Golden Threads (17 page)

The caller thought that over. "But does she have the evidence?"

"You told me that your people had to search the house quickly; maybe they missed it."

"The FBI searched, and they had the time to do it right."

"It's still possible they missed it. You told me that you had reason to believe she was more of a threat than was originally thought. Why?"

The caller hesitated,
then
said briefly, "Shortly after Dr.—shortly after her father's death, we discovered a number of items missing. The trail strongly indicated that her father had taken them; he had the means to blow our organization to splinters. The FBI wouldn't have hesitated to use that immediately, if they had found it."

"So you were certain the evidence did exist. And certain she was a possible threat from the beginning. Why was I told only after I arrived here?"

"Even then, there was a remote possibility that the viper was in our own house. However, we're now certain that only the doctor could have gotten the evidence. And the only remaining link to the doctor is his daughter."

"I see. Well, do I go after her, or wait and let her lead me to the evidence?"

"Do you think she will?"

"I think that if she does know where it is, she also knows it's no damn good to her. It might be in the house. Or her father may have hidden at least part of it somewhere else and told her where. In any case, as you said, she's the only link. Unless she protects herself by getting the evidence to someone who'll use it if anything happens to her, she's running a colossal bluff. She has to protect herself."

After a moment, the caller said, "So she warns us that the evidence exists, hoping we'll back off long enough for her to make the bluff real."

"It would be the smart move. She gives us a couple of days to get the message, then shakes the boyfriend, slips out, and goes after the evidence while we're deciding what to do about her."

"Amateur."

"Of course.
But not a fool."

"There's no sign she's under FBI surveillance?"

"Not that I've been able to find. There's no tap on her phone, no vehicles parked suspiciously close to her building, no unscheduled work being done in the area. The agent who came in last night caught a plane back to D.C. as soon as he'd talked to her."

"What about her car?"

"Still at the theater.
She's been riding with Shane, and may not know it's been tampered with."

"If she does go after the evidence, what about her car?"

"I don't think she'll drive her own car; she knows she's being watched; that's obvious. If I were in her place, I'd take a bus,
then
hire a car in D.C. Safer."

"If she goes back to the house."

"Right."

"Would she assume someone was following her?"

"Certainly.
And probably lead me on a wild goose chase in D.C. in order to lose me. Most amateurs believe a tail isn't that hard to lose."

"She'd feel safe?"

"I'd make sure of it."

The caller said, "Hold on," and there was a soft hiss of static on the line for a few moments. When he came back on, it was clear there had been a discussion. "Keep an eye on her.
A very close eye.
Well give her a few days."

"You want the evidence?"

"Yes. If she leaves Pinewood, don't lose her." "And if she leads me to the evidence?" "Get it. Then kill her."

"It won't do any good," Lara said flatly. "I can't remember anything else about that night, because I didn't see or hear anything."

Devon watched her moving restlessly around the living room of her apartment. It was early on Saturday, and both would be expected at the theater within a few hours to rehearse. He knew Lara was tense, jittery because they could only wait blindly with no certainty that their plan would work; he was tense himself, and he had much more experience than she at this sort of thing.

But he was still convinced that Lara knew more than she realized, and he wanted that knowledge desperately. If he could only get the evidence into his hands, he could stop this madness without risking Lara's life.

"We can try," he said now, quietly.

"I'm not ready."

Devon hesitated, and only his determination to keep her safe made him
press
her. "Honey, you're never going to be ready. No one is ever ready to face something like this. But you have to try."

"It hurts! Don't you understand?"

"Yes," he said. "I understand.'

Lara looked at him, and her tense face softened. "I know. I know you do."

"Then you know I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't believe it could help us."

After a moment, she went to the couch and sat down beside him. "All right," she said steadily. "If you really think so, I'll try."

Devon took one of her hands in his, holding it firmly. "Close your eyes," he instructed, and when she obeyed, he went on in a soft voice, "I want you to think about returning to your house that night. Imagine every
step,
see everything you saw that night. Start at the beginning. Were you driving yourself?"

"No. Some friends drove me home. They let me out in front of the house.
At the sidewalk."
Lara was determined to really try, because Devon wanted her to. So she concentrated intently. "It was chilly, so I hurried to the front door."

"Was the house dark?"

"Yes. But that isn't unusual. There's a redwood fence, so you can only see the front windows. Dad's study is on the side, and he never remembers to leave the porch light on.
Or the foyer light."
She was unconscious of having shifted to the present tense, and Devon held her there so smoothly that she didn't notice it.

"You have your key?"

"Yes. I unlock the door and go in.
As soon as I shut it behind me.
I reach for the light switch. Ching howls. He—he sounds funny. I've never heard him sound like that."

Devon glanced at the cat,
who
was sprawled on his side under the coffee table and snoring almost inaudibly. "Do you think something's wrong with him?" he asked her.

"No. He sounds angry. Afraid."

"All right.
Turn the light on. What do you see?"

"The foyer.
Someone's knocked the magazines and newspapers off the table. It's a mess." A frown flitted suddenly across her still face.

"What are you looking at?" Devon asked softly, watching her face.

"Ching.
He's at the top of the stairs. Upset. I don't think he wants to come down. The house is very quiet. I feel cold. I call out for Dad, but he doesn't answer. I walk across the foyer and knock on his study door."

"Do you hear anything from inside?"

"No. But Dad gets so deeply involved in his work that he often doesn't answer. So it's still all right."

Devon felt a pang of hurt for her. She'd already guessed something was wrong, maybe even knew what she'd find when she opened the door; it was in her voice. But she was trying to convince herself that nothing was wrong. He wished he didn't have to ask this of her.

But he had no choice. "Open the door," he told her gently.

"I don't want to," she whispered.

"I know. But you have to. Open the door."

Lara caught her breath. "Oh, dear God..."

The hand he was holding was cold, the fingers tightening almost convulsively around his. "Look at the room, Lara," he ordered firmly.
"Just the room.
Tell me what you see. Start at the
door,
and look clockwise around the room."

Her breathing was shallow, and her voice emerged so strained, it was little more than a whisper. "There's a chair by the door; the cushions have been ripped and torn. There are books scattered on the floor. Dad's reading lamp is lying on its side with the shade gone. Just past that is the big prayer plant, uprooted from its pot." A quiver disturbed her face. "'Dad likes plants."

"Keep looking, Lara," Devon told her gently. "What else do you see?"

"The window.
The drapes have been ripped down and—and shredded. Why would someone do that?"

"I don't know."

"There was too much to hide in the drapes," she murmured in a puzzled tone. "Dad said it was a lot.
Diagrams and photographs, and all the computer records."

Devon almost held his breath. "That sounds like a lot."

"Yes. And he had something with fingerprints. He wouldn't tell me what it was, but he said it was safe. He said it would hold up in court." She fell silent.

After a moment, Devon prompted softly, "Did he say anything else?"

"Hmmm?
Oh. No, he wouldn't tell me. He said not to worry. But I did."

"All right.
Now tell me about the room. You were looking at the window."

"Bookshelves with all the books pulled out. Another window; those drapes are torn down too. There was a table in front of it; it's all smashed, and the vase that was on it is broken on the floor.
Then more shelves and—Dad's desk.
I can see his computer; it's on, but there's nothing on the screen. I think someone's wiped everything off the hard disk, even the operating system; the machine's just humming."

"Are there any diskettes?" Devon asked. The FBI agents had found none.

"Floppies?
No. They must have taken them. Dad always kept the hard disk backed up on floppies. There was a file case for them, but I don't see it anywhere."

"All right.
What do you see?"

"They've been into his safe. It's behind the desk, very obvious behind a painting. I told Dad it was obvious, but he said that was okay, he never kept anything important in there. They've ripped the painting and broken the hinges."

"Look at the desk, Lara. Look carefully."

"I see it. There's nothing.
Just the computer.
The papers and files that are usually there are on the floor, mostly torn in pieces."

"Fine.
Now keep looking clockwise around the room."

She drew a shuddering breath. "Dad's on the floor. He looks—"

"Easy, honey.
Easy.
Look at it as if it's a picture.
Just a photograph."

"But it isn't. It's real. They've killed him..."
Her voice wavered, unsteady with horror and pain.
Abruptly, her eyes snapped open, blind for an instant. "I can't. I can't keep looking—"

Devon pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, stroking her soft hair.
"All right.
All right, honey. You did just fine. Don't think about it anymore."

For a moment, Lara held on to him, but then she pushed back far enough to meet his concerned gaze. "It doesn't matter," she said tiredly. "There wasn't anything else. Dad's desk was to the right of the door. I told you I wouldn't think of anything to help us."

He was silent, his arms still around her. Then, quietly, he said, "You told me more than you told the agents who questioned you before."

"I did?" She was puzzled. "What?"

"That your father had something with fingerprints."

Lara thought about it, but shook her head. "I don't see that it helps us."

"It tells us that your father's evidence wasn't something that could have been wiped off a computer disk. And that it was evidence he believed to be safe. He hid it somewhere, Lara. The cartel didn't find it, and we didn't find it. So it still exists."

"Somewhere."

"Yes.
Somewhere."

"I don't know where it is."

Devon hesitated,
then
said, "I can't believe he'd hide it so thoroughly that professionals couldn't find it without making sure you could. He was in danger, and he knew it; there was every possibility that the cartel might guess what he was up to and stop him. He had to protect you."

Lara shook her head. "You know what he told me.
Nothing.
Just that he had evidence that would stand up in court. Devon, he never told me where it was. I've gone over every conversation of those last few days; he just said that the less I knew, the better it would be."

Devon was silent.

She managed a faint smile. "So there won't be a last-minute reprieve."

"Don't say that," he told her instantly. "Don't say it as if—"

"As if I've been condemned?"

"Dammit, Lara."

"Hey, I haven't given up yet. We have a chance of catching the cartel's man, and maybe that'll be enough."

Devon held her a bit tighter, unwilling to tell her that he doubted it would be. The cartel's man was likely to be a professional hired for this job, with little or no knowledge of the men he was working for. Even if he turned out to be a totally cooperative witness, the chances were good that he would be able to tell them nothing that would help.