The Face of Deception (3 page)

She stood up and went over to the pedestal. “He can't be so smart, Mandy. He didn't even know you were a girl.” Not that many people would have.

The desk phone rang.

Mom? She had been having trouble with the ignition on her car lately.

Not her mother.

“I remembered something just as I reached the car,” Logan said. “I thought I'd throw it into the pot for you to consider with the original deal.”

“I'm not considering the original deal.”

“Five hundred thousand for you. Five hundred thousand to go to the Adam Fund for Missing and Runaway Children. I understand you contribute a portion of your fees to that fund.” His voice lowered persuasively. “Do you realize how many children could be brought home to their parents with that amount of money?”

She knew better than he did. He couldn't have offered a more tempting lure. My God, Machiavelli could have taken lessons from him.

“All those children. Aren't they worth two weeks of your time?”

They were worth a decade of her time. “Not if it means doing something criminal.”

“Criminal acts are often in the eyes of the beholder.”

“Bullshit.”

“Suppose I promise you that I had nothing to do with any foul play connected with the skull.”

“Why should I believe any promise you make?”

“Check me out. I don't have a reputation for lying.”

“Reputation doesn't mean anything. People lie when it means enough to them. I've worked hard to establish my career. I won't see it go down the drain.”

There was silence. “I can't promise you that you won't come out of this without a few scars, but I'll try to protect you as much as I can.”

“I can protect myself. All I have to do is tell you no.”

“But you're tempted, aren't you?”

Christ, she was tempted.

“Seven hundred thousand to the fund.”

“No.”

“I'll call you tomorrow.” He hung up the phone.

Damn him.

She replaced the receiver. The bastard knew how to push the right buttons. All that money channeled to find the other lost ones, the ones who might still be alive . . .

Wouldn't it be worth a risk to see even some of them brought home? Her gaze went to the pedestal. Mandy might have been a runaway. Maybe if she'd had a chance to come home she wouldn't . . .

“I shouldn't do it, Mandy,” she whispered. “It could be pretty bad. People don't fork out over a million dollars for something like this if they're even slightly on the up-and-up. I have to tell him no.”

But Mandy couldn't answer. None of the dead could answer.

But the living could, and Logan had counted on her listening to the call.

Damn him.

Logan leaned back in the driver's seat, his gaze on Eve Duncan's small clapboard house.

Was it enough?

Possibly. She had definitely been tempted. She had a passionate commitment to finding lost children and he had played on it as skillfully as he could.

What kind of man did that make him? he thought wearily.

A man who needed to get the job done. If she didn't succumb to his offer, he'd go higher tomorrow.

She was tougher than he'd thought she'd be. Tough and smart and perceptive. But she had an Achilles' heel.

And there was no doubt on earth that he would exploit it.

“He just drove off,” Fiske said into his digital phone. “Should I follow him?”

“No, we know where he's staying. He saw Eve Duncan?”

“She was home all evening and he stayed over four hours.”

Timwick cursed. “She's going to go for it.”

“I could stop her,” Fiske said.

“Not yet. She has friends in the police department. We don't want to make waves.”

“The mother?”

“Maybe. It would certainly cause a delay at least. Let me think about it. Stay there. I'll call you back.”

Scared rabbit, Fiske thought contemptuously. He could hear the nervousness in Timwick's voice. Timwick was always thinking, hesitating instead of taking the clean, simple way. You had to decide what result you needed and then just take the step that would bring that result. If he had Timwick's power and resources, there would be no limit to what he could do. Not that he wanted Timwick's job. He liked what he did. Not many people found their niche in life as he had.

He rested his head on the back of the seat, staring at the house.

It was after midnight. The mother should be returning soon. He'd already unscrewed the porch light. If Timwick called him right away, he might not have to go into the house.

If the prick could make up his mind to do the smart, simple thing and let Fiske kill her.

THREE

“You know you're going to do it, Mama,” Bonnie said. “I don't understand why you're worrying so much.”

Eve sat up in bed and looked at the window seat. When she came, Bonnie was always in the window seat with her jean-clad legs crossed. “I don't know any such thing.”

“You won't be able to help yourself. Trust me.”

“Since you're only my dream, you can't know more than what I know.”

Bonnie sighed. “I'm not your dream. I'm a ghost, Mama. What do I have to do to convince you? Being a ghost shouldn't be this hard.”

“You can tell me where you are.”

“I don't know where he buried me. I wasn't there anymore.”

“Convenient.”

“Mandy doesn't know either. But she likes you.”

“If she's there with you, then what's her real name?”

“Names don't matter anymore to us, Mama.”

“They matter to me.”

Bonnie smiled. “Because you probably need to put a name to love. It's really not necessary.”

“Very profound for a seven-year-old.”

“Well, for goodness' sake, it's been ten years. Stop trying to trap me. Who says a ghost doesn't grow up? I couldn't stay seven forever.”

“You look the same.”

“Because I'm what you want to see.” She leaned back against the alcove wall. “You're working too hard, Mama. I've been worrying about you. Maybe this job with Logan will be good for you.”

“I'm not taking the job.”

Bonnie smiled.

“I'm not,” Eve repeated.

“Whatever.” Bonnie was staring out the window. “You were thinking about me and the honeysuckle tonight. I like it when you feel good about me.”

“You've told me that before.”

“So I'm repeating it. You were hurting too much in the beginning. I couldn't get near you. . . .”

“You're not near me now. You're only a dream.”

“Am I?” Bonnie looked back at her, and a loving smile lit her face. “Then you won't mind if your dream stays around a little longer? Sometimes I get so lonesome for you, Mama.”

Bonnie. Love. Here.

Oh, God, here.

It didn't matter that it was a dream.

“Yes, stay,” she whispered huskily. “Please stay, baby.”

The sun was streaming through the window when Eve opened her eyes the next morning. She glanced at the clock and immediately sat up in bed. It was almost eight-thirty and she always got up at seven. She was surprised her mother hadn't come in to check on her.

She swung her feet to the floor and headed down the hall to the shower, rested and optimistic as she usually was after dreaming of Bonnie. A psychiatrist would have a field day with those dreams, but she didn't give a damn. She had started dreaming of Bonnie three years after her death. The dreams came frequently, but there was no telling when she'd have them or what triggered them. Maybe when she had a problem and needed to work through it? At any rate, the effect was always positive. When she awoke she felt composed and capable, as she did today, confident that she could take on the world.

And John Logan.

She dressed quickly in jeans and a loose white shirt, her uniform when she was working, and ran down the stairs to the kitchen.

“Mom, I overslept. Why didn't you—”

No one was in the kitchen. No smell of bacon, no frying pans on the stove . . . The room appeared the same as it had been at midnight when she'd come in.

And Sandra hadn't been home when she'd gone to bed. She glanced out the window, and relief rushed through her. Her mother's car was parked in its usual spot in the driveway.

She'd probably gotten in late and had overslept too. It was Saturday and she didn't have to work.

Eve would have to be careful not to mention she'd been worried, she thought ruefully. Sandra had noticed Eve's tendency toward overprotection and had a perfect right to resent it.

She poured a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator, reached for the portable phone on the wall, and dialed Joe at the precinct.

“Diane says you haven't called her,” he said. “You should be phoning her, not me.”

“This afternoon, I promise.” She sat down at the kitchen table. “Tell me about John Logan.”

There was silence at the other end of the line. “He's contacted you?”

“Last night.”

“A job?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of job?”

“I don't know. He's not telling me much.”

“You must be thinking about it if you're calling me. What did he use as bait?”

“The Adam Fund.”

“Christ, has he got your number.”

“He's smart. I want to know how smart.” She took a sip of orange juice. “And how honest.”

“Well, he's not in the same category as your Miami drug runner.”

“That's not very comforting. Has he ever done anything criminal?”

“Not as far as I know. Not in this country.”

“Isn't he a U.S. citizen?”

“Yes, but when he was first establishing his company he spent a number of years in Singapore and Tokyo trying to improve his products and studying marketing strategies.”

“It seems to have worked. Were you joking when you said he probably left a few bodies by the wayside?”

“Yes. We don't know much about those years he spent abroad. The people who came in contact with him are tough as hell and they respect him. Does that tell you anything?”

“That I should be careful.”

“Right. He has the reputation of being a straight shooter and he inspires loyalty in his employees. But you have to consider that all of that is on the surface.”

“Can you find out anything more for me?”

“Like what?”

“Anything. What's he been doing lately that's unusual? Will you dig a little deeper for me?”

“You've got it. I'll start right away.” He paused. “But it's not going to come cheap. You call Diane this afternoon and you come down to the lake house with us next weekend.”

“I don't have time to—” She sighed. “I'll be there.”

“And without any bones rattling around in your suitcase.”

“Okay.”

“And you have to have a good time.”

“I always have a good time with you and Diane. But I don't know why you put up with me.”

“It's called friendship. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, thanks, Joe.”

“For digging out the dirt on Logan?”

“No.” For having been the only one holding back the madness that had clawed at her during all those nights of horror, and for all the years of work and companionship that had followed. She cleared her throat. “Thanks for being my friend.”

“Well, as your friend, I'd advise you to go very carefully with Mr. Logan.”

“It's a lot of money for the kids, Joe.”

“And he knew how to manipulate you.”

“He didn't manipulate me. I haven't made any decision yet.” She finished her orange juice. “I've got to get to work. You'll let me know?”

“That I will.”

She hung up the phone and rinsed out her glass.

Coffee?

No, she'd make a pot at the lab. On weekends Mom usually came down in the middle of the morning and had coffee with her. It was a nice break for both of them.

She took the lab key from the blue bowl on the counter, ran down the porch steps, and started for the lab.

Stop thinking about Logan. She had work to do. She had Mandy's head to finish and she had to go over that packet the LAPD had sent her last week.

Logan would call her today or come to the house. She hadn't the slightest doubt. Well, he could talk all he pleased. He wouldn't get an answer from her. She had to find out more about—

The lab door was ajar.

She froze on the path.

She knew she had locked it the previous night as she always did. The key had been in the blue bowl, where she always threw it.

Mom?

No, the doorjamb was splintered as if the lock had been jimmied. It had to have been a thief.

She slowly pushed open the door.

Blood.

Sweet Jesus, blood everywhere . . .

Blood on the walls.

On the shelves.

On the desk.

Bookcases had been hurled to the floor and appeared to have been chopped to pieces. The couch was overturned, the glass on all the picture frames had been shattered.

And the blood . . .

Her heart leapt to her throat.

Mom? Had she come to the lab and surprised the thief?

She strode forward, panic making her heart race.

“My God, it's Tom-Tom.”

Eve whirled to see her mother standing in the doorway. Relief turned her knees weak.

Her mother was staring at a corner of the room. “Who would do that to a poor little cat?”

Eve's gaze followed hers and her stomach lurched. The Persian was covered with blood and barely recognizable. Tom-Tom belonged to their neighbor but spent a lot of time in their yard chasing the birds attracted by the honeysuckle.

“Mrs. Dobbins is going to be heartbroken.” Her mother stepped into the room. “That old cat was the only thing she was close to in the world. Why would—” Her gaze had moved to the floor by the side of the desk. “Oh, Eve, I'm sorry. All your work . . .”

Her computer had been smashed, and beside it lay Mandy's skull, shattered and destroyed with the same cruelty and efficiency that had been used on everything else in the room.

She fell to her knees beside the pieces of the skull. It would take a miracle to put it together again.

Mandy . . . lost. Maybe forever.

“Was anything taken?” Sandra asked.

“Not that I can tell.” She closed her eyes. Mandy . . . “They just destroyed everything.”

“Vandals? But we've got such nice kids in the neighborhood. They wouldn't—”

“No.” She opened her eyes. “Will you go call Joe, Mom? Ask him to come right away.” She looked at the cat, and tears rose to her eyes. He was almost nineteen and deserved to have a kinder death. “And get a little box and a sheet. While we're waiting, we'll take Tom-Tom to Mrs. Dobbins and help her bury him. We'll tell her he was run over by a car. It's kinder than telling her that some mindless savage did this.”

“Right.” Sandra hurried outside.

Mindless savage.

The destruction was savage, but it was neither mindless nor random. Instead, it was thorough and systematic. Whoever had done this had wanted to shock and hurt her.

She gently stroked a piece of Mandy's skull. Violence had touched the girl even in death. It shouldn't have happened to her any more than brutality should have ended the life of that poor little cat. Both were wrong. So wrong.

She carefully gathered up the skull pieces, but there was no place to put them. The pedestal across the room was smashed like everything else. She laid the pieces on the blood-smeared desk.

But why was the skull on this side of the room? she wondered suddenly. The vandal had deliberately carried it over before smashing it. Why?

Then the thought flew out of her mind as she saw the blood dripping from the top drawer of the desk.

Oh, God, more?

She didn't want to open the drawer. She wouldn't open it.

She did.

She screamed and jumped back.

A river of blood inside and, in the middle of the sticky pool, a dead rat.

She slammed the drawer shut.

“I've got the box and sheet.” Her mother had reappeared. “Do you want me to do it?”

Eve shook her head. Sandra looked as squeamish as Eve felt. “I'll do it. Is Joe coming?”

“Right away.”

Eve took the sheet, braced herself, and then moved toward the cat.

It's all right, Tom-Tom. We're taking you home.

Joe met her on the doorstep of the lab two hours later. He took one look and handed her his handkerchief. “There's a smudge on your cheek.”

“We just buried Tom-Tom.” She wiped her tear-stained cheeks. “Mom's still with Mrs. Dobbins. She loved that cat. It was her child.”

“I'd want to kill someone if they did anything to my retriever.” He shook his head. “We dusted but didn't come up with any prints. He probably wore gloves. We did find partial footprints in the blood. Big, probably belongs to a man, and only one set, so I'd bet it was a single perpetrator. Is there anything missing?”

“Not that I can tell. Just . . . destroyed.”

“I don't like it.” Joe glanced back over his shoulder at the wreckage. “Someone took a long time to do that thorough a job. It was pretty vicious and it doesn't look random to me.”

“I didn't think so either. Someone wanted to hurt me.”

“Any kids in the neighborhood?”

“None I'd suspect. This was too cold.”

“Have you called the insurance company?”

“Not yet.”

“Better do it.”

She nodded. Only the day before she'd told Logan she wasn't worried about leaving the lab unlocked. She hadn't imagined anything like this could happen. “I feel sick, Joe.”

“I know.” He took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “I'll have a black and white keep an eye on the house. Or how about you and your mom coming to my place for a few days?”

She shook her head.

“Okay.” He hesitated. “I should get back to the precinct. I want to check records, see if there's been any similar crimes in the area lately. You going to be all right?”

“I'll be fine. Thanks for coming, Joe.”

“I wish I could do more. We'll question your neighbors and see if we come up with anything.”

She nodded. “Except for Mrs. Dobbins. Don't send anyone to her house.”

“Right. If you need me, just call.”

She watched him walk away and then turned back to the lab. She didn't want to go inside. She didn't want to see that violence and ugliness again.

She had to do it. She had to make sure nothing was missing and then call the insurance company. She braced herself and then walked in. Again, the blood struck her like a blow. God, she had been so frightened when she had thought that blood might be her mother's.

Dead cats and butchered rats and blood. So much blood.

No.