Sidney Sheldon's Angel of the Dark (16 page)

“That's okay.” Matt stroked her hair soothingly. The truth was, he hadn't been fully honest with Lisa either. She still knew nothing about his connection with Interpol and Danny McGuire. All this time she'd been sharing her home, and now her bed, with a police mole. If that wasn't a betrayal, he didn't know what was.

Nervously, stumbling over her words, Lisa told Matt about the affair. There had only been one lover, not a string of them, as McGuire had implied. She'd denied the relationship to the police in order to protect the young man involved. She had never loved him, nor he her, but he'd helped alleviate the loneliness of her marriage to Miles.

“When Miles and I dated, we were intimate. It wasn't the most passionate relationship in the world—Miles was a lot older—but we did make love. But after we married, things changed. Miles was kind to me and affectionate. But he put me on a pedestal in his mind. As if I were this pure, untouchable thing. Relations between us were…rare.”

For a second, Matt felt an affinity with Miles Baring. Lisa was incredibly desirable. Yet at the same time she was
so
perfect,
so
good, he understood the urge to cast her as a Madonna, something to be worshipped rather than defiled.

“It was a sex thing, then. Between you and this man?”

Lisa blushed and looked away. “Do you hate me?”

Matt pulled her close, breathing in the warm scent of her. “I could never hate you. You're everything to me.”

Lisa looked pained. “Don't say that.”

“Why not? It's true. You know it's true. I think I might hate
him,
but that's a different matter. And I certainly don't think you should be protecting him at your own expense.”

“I have to protect him,” said Lisa.

“Why?”

“Because. It's my duty. We promised not to reveal each other's identity.”

“Yeah, but that was before Miles was murdered and you were raped. That kind of changes things, don't you think? Liu obviously suspects he was involved.”

Lisa shook her head in silent misery. “Nothing changes a promise. Breaking a vow is wrong. It's wrong.” She rolled away from him to the other side of the bed.

“How well do you know this guy?” asked Matt, his blood running cold. What if Inspector Liu and Danny were right? Not about Lisa being an accomplice to the murder of her husband—that was ridiculous—but about her lover being the killer? He clearly still had some sort of hold over her.

Lisa answered with her face to the wall. “How well does anybody know anyone?”
More riddles.
“How well do you and I know each other, if it comes to that?”

The echoes of Danny McGuire's words were uncomfortable. Had that conversation really only been last night? It felt like a lifetime ago.

“Tell me his name, Lisa.”

“I can't. I'm sorry.”

Matt said bitterly, “You don't trust me.”

Lisa turned back around, propping herself up on her elbow, her magnificent breasts tumbling onto the Frette sheets between them. “I do trust you, Matt,” she said indignantly. “You have no idea what a big deal that is for me. At least I'm being honest, which is more than I can say for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“That phone call last night. You brushed it off when I asked you about it. But it wasn't just a ‘misunderstanding with a friend,' was it? It was about me.”

Matt sighed. “Okay. Yes, it was.” After all this time it was a relief to admit it. He told her about Danny McGuire, how he'd worked on the original investigation into Andrew Jakes's homicide and since moved to Interpol, but how Matt had tracked him down and told him about the other murders, of Didier Anjou and Piers Henley.

“The other widows all disappeared, as you know, but you were still safe, at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. I flew out here to find out what I could and report back to McGuire.”

The blood drained from Lisa's face.

“And did you? ‘Report back,' I mean? Oh my God. Is that why you slept with me? To try to get more information out of me, to get me to open up?”

“No!” Matt shook his head vehemently. “That's why I came out here, but once I met you, everything changed. I haven't contacted McGuire once, I swear. That was part of the reason he was pissed at me last night on the phone. I disappeared on him.”

Lisa drew her knees up to her chest, the sheet wrapped defensively around her. She thought about what Matt had said. Eventually she asked him, “What was the other part? You said that was ‘part of the reason' he was pissed. What was the other part?”

Matt swallowed. In for a penny, in for a pound. He might as well tell her now.

“He'd spoken to Liu. He told me you were cheating on Miles and that he thought you might have been an accessory to his murder.”

Lisa gasped.

“I know, I know. I told him he was blowing smoke out of his ass, that you had nothing to do with it. But he wanted me to leave you, to get out of Mirage and come home. Liu had pictures of you and me together. He'd put two and two together and made about a thousand. I think Danny was worried that if I got arrested it would come out that he and I were working together. The folks at Interpol aren't too thrilled about having amateurs meddling in their cases. Danny might have gotten in trouble, or at the very least been pulled off the case.”

“So you knew I was cheating on Miles,” said Lisa. “You knew and it didn't bother you?”

“I didn't know. McGuire told me you were, but I didn't believe him. It didn't jibe with the Lisa I know.”

The Lisa you know!
It was so poignant, so pathetic in a way, Lisa didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Matt said, “I love you so much. I don't care what happened before you and I met.”

“You should, Matt. The past—”

“—is gone. You know, last night Danny McGuire asked me the same question you just did: How well do I really know you? How well do you really know me? And you know what the answer is?”

“What?”

“The answer is, we know what we need to know. We know we love each other. That's enough.”

Lisa stroked his cheek tenderly. “You don't really believe that, do you?”

“Yes. I do.”

“But what if someone's past is a nightmare. What if it's worse than you can possibly imagine? What if it's unforgivable?”

“Nothing's unforgivable.” Matt reached for her. “I'm not in love with your past, Lisa. I'm in love with you.”

Their lovemaking was more restrained than it had been the previous night. Less explosive, but closer, more tender. If Matt had had any
doubts about Lisa's feelings, they evaporated at the touch of her hand, the caress of her lips on his skin, his hair, the soft, lulling cadence of her voice.
I love you, Matt. I love you.

Afterward Matt called room service and ordered two whiskeys. It was very late, past one, but both of their minds were racing.

Matt spoke first. “Let's run away together.”

Lisa laughed. She adored Matt's sense of humor. She'd laughed more since meeting him than at any time she could remember, despite the desperate circumstances.

“I'm serious. Let's take off.”

“We can't,” said Lisa, putting a finger to Matt's lips.

“Sure we can. We can do whatever we want.”

“Shhh.” Lisa snuggled into him, her heavy eyes at last beginning to close.

“I'm serious,” said Matt.

“So am I. Now go to sleep.”

 

B
Y THE TIME
L
ISA OPENED HER
eyes, Matt was already at the desk, hammering away at his laptop. He'd had the forethought to have Mrs. Harcourt send over both his and Lisa's computers from Bali in the Barings' private plane, along with a small case of clothes and other essentials. They'd arrived at the Peninsula overnight.

Lisa watched him work, naked except for a small white towel knotted at his waist.
He's so beautiful,
she thought with a pang. Not model handsome like some of the men she'd known over the years, but sexy in his own warm, loving, quirky way. She allowed herself a moment's fantasy: she and Matt, married, happy, living far away from Hong Kong, far away from the rest of the world. Safe. Free. Together.

Catching her staring, Matt looked up and smiled. “Breakfast?”

Lisa grinned. “Sure. I'm starving.”

They ordered fresh fruit salad and croissants with hot coffee and a side of crispy bacon for Matt. Lisa ate hers in bed, but Matt remained glued to the screen.

“What are you doing?” she asked him eventually, spooning the last of the honey onto her third croissant and biting into it greedily.

“I told you last night,” said Matt. “Planning our escape.”

“And I told
you
last night,” said Lisa. “We can't just disappear together. Inspector Liu only released me from custody on condition that I stay in Hong Kong. Remember what John Crowley said last night? Don't give him any ammunition. It's vital that we play things by the book.”

Matt closed his computer. “Screw John Crowley.”

“Matt, come on. The jealous boyfriend shtick's cute and all, but this is serious.”

“I know it is. Lisa, the Chinese police are trying to frame you for Miles's murder. They've already got Interpol buying into their theory, that you and your mystery boyfriend staged the whole thing. Just because Liu hasn't charged you yet doesn't mean he's not going to.”

“But he's got no evidence.”

“Sure he has evidence. It's circumstantial, and it's bullshit, but convictions have been built on less, believe me. If you continue to refuse to name this other guy—”

“We've been through that.” Lisa sounded exasperated.

“I know. I'm not trying to change your mind. I'm simply stating the fact that they don't have him, but they
do
have you. And a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Liu knows that the American, British and French police were all left with a fistful of feathers. He won't let you go till he's made something stick.”

Lisa hesitated. It wasn't that the idea of running away with Matt Daley wasn't appealing. It was wonderful, a fantasy, a dream. But it couldn't be done.
Could it?

“Every day we stay here, we're like sitting ducks,” said Matt. “Either for Liu or for the killer, whoever he is. Is that what you want?”

No. You're right. It's not what I want. But my life isn't about what I want. It's about what I have to do. My duty. My destiny.

“If I run, I'll look guilty.”

“You
look
guilty now, angel. I'm afraid that's part of the problem. The tabloids already hate you.”

“Thanks a lot!” Lisa tried to make light of it, but the laugh caught in her throat. Matt walked over to the bed and kissed her.

“I'm just being realistic.”

“I know you are.” Lisa pushed aside her breakfast. She wasn't hungry
anymore. “So what do we do? Theoretically, I mean, in this grand escape plan of yours. Where would we go?”

Grabbing his laptop from the desk, Matt brought it over to the bed. He clicked open a map of the world.

“You tell me.”

He wanted to pick somewhere special, someplace that Lisa had happy memories of. But he realized when he woke up this morning that he still knew next to nothing about Lisa's life before she met Miles. She was American, raised in New York. Her parents were both dead and she had no family, save for one estranged sister. She was obviously well traveled. Her conversation was peppered with references to Europe and North Africa. And at some point she'd taken a job in Asia, where she'd met Miles. But that was it. If she had roots anywhere, Matt didn't know about them.

“Where do you think you'd be happy?”

Where would I be happy? I've been to so many wonderful places. Rome, Paris, London, New York. I've soaked up the sun on a Malibu beach and swum in the Mediterranean off the Italian Riviera. But have I ever truly been happy?

“Anywhere significant. Anywhere that means somewhere to you…outside of the States, obviously. I don't think it'd be the smartest move for either of us to go back there.”

Lisa stared at the map, her mind a blank. Then suddenly the answer came to her, as blindingly obvious as the nose on her face. She stroked the screen lovingly with her finger.

“Morocco. I'd like to go to Morocco.”

I
'
M NOT HAPPY ABOUT THIS
, M
C
G
UIRE.
Not happy at all.”

Henri Frémeaux didn't look happy. Then again, Henri Frémeaux never looked happy.

“I understand that, sir.”

“We are here to assist and facilitate.
Assist
and
facilitate.
Which part of those two words do you not understand?”

“I do understand, sir.”

“Oh, really? Then why do I find myself on the receiving end of an extremely tense telephone call with Hong Kong's chief of police, informing me that the Azrael team has been obstructive, difficult and unavailable, and that…”—he consulted his notes—“Inspector Liu cannot even get his phone calls returned.”

“With all due respect, sir, Liu asked me to ‘assist' him by liaising with the Indonesian authorities. I was in the process of doing that when he decided to take matters into his own hands, arresting at least one innocent American citizen and possibly two. The legality of his actions was dubious at best.”

“I'm not here to pass judgment on how the Hong Kong Chinese conduct their affairs!” Frémeaux shot back angrily. “My job is to see to it that we, Interpol, are doing
our
job. These protocols exist for a reason, you know.”

Yeah,
thought Danny,
to satisfy uptight pen pushers like you.

Still, he could understand Henri Frémeaux's irritation. So far the Azrael task force had made little or no headway, other than Richard Sturi's brilliant statistical analysis; but without any forthcoming arrest on the horizon, that too was academic. Azrael had also taken up a phenomenal amount of time and resources, far more than the eight man-hours Frémeaux had grudgingly allotted. It was mostly Danny McGuire's time, although Danny had just sent Claude Demartin on a fact-finding mission to Aix-en-Provence to delve deeper into the scant DNA evidence surrounding Didier Anjou's murder.
Thank God Frémeaux doesn't know about that yet. Or about Matt Daley's involvement in the Hong Kong fiasco. Then we'd really be up shit creek.

“I'll give you a month, McGuire,” Henri Frémeaux grunted. “That's assuming I get no more calls from member countries complaining about your attitude.”

“You won't, sir. I guarantee it.”

“If I don't see tangible progress in that time—and by
tangible
I mean something that justifies the money we're spending chasing our tails—Azrael is finished.”

Danny McGuire walked back to his own office despondent. Céline was barely talking to him. At work, his own IRT division, who had always been extremely loyal to him personally, was starting to get pissed at the amount of time he was devoting to Azrael, which most of them considered to be the wildest of wild-goose chases. When he started all this, he'd thought of Matt Daley as a partner, a fellow American who cared about catching the Jakes killer, as Danny still thought of him, as much as he did. But now even Matt had deserted him, apparently besotted by the beautiful Mrs. Baring, the latest of the widows. It was a long time since Danny McGuire had felt this alone. Not since the wilderness years, after Angela Jakes went missing.

Initially he'd been focusing his own energy on trying to track down Lyle Renalto, unable to shake the idea that Angela Jakes's lawyer was a key piece of the puzzle. It was Claude Demartin who'd put forward the “lover-killer” theory, although the seeds of Danny's distrust in Lyle Renalto had been sown more than a decade ago, when first they'd met at Angela's hospital bedside. But after weeks of intensive digging, trawling through databases in every country connected with Azrael, as well as all
the major U.S. cities, he'd drawn a complete and total blank. The first official reference to Lyle Renalto was a tax return filed in Los Angeles just a year before Andrew Jakes was killed. Before that, there was nothing. And a year after the murder,
poof,
he was gone again, as if he'd never existed.

Angela Jakes's words on the night of the murder floated back across Danny's mind.
“I have no life.”
Lyle Renalto had no life either. Officially, neither Angela nor Lyle had either a past or a future. Looking for some sort of pattern, Danny began digging into the backgrounds of the other victims' widows, Tracey Henley and Irina Anjou. In both cases it was the same thing. There were marriage certificates, but no birth certificates. No family had ever come forward to search for these missing women, or even officially to report them missing. They too apparently “had no life” before or after the terrible crimes that came to define them.

“Oh, there you are. I've been trying to get hold of you all morning.” Mathilde, Danny's secretary, pounced on him the moment he walked through the door. She ran through the long litany of requests and demands on Danny's time, the myriad other IRT cases that he'd been neglecting and the names of the various colleagues who were baying for his blood. When she was finally done, Danny headed into his private office. As an afterthought, Mathilde called out to him, “Oh, and Claude Demartin called. He says he has news and would you call him back as soon as possible.”

 

A
T THE
P
ENINSULA, THINGS BEGAN MOVING
at lightning speed. Every morning, almost every hour, Lisa Baring had the same thought:
I've got to stop this. We can't simply run away.
But Matt's enthusiasm, his self-belief, was so strong and so intoxicating that she allowed herself to be swept along with it, to believe the impossible: that maybe, with him, she
could
escape. Outrun her destiny. Be happy.

Matt spent the bulk of each morning making Skype calls from his computer. Having decided air travel was too risky, he'd planned a route using only boats and trains, booking under false names and transferring money anonymously via DigiCash from Lisa's Alpha Offshore account. Matt hoped that, in Asia at least, a hefty bribe would prove an acceptable alternative to picture ID. The plan was for Matt to leave first, in the small hours of the morning. Assuming they were being watched twenty-four hours a day by Inspector Liu's men, the idea was that Matt's departure
would lure the surveillance crew away from the hotel. He would then have to lose them somewhere on the DLR and head for the harbor. This should provide enough distraction for Lisa to slip out at six
A.M.,
dressed in the plain knee-length blue uniform worn by all the Peninsula maids, hopefully without being noticed.

Lisa asked Matt, “How on earth are we going to get hold of a uniform? Hit some poor girl over the head?”

“No. We'll ask her nicely. Failing that, we'll try a fifty-dollar bill and a signed photograph of Matt LeBlanc.”

Lisa laughed out loud.

“You think I'm kidding?
Friends
is still huge over here.” Sure enough, he pulled a sheaf of publicity head shots out of a drawer. “You'd be amazed how far these go with our Chinese friends. Like cigarettes in jail.”

Lisa shook her head. “So our grand escape plan begins with Joey Tribbiani?”

“Uh-huh. Have some faith, Lise. I know what I'm doing.”

After Lisa's getaway, the next stage was a fishing boat to the mainland, where a “fixer”—Mr. Ong—had agreed to arrange their passage via the South China Sea and Sunda Strait to Cape Town. From there a long series of overnight train rides would ultimately bear them north. It would be a month at least before they arrived in Casablanca.

“Simple,” said Matt, which made Lisa laugh again, because, of course, the plan was anything but simple. In truth, it was fraught with danger at every turn. But Matt's confidence was unshakable, and the fantasy too sweet and perfect to resist.

We'll live anonymously in some tranquil
riad,
watching the birds flit around the fountain in the courtyard. All will be peace and calm and beauty.

He'll never find me.

The madness will end.

At nine o'clock the night before they were due to leave, Matt left a sealed envelope with cash at the front desk. Running for his life or not, Matt Daley wasn't the sort of guy to disappear without paying his bill. Upstairs in their suite, he and Lisa drank a last nightcap of whiskey and settled down for a few short hours of sleep.

The alarm was set for two
A.M
.

For the plan to work, Matt had to be on his way before three
A.M
.

 

C
LAUDE
D
EMARTIN HAD BEEN ON THE
autoroute for five straight hours before he took the exit marked
Aix-en-Provence.
Skirting the ancient city itself, he finally pulled in outside a nondescript light-industrial complex.

Wedged between the autoroute and the railway line, Laboratoire Chaumures was a forensic facility used by all the police forces of southern France. Two days earlier, Danny McGuire had received a call from one of their senior research technicians, confirming that the lab had indeed provided DNA sample analysis on the Anjou murder and rape case last year.

“But there were no such results filed in the police case notes,” said Danny.

The technician sighed. “No. I'm afraid that's typical. Unless there's a trial and the prospect of fortune and glory, the Tropezien police's attitude to evidence preservation is laissez-faire, to say the least.”

Thirty-six hours later, Claude Demartin was meeting the technician face-to-face. His name was Albert Dumas. In his early fifties, tall, thin and angular, with a white lab coat so crisp you could get a paper cut from looking at it, and a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his volelike nose, he was instantly recognizable to Demartin as a fellow forensics nerd. The two men took to each other instantly.

“Come inside, Detective.” Dumas pumped Claude Demartin's hand enthusiastically. “I think you'll be excited by what we found.”

Inside, the lab was one giant, open-plan space, with a series of glass-enclosed cubicles arranged around the perimeter. Some of these were offices, simple, IKEA-furnished affairs. Others were teaching rooms, set up with whiteboards, benches and laser pointers, and with banks of microscopes neatly arranged along the back walls. Others still were labs. Albert Dumas led Claude Demartin into one of the offices, where a neat stack of printouts sat next to a computer on the desk.

“So the local police kept no record of this data?” asked Claude.

“So your boss told me. I can't say I was surprised.”

“But you keep your own independent records?”

Dumas sounded offended. “Of course. We have semen analysis, hair analysis, blood work, fingerprints. It's all here. I've run a comparison with the data you sent us from the other cases.”

“And…?”

“The bad news is that the blood work you've sent us is pretty much useless.”

Claude frowned.
That's supposed to get me excited?

“The Henley samples had clearly been contaminated somehow in the Scotland Yard lab.”

“How about the Jakes results?”

Albert Dumas flipped through his printouts. “No blood other than the victims' was found at the Los Angeles crime scene. Which was the same with the Anjou case, by the way.”

“So we've got nothing?”

“Not quite. Hong Kong was a little more promising. There were three distinct samples taken from the Barings' home. But the blood that did not come from the victims themselves was standard type O, I'm afraid.”

“Which narrows our suspect pool to about forty percent of the world population,” Claude Demartin said bleakly. “Terrific. So what's the good news?”

“Ah, well.” Dumas brightened. “At first I thought there wasn't any. Most of the fingerprints were compromised, so there were no clear matches there, and the semen results were conflicted.”

“Conflicted how?”

“Both Mrs. Henley and Mrs. Jakes had had intercourse with their husbands on the nights in question, and there was no ejaculation during the Baring rape. That left us with only one decent semen sample: ours, from Irina Anjou. I sent the data to Assistant Director McGuire's office first thing this morning while you were driving down here, but unfortunately it didn't match with any of the sex offenders on Interpol's systems.”

Demartin waited for the “but.”
Please let there be a “but.”

“But,” Albert Dumas said obligingly, “I had a thought a few hours ago about other physical evidence. There were numerous hair samples collected at the Hong Kong crime scene. Nowhere else. Just at the Baring house.”

Claude Demartin vaguely remembered. “The Chinese ran tests on those at the time, though, and got nowhere. And those guys don't mess around. Their forensic facilities are some of the best in the world.”

“True. But the Anjou evidence was never logged in any police database. They could only study what they had, and they never had access to our data.”

Claude felt the familiar tingle of excitement he always got when a case was about to break. Human behavior was riddled with errors and inconsistencies. But forensic evidence, if properly handled, never lied.

Albert Dumas grinned. “I am now able to tell you, with a hundred percent certainty, that one of the hairs found in Mr. Baring's bedroom—item 0029076 in Inspector Liu's evidence log—is an exact DNA match to the semen retrieved from Mrs. Anjou.” He handed Claude Demartin the relevant piece of paper.

“It was the same man,” Claude whispered excitedly. “The same killer.”

Albert Dumas frowned. “That's for you to decide, Detective. I couldn't possibly hazard a guess.”

“But the results…”

“Tell us only that the man who inseminated Irina Anjou on May 16, 2005, was the same man whose hair was found in Miles Baring's bedroom. That much is a scientifically provable fact. Anything beyond that is mere conjecture.”