

He shrugged modestly. “I added a few things this year.”

“Like a .50-caliber handgun?”

He stomped a boot in disappointment, but very lightly so he wouldn't scare Charlie. “Oh, dammit, Gracie, you weren't supposed to see that yet. I hid everybody's presents in the boughs, and this big bad boy is so thick I figured nobody would find them until the needles started falling off.”

“I have a way of spotting firearms wherever they are. Besides, that's too big to miss.”

“Good point. Well, I figured a woman living alone shouldn't be without a savage knockout punch as a fail-safe.”

A woman living alone.
The phrase hit Grace in a strange way, with no warning whatsoever. She'd always been alone, and had never imagined her life any differently. That was a trait she shared with Harley,
Annie, and Roadrunner, which ironically had probably bonded them together as the tight family they were today. Maybe humans weren't meant to be solitary after all.

“And even if you never need it for self-defense, you could still use it to take out a few walls in your house with a couple bullets if you ever want to remodel,” Harley was saying. “Merry Christmas.”

“I love it, Harley. Thank you.” She pecked his cheek.

“I thought it would tickle your fancy.”

“Are the cookies in the kitchen?”

“You got it. Bring the whole plate.”

Grace headed for the kitchen while Harley lingered at the tree, rocking back and forth on his run-down motorcycle boots, looking up at the spruce that stayed lit day and night, looking a little lost.

She paused at the kitchen door and sighed quietly. For the first week of Annie and Roadrunner's absence, it had been almost restful at the mansion without the boyish barbs that defined Harley's relationship with Roadrunner and the constant bickering between him and Annie. They'd gotten a lot of work done in the relative peace, and then he had become happily obsessed with Christmas decorations, like an empty-nest parent preparing for the return of collegiate children on holiday.

But after two weeks, when he ran out of rooms to decorate, he started down a dismal slope, and now it didn't feel to Grace like the productive peace of two partners; it felt like babysitting.

“I miss them, too,” Grace said.

He looked over at her sheepishly, then back at the tree. “It's Christmas. Family time.”

“They'll be home in a few days. And then you and Annie and
Roadrunner will be at it again, sniping at each other. Everything back to normal.”

Harley smiled and gazed up at the very top spire of the tree, which was still bare. “I still can't figure out what to put up there for the final flourish. A star seems kind of obvious and pedestrian.”

“You'll think of something.”