The Watchman (19 page)

I glanced over at her. “If you know a good restaurant where we can take advantage of this spectacular view, I'll buy your dinner.”

“Deal, mister. I just happen to know a fantastic seafood place near here that overlooks the bay.”

Twenty-minutes later, she whipped into a crowded parking lot. Tantalizing aromas wafted into the night air. Inside, the atmosphere and candlelight kept the mood mellow. Goldie ordered baked shark, and she frowned at me when I ordered a T-bone steak. I ignored her scowl.

She gazed out at the shimmering moonlight reflected on the water. “To look at me, would you believe I'm the daughter of a poor Texas sharecropper?”

I shook my head. “Nope, you look more like a product of an expensive finishing school.”

Goldie's cheeks dimpled into a wistful smile. “That I owe to my husband, Abe. A small inheritance from my paternal grandmother provided my ticket off the farm. The first year at university, my roommate introduced me to her father, Abraham Marks.”

She twisted the diamond wedding band on her finger. “I liked Abe right away, despite the twenty-year age difference. His wife had died just before Makala's fourth birthday. Abe and I dated long-distance while I attended college.” Her eyes misted. “He was the kindest man I'd ever known. He introduced me to a life of art and culture I'd only imagined.”

She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her forehead. “Over Makala's objections, we married after I graduated and I moved to California.” She wiped away the frost on her tea glass with a manicured fingertip. “Your typical trophy wife, but he never treated me that way. After Abe died, I stayed here. It had become my home. I still miss him terribly.”

The sad thing about May/December relationships was that no matter how loving, they usually left the younger spouse alone much too soon. I touched her hand. “I'm sorry. It must have been lonely for you after his death.”

She swallowed hard. “Very lonely. I have friends, but it isn't the same. Now I regret we never had children.” Her gaze lowered, and she fingered the cocktail napkin under her glass. “Tell me about you. You can't say you've never been tempted to get married.”

The focus now on me, I leaned against the back of my chair. “I came close once, but it didn't work out. She realized what a bum I was and called it off.”

Goldie's soft laugh floated across the table. “I don't believe that for a minute.”

McKenna's face drifted into my mind unbidden. I pushed it back. “I'm not always as loveable as I seem.”

I savored the last bite of the steak's charbroiled flavor, letting it linger on my tongue while I folded my napkin on the table. “Drive me back to your place. I want to check out your security system. If there's a problem, I can make temporary repairs until you get a locksmith. I'll grab a cab to the airport. For a while, I'd rather you not drive alone on the streets after dark.”

Traffic inched like a herd of armadillos up the steep road to Goldie's townhome. We reached the gated entrance and Goldie's gasp made me turn to her. She slammed on the brakes, almost sending me through the windshield.

A burned-out stack of rubble occupied the space previously held by her home.

Wet concrete gleamed in the lights of a lone fire truck as two firefighters kept vigil near the blackened shell.

Goldie jumped from the car, gaze wildly searching the area. She crept forward, covering her mouth with both hands, face drained of color. Greasy black water covered her white sandaled feet. She stopped and stared at the wreckage—her home gone in less than twenty-four hours.

A cluster of neighbors milled outside the restricted area in open-mouth dismay. I angled across the pavement to where two firemen were storing their equipment away. Goldie walked beside me, her arms wrapped tight around her body, eyes wide and fathomless.

One of the men stopped us. “You can't come any closer; the area could still be dangerous.”

I put my hands on Goldie's shoulders and pulled her forward. “This is Mrs. Marks; she owned one of the condos that burned.”

The man turned to her. “We've been trying all day to locate you.”

She couldn't or wouldn't speak, so I took the lead. “She spent last night with a friend and went out of town today. We just got back. What happened?”

“We think a gas leak in Ms. Marks's unit caused an explosion about four thirty this morning.”

“But I had sprinklers in every room. The insurance company demanded it before they'd cover my art collection.”

“Sprinklers won't stop an explosion, ma'am.”

“Anyone injured?” I asked.

“Luckily, the woman in the other unit got out safely before the flames reached her apartment.”

I gazed at Goldie, standing small and forlorn beside me. “We have reason to believe this may have been an attempted murder. Who do we need to speak to?”

The fireman pushed his hat back and cast a quizzical look at me. He motioned for us to wait. Jerking a cell phone from his pocket, he punched buttons and strode away. The call ended, and he came back to where we waited. “The fire marshal will meet you at the station. Do you know where it is?”

Goldie nodded.

Over the next hour, we explained our Ben Marshall theory and gave the investigator John Tyler's number at San Quentin. Goldie remained silent, only answering questions when asked. The interview ended, and we returned to her car.

Goldie grabbed my arm and placed her head against my good shoulder. “I donated all the stored artifacts to the museum after Abe died.” She waved a hand at the rubble. “These were my favorites.” She bit her lip and turned away. “I should have donated them all. Now they're gone. Money can't replace what I've lost.”

I looked into her eyes. “Consider how lucky you are––you weren't here when the explosion happened. You missed the blast by a little over five hours.” I put my fingers under her chin and made her look at me. “You would have been killed.”

She moaned. “You don't understand. My collection is irreplaceable!”

“So is your life, Goldie.” I pulled her in close for a long hug. “So is your life.”

At the airport, we opted for the X-ray rather than the invasive pat down. I decided to walk Goldie to her gate before I went to my own gate.

With red-rimmed eyes and a small tremor in her hands, Goldie prepared to board a plane to her sister in Dallas. She presented a pathetic figure; wind-tossed locks disheveled—suit and shoes smudged with soot. Her sole possessions resided in the tiny overnight bag she'd taken to Judy's. The smell of smoke from the fire scene lingered in our hair and clothing. Our fellow travelers might object, but it couldn't be helped.

Soon her plane's jet engines whined into place, and a jetport unfurled and covered the exit hatch. Weary passengers disembarked and scattered into the terminal. There would be a mob of greeters to meet them at the luggage carousal. It was Christmas.

We found seats near the ticket counter as new attendants arrived and began a flurry of preparations for the next boarding.

I touched Goldie's arm. “Stay at your sister's until I tell you it's safe to come back. Marshall will have discovered by now that you weren't at home when the blast occurred. He'll start looking for you. Don't let anyone know where you're staying. Not Judy, not anyone. I can't protect you from Wyoming.”

She nodded and leaned against my shoulder. “I thought you were trying to frighten me last night.” She expelled a shaky breath with realization setting in. “You saved my life, Noah.”

My hands on her shoulders, I turned her to face me. “You saved your life by heeding my warning. Don't forget that. Are you sure Marshall doesn't know about your sister or your past in Texas?”

She patted my hand and the corners of her mouth turned up in a feeble grin. “I never really had a personal relationship with Ben. Trust me, he doesn't know about Barbara.”

The flight attendant announced her seat row over the intercom. Goldie tiptoed to kiss my cheek. My gaze followed her through the gate and until she vanished into the mouth of the jetport.

The pessimist in me made me wait until she was in the air. Through the large plate glass window, I stared as the aircraft soared into the black sky, and cold fingers of fear tickled down my spine.

The explosion hadn't been an accident or a coincidence. The odds against it were astronomical. Marshall had seen her and knew he had to prevent her from exposing him. He hadn't counted on her calling me. By telling John Tyler what she had seen, she sent forces into action that would put him back in prison.

Goldie had no idea how much danger she was in.

 

 

 

 

16

 

Bridger Mountains Lodge

After seeing Goldie safely on her way, I caught a red-eye to Utah. Once more on the ground, I drove to my frozen haven in the mountains. A little paranoid after Goldie's experience, I bolted the door, and checked all the locks on the windows. Everything was secure.

The place lacked the elegance of Jake's cabin, but God had provided. There were more than enough provisions for a six-month stay. By His grace, I wouldn't need it that long.

Hungry, I whipped up a late snack of sausage and waffles, and then crashed on the worn-out sofa in the game room with a monster headache. My C-drive bordered on overload. This wasn't how I'd envisioned spending Christmas.

Two aspirins later, I shuffled through an assortment of old DVD's, stuck one in the slot, and pushed play. Midway through the film, I shut it down, unable to concentrate with Goldie's peril still on my mind.

The next day, I called Lincoln Armstrong's private number. “Would it be possible to see you today? It's short notice, I know, but I have new information I'd like to share, and I prefer not to give it over the phone.”

A short pause—pages shuffled in the background. “I'm running behind because of the holidays, but I can squeeze in lunch. Can you meet me at Pine Lake Country Club? It's on the lake near my home, say eleven thirty?”

“Thanks. I'll see you there.”

Sometimes it's easier to hide in plain sight than in dark corners. I'd grown a short beard, my usual close-cropped hair now sported a longer lumberjack look, and a pair of aviator sunglasses completed my makeover. In theory, no one would recognize me.

 



 

Pine Lake Country Club

Two hours later, I pulled into valet parking under the portico at the country club entrance. The door captain's spine visibly straightened at the mention of Armstrong's name. “Ah, yes. Mr. Armstrong reserved a private dining room for lunch.” He waved over a waiter and gave him the suite number.

When we reached the third door down the hallway, the waiter ushered me inside. Polished brass fixtures, mahogany paneling, and rich leather chairs grouped around the fireplace gave the room a cozy masculine air. A table set for two, dressed in linen finery, sat in the corner.

Armstrong rose from his seat when I entered, crossed the room, and shook my hand. “I took the liberty of ordering lobster for both of us. I hope you don't mind.”

“Lobster is one of my favorite food groups.”

Armstrong chuckled and settled back into his chair. He motioned me to sit. “I'm glad you called. Patience isn't my strongest virtue.”

I took the seat across from him. “You've been more than tolerant. Now, I have what I think is very good news. Ben Marshall is alive. I have no physical proof of that, but I'm certain in my own mind. An old friend of Abigail's spotted him in San Francisco two days ago. Goldie, that's Abigail's friend, called Christmas Eve to tell me.”

Armstrong leaned back in his chair. “You think it's possible Marshall's really alive?”

“Yes, I trust Goldie's instincts. She knew Marshall too well to make a mistake. I don't know yet how he manipulated prison records, but I believe he had the connections inside to pull it off. I'm convinced he's responsible for Abigail's disappearance. Now all we have to do is find him.”

The cell phone in my jacket vibrated. I retrieved it and held it up. “Do you mind if I take this call? I've been expecting to hear from the warden at San Quentin, and this looks like it.”

Armstrong shook his head, and I punched talk.

The warden's sandpaper voice sounded in my ear. “John Tyler here. Off the record, your friend was right. I verified the fingerprint in our system against the national files. Someone switched them on our end.”

“How could he pull that off?”

“Again, just between the two of us, I figure he or a pal hacked into the prison's internal files from an office or the library and made the switch. Probably paid one of the staff or an inmate to change out the dental records.”

“What's the next step?”

“We'll give the information to the authorities. They'll most likely put out an APB, and circulate his mug shot. See what turns up.”

“Thanks for letting me know, John. This clears up a lot of questions. I'm confident Marshall is responsible for the explosion at Goldie's home night before last.”

A pause. “What happened?”

“Nothing official yet. So far, investigators think the blast came from a leak in her furnace, but it's too convenient to suit me. They're still looking into it. The blaze destroyed two condos and a very valuable art collection.”

Tyler growled. “That's the kind of reprobate Marshall is––anything to remove a threat.”

I let him rant for a few minutes and then thanked him again. “I'll give the local officials a heads-up. They've had Mrs. Armstrong's case on ice for a few years.”

When the call ended, Armstrong straightened in his chair. “That was the confirmation you needed?”

I nodded.

“Good. You've accomplished what I hired you to do. I hadn't dared hope for a resolution so soon.” He shook his head and stared into the fire for a moment. “If it's agreeable with you, I'd like you to stay on this, at least until Marshall is behind bars.”