The Face of Deception (7 page)

He was wrong. Dora Bentz was dead.

It was too late for her but maybe not for the others. A distraction could possibly save lives and give him the witnesses he desperately needed.

But he couldn't move fast without Eve Duncan. She was the key. He had to be patient and let her begin to trust him.

Trust building would be a slow process with someone as wary as Eve. She was smart and somewhere along the way she would find out that there was more danger to her and her family than an act of vandalism.

Scratch trust.

Then find a way to overcome her resistance and catapult her into his camp.

He leaned back in his chair and began to go over the possibilities.

“Hi.” Margaret stuck her head into the lab. “The decorators in charge of warming up the lab are here. Can you vacate the place for an hour and let them do their thing?”

Eve frowned. “I told you it wasn't necessary.”

“The lab isn't perfect, therefore it's necessary. I don't do my job halfway.”

“Only an hour?”

“I told them you didn't want to be bothered and they'd lose the sale if they took longer. And you do have to eat.” She checked her watch. “It's almost seven. How about having soup and a sandwich with me while we wait?”

“Just a minute.” She carefully moved the board with Mandy's bones to the bottom drawer of the desk. “Tell them not to touch the desk or they'll lose more than a sale. I'll murder them.”

“Right.” Margaret turned and disappeared.

Eve took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. A break would probably be good. She had made only a little progress in several hours and her frustration was growing. But a little progress was better than none. She'd tackle the work again after eating.

She encountered six men and two women in the hallway, bearing accent pillows, chairs, and carpets, and had to press back against the wall to avoid the stampede.

“This way.” Margaret took her arm, maneuvered her around two men carrying a rolled carpet, and led her toward the kitchen. “It's not as massive an undertaking as it looks. One hour, I promise.”

“I'm not timing you. A few minutes either way isn't going to matter.”

“Not going too well?” Margaret asked sympathetically. “Too bad.” They entered the kitchen and Margaret gestured to the two places set at the kitchen table. “I made tomato soup and cheese sandwiches. Is that okay?”

“Fine.” Eve sat down, picked up her napkin, and spread it on her lap. “I'm not that hungry.”

“I'm starved, but I'm on a diet and trying to be good.” She sat down opposite Eve and looked at her accusingly. “You've obviously never been on a diet in your life.”

Eve smiled. “Sorry.”

“You should be.” She reached for the TV remote on the counter. “Mind if I turn on the set? The President's having a press conference. John has me tape and listen to all of them and report to him if there's anything interesting.”

“I don't mind.” She began to eat. “If you don't mind my not paying any attention to it. Politics isn't my cup of tea.”

“Nor mine. But John is fairly obsessed with it.”

“I heard about the fund-raisers. Do you think he wants to go into politics himself?”

She shook her head. “He couldn't stand the bullshit.” She watched the TV for a moment. “Chadbourne's damn good. He's practically oozing warmth. Did you know they're calling him the most charismatic president since Reagan?”

“No. It's a big job and charisma doesn't get the work done.”

“But it can get you elected.” She nodded at the TV. “Look at him. Everyone says he might carry Congress this time.”

Eve looked. Ben Chadbourne was a big man in his late forties with a handsome face and gray eyes that sparkled with life and humor. He answered one of the reporters' questions with a good-natured jab. The room erupted into laughter.

“Impressive,” Margaret said. “And Lisa Chadbourne's not chopped liver. Did you see her suit? Valentino, I bet.”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Or care.” Margaret grimaced. “Well, I care. She always attends every press conference, and the only kick I get from watching them is seeing what she wears. Someday I'm going to be skinny enough to wear suits like that.”

“She's very attractive,” Eve agreed. “And she's doing wonderful work raising money for abused children.”

“Is she?” Margaret's tone was absent. “That suit's got to be Valentino.”

Eve smiled with amusement. She would never have dreamed a dynamo like Margaret would be so interested in clothes.

The suit in question was precisely cut to enhance Lisa Chadbourne's slim, athletic body. The soft beige color made her olive skin and sleek dark brown hair gleam in contrast. The President's wife was smiling at him from the sidelines, and she appeared both proud and loving. “Very nice.”

“Do you think she's had a face-lift? She's supposed to be forty-five but she doesn't look a day over thirty.”

“Maybe.” Eve finished her soup. “Or maybe she's just aging well.”

“I should be so lucky. I saw two new lines in my forehead this week. I stay out of the sun. I use moisturizer. I do everything right and I'm still going downhill.” Margaret flicked off the television set. “Looking at her depresses me. Chadbourne's just saying the same old things. Lower taxes. More jobs. Aid to children.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Tell that to John. Hell, Chadbourne says and does everything right and his wife smiles sweetly, has as many charities as Evita Peron, and bakes her own cookies. It's not going to be easy for John's party to oust an administration that everyone's calling the second Camelot.”

Unless he could find a way to smear the other party. The more Eve thought about it, the more likely that explanation seemed, and she didn't like it one bit. “Where is Logan?”

“He's been in the study all afternoon making phone calls.” Margaret stood up. “Coffee?”

“No, I had some in the lab an hour ago.”

“Well, evidently I did something right by providing the coffeemaker.”

“You did a great job. I have everything I need.”

“Lucky woman.” She poured coffee into her own cup. “Not many people can say that. Most of us aren't as fortunate. We have to compromise and—” She looked up, stricken. “God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that you—”

“Forget it.” She stood up. “Now I believe I have about twenty minutes more until your decorators finish with my lab. I think I'll go to my room and make a few phone calls too.”

“Have I chased you off?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm not that sensitive.”

Margaret's gaze raked her face. “I think you are. But you handle it damn well.” She paused and then added awkwardly, “I admire you. In your place, I don't think I could—” She shrugged. “Anyway, I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You didn't hurt me,” Eve said gently. “Truly. I do have phone calls to make.”

“Then go make them. I'll finish my coffee and then go nag those decorators and get them out of your way.”

“Thank you.” Eve left the kitchen and strode quickly to her room. What she had told Margaret had been partly true. Time had formed scars on the wounds and, in many ways, she
was
lucky. She had a worthwhile profession, a parent she loved, and good friends.

And she'd better check in with one of those friends, see if Joe had dug up anything more on Logan. She didn't like how the situation was shaping up, she thought grimly.

No, she'd call Mom first.

It took six rings before Sandra picked up, but when she did she was laughing. “Hello.”

“I guess I don't have to ask if you're okay,” Eve said. “What's so funny?”

“Ron just spilled paint on his—” She broke off, giggling. “You'd have to be here.”

“You're painting?”

“I told you I wanted to paint your lab. Ron offered to help me.”

“What color?” Eve asked warily.

“Blue and white. It's going to look like sky and clouds. We're trying one of those new finishes that you do with garbage bags.”

“Garbage bags?”

“I saw it on TV.” The receiver was suddenly covered. “Don't do that, Ron. You're messing up the clouds. The corners have to be done differently.” She came back on the line. “How are you?”

“Fine. I've been working on—”

“That's nice.” She was laughing again. “No cherubs, Ron. Eve would have a cow.”

“Cherubs?”

“I promise, just clouds.”

Good God, cherubs, clouds. “You're busy. I'll call you again in a few days.”

“I'm glad you're having a good time. Getting away is good for you.”

And it was obviously not causing her mother any problem. “No more trouble?”

“Trouble? Oh, you mean the break-in. Not a bit. Joe dropped by after work with Chinese food but left right after Ron got here. It turns out they know each other. I guess it's not so strange, Ron being in the D.A.'s office and Joe—Ron, you need more white in that blue paint. Eve, I have to go. He's going to ruin my clouds.”

“We wouldn't want that. Good-bye, Mom. Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

Eve was smiling as she hung up. Sandra sounded younger than she had ever heard her, and everything was Ron and how everything and everyone related to Ron. Nothing wrong with being young. Kids grew up quick in the slums and maybe Sandra would be able to snatch some of that childhood magic now.

Why did that thought make Eve feel a thousand years old?

Because she was stupid and selfish and maybe a little envious.

Joe.

She reached for the telephone again and then stopped.

Logan had known she had gone to the cemetery.

She didn't like the idea of that electronic beehive in the carriage house.

She was being paranoid. Video cameras didn't necessarily equate to bugged telephones.

But they might. Ever since she'd arrived there she'd had the vague sensation of being caught in a web.

So she was paranoid.

She stood up, dug her digital out of her shoulder bag, and punched in Joe's number.

“I was just going to call you. How are things going?”

“They're not going. I'm treading water. He wants to involve me more than I'm comfortable with. I need to know what I'm looking at. Did you dig up anything?”

“Maybe. But it's pretty weird.”

“What's not weird about all this?”

“It seems he's lately acquired an obsession about John F. Kennedy.”

“Kennedy,” she repeated, startled.

“Yeah. And Logan's a Republican, so that by itself is already weird. He paid a visit to the Kennedy Library. He ordered copies of the Warren Commission Report on Kennedy's assassination. He went to the book depository in Dallas and then to Bethesda.” Joe paused. “He even talked to Oliver Stone about the research he did for his movie
JFK
. All done very casual and quiet. No urgency. You'd never even make the connection between his actions unless you were looking for a pattern, like I was.”

“Kennedy.” It was bizarre. “That can't have anything to do with why I'm here. Is there anything else?”

“Not so far. You asked for out of the ordinary.”

“Well, you certainly gave it to me.”

“I'll keep looking.” He changed the subject. “I ran into your mom's current flame tonight. Ron's a nice guy.”

“She thinks so. Thanks for keeping an eye on her for me.”

“I don't think I'm going to have to do much more of it. Ron seemed pretty protective himself.”

“I haven't met him yet. Mom's afraid I'll scare him off.”

“You might.”

“What do you mean? You know I want whatever's best for Mom.”

“Yep, and you'll kick ass until you get it for her.”

“Am I that bad?”

Joe's voice softened. “No, you're that good. Look, I've got to go. Diane wants to catch a nine o'clock movie. I'll call you when I know anything more.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“Forget it. I probably didn't help you much.”

He probably hadn't, Eve thought as she hung up. Logan's interest in JFK might be just coincidence. What possible connection could there be between the ex-president and her present situation?

Coincidence? She doubted if anything Logan did was coincidental. He was too sharp, too much in control. His search for information about Kennedy was too recent not to be suspicious, and if he'd tried to keep his interest in Kennedy under wraps, it was for a reason.

What reason? It couldn't be of—

She stiffened with shock.

“Oh, my God.”

SEVEN

The library was unoccupied when she entered a few minutes later.

She slammed the door closed, flicked on the light, and strode toward the desk. She opened the right-hand drawer. Just papers and telephone books. She slammed it shut and opened the left-hand drawer.

Books. She pulled them out and set them on the desk.

The Warren Commission Report was on top. Beneath it was the Crenshaw book on the Kennedy autopsy and then a well-thumbed book titled
The Kennedy Conspiracy: Questions and Answers
.

“May I help you?” Logan stood in the doorway.

“Are you crazy, Logan?” She glared at him. “Kennedy? You've got to be out of your mind.”

He crossed the room and sat down at the desk. “You appear to be a little upset.”

“Why should I be upset? Just because you've brought me here on the wildest goose chase ever conceived by man. Kennedy?” she repeated. “What the hell kind of crackpot are you?”

“Why don't you sit down and take a deep breath.” He smiled. “You scare me when you loom over me like that.”

“Bullshit. This isn't funny, Logan.”

His smile vanished. “No, it's not funny. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. I tried to be so careful. I take it you didn't just decide to ransack my office out of curiosity. Joe Quinn?”

“Yes.”

“I heard he was very smart.” He shook his head. “But you're the one who sicced him on me. Why couldn't you have just left it alone?”

“You expected me to wander around in the dark?”

He was silent a moment. “No, I guess I didn't expect it. But I hoped. I wanted you to go into this unprejudiced.”

“I'd be unprejudiced no matter what I suspected. You have to be when you do my kind of work. But I can't believe you want me to help you dig up Kennedy.”

“No manual labor is required. I just need you to verify—”

“And get shot in the process. For God's sake, Kennedy is buried at Arlington Cemetery.”

“Is he?”

She went still. “What the devil are you saying?”

“Sit down.”

“I don't want to sit down. I want you to talk to me.”

“Okay.” He paused. “What if it isn't Kennedy buried at Arlington?”

“Heaven help me, not another conspiracy theory?”

“Conspiracy? Yes, I guess that about covers it. But with a slight twist. What if it were one of Kennedy's doubles who was shot in Dallas? What if Kennedy died before the Dallas trip?”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Kennedy's doubles?”

“Most public figures have doubles to protect both their lives and their privacy. It's estimated Saddam Hussein has at least six.”

“He's a dictator of a third-world country. No one could get away with that here.”

“Not without help.”

“Whose help?” she asked sarcastically. “Little John-John? Maybe brother Bobby?” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You're nuts. It's the most outrageous thing I've ever heard. Who the hell are you accusing?”

“I'm not accusing anyone. I'm just looking at possibilities. I've no idea how the man died. He had all kinds of health problems that weren't public knowledge. His death could have been by natural causes.”

“Could? My God, are you suggesting the cause might not have been natural?”

“You're not listening. Dammit, I don't
know
. The only thing I do know is that a deception that extensive would have involved more than one person.”

“A White House conspiracy. A cover-up.” She smiled mockingly. “And isn't it convenient for you that Kennedy was a Democrat? You can paint the opposition as a bunch of unscrupulous connivers not worthy of winning the election this year. What a coincidence that a massive smear like this might translate to a victory for your party.”

“It might.”

“You bastard. I don't like smear campaigns. And I don't like being used, Logan.”

“Understandable. Now, if you're through venting your displeasure, will you listen to me for a moment?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Eight months ago I got a call from a man named Bernard Donnelli, a mortician who owns a small funeral home outside Baltimore. He asked me to meet him. He told me just enough to intrigue me, so I flew to Baltimore the next day. He was scared and met me in a parking garage at five in the morning.” He shrugged. “No imagination. He must have thought he was Deep Throat or something. Anyway, he was more greedy than he was scared and offered to sell me information.” He paused. “And an object that he thought I might find valuable. A skull.”

“Only a skull?”

“The rest of the body was cremated by Donnelli's father. It seems that the Donnelli Funeral Home has been used for decades by the Mafia and Cosa Nostra to dispose of bodies. The Donnellis became known to the mob as being very discreet and reliable. However, one particular disposal made Donnelli Senior very uneasy. Two men appeared one night at Donnelli's home with a man's body and, though the money they paid him was extraordinary, he was uneasy. They weren't his regular customers and couldn't be counted on to play by the rules. They tried to keep him from seeing the corpse's face, but he caught one glimpse and it was enough to scare him shitless. He was afraid they'd come back and cut his throat to eliminate him as a witness. So he rescued the skull and hid it away to use as a weapon and an insurance policy.”

“Rescued it?”

“Not many people know that it takes a temperature of twenty-five hundred degrees and a burning time of at least eighteen hours to completely destroy a skeleton. Donnelli managed to position the body so that the skull would partially avoid the flames. When the two men left after forty-five minutes, Donnelli retrieved the skull and burned the rest. Donnelli used the skull as a tool for blackmail, and before he died he told his son, Bernard, where he'd buried the skull. A rather macabre legacy but profitable, very profitable.”

“Donnelli died?”

“Oh, he wasn't murdered. He was an old man and had a bad heart.”

“And who was he blackmailing?”

Logan shrugged. “I don't know. Donnelli Junior wouldn't tell me. The deal was for the skull.”

“And you're saying you didn't press him?”

“Why would I tell you that? Of course, I tried to get it out of him. All he'd tell me was what I've told you. He wasn't as gutsy as his father and he didn't like living on the edge. He offered me the location of the skull and the story in exchange for enough money to set him up in Italy with a new face and identity papers.”

“And you took the deal?”

“I took it. I've paid more for prospects with less potential.”

“And now you want me to bring that potential to fruition.”

“If what Donnelli told me was the truth.”

“It isn't. The entire story is crazy.”

“Then why not go along with me? What's the harm? If it's not true, then you'll come out with your pocket full of my money and I'll come out with egg on my face.” He smiled. “Both prospects should bring you extreme pleasure.”

“It's a waste of my time.”

“You're being well paid to waste it.”

“And if there's any truth at all to the story, it's not smart for me to go around digging up—”

“But you said there wasn't any truth to it.”

“It's too wild to think it's Kennedy, but it could be Jimmy Hoffa or some Mafia goon.”

“Providing I haven't paid through the nose for a fairy tale.”

“Which you've probably done.”

“Then come with me and we'll find out.” He paused. “Unless you think you couldn't do the job with an unprejudiced mind. There's no way I want you putting Jimmy Hoffa's face on this skull.”

“You know damn well I'm too good to do that. Don't try to manipulate me, Logan.”

“Why not? I'm good at it. We all do what we're good at. Aren't you even a little bit curious to find out if Donnelli's telling the truth?”

“No, it's just another wild-goose chase.”

“Not so wild if they tried to scare you off. Or perhaps you'd rather forgive and forget what happened to your lab?”

Manipulation again. Strike where it hurts. She turned away. “I'm not forgetting anything, but I'm not sure I believe—”

“I'll double the contribution to the Adam Fund.”

She slowly turned back to him. “Dammit, you're paying too much for too little. Even if it's true, it all happened a long time ago. What if nobody cares that the Democrats did a massive cover-up?”

“What if they do? The climate is right. The public is sick to death of being manipulated by politicians.”

“Just what are you up to, Logan?”

“I thought you had me figured out. I'm just your run-of-the-mill low-life tycoon trying to stack the deck.”

She wasn't close to figuring him out and there was no way she would accept one word he had spoken as truth.

“Will you think about it?”

“No.”

“Yes, you will. You can't help yourself. Give me your decision in the morning.”

“And what if I say no?”

“Why do you think I bought a property with a cemetery?”

She stiffened.

“Just joking.” He smiled. “I'll send you home, of course.”

She started for the door.

“And I won't ask for the Adam Fund money back. Even if you don't complete your part of the bargain. Which makes me appear a good deal more honorable than you, doesn't it?”

“I told you I wouldn't do anything illegal.”

“I'm not trying to involve you in anything really illegal. No raid on Arlington or digging up a graveyard. Just a brief visit to a cornfield in Maryland.”

“Which is probably still illegal.”

“But if I'm right, our little transgression will come out smelling like the proverbial rose.” He shrugged. “Think. Sleep on it. You're a reasonable woman and I think you'll agree that I'm not asking you to do anything that would betray your code of ethics.”

“If you're telling me the truth.”

He nodded. “If I'm telling you the truth. I've no intention of trying to convince you that I am. I know it wouldn't do any good. You'll have to make up your own mind.” He opened the top desk drawer and pulled out a leather address book. “Good night. Let me know your decision as soon as you make it.”

She was dismissed, she realized. No persuasion. No protestations. The ball was in her court.

Or was it?

“Good night.” She left the library and swiftly climbed up the stairs to her bedroom.

Kennedy.

Impossible. Kennedy was lying at Arlington, not in some hole in a Maryland cornfield. Logan had been suckered into paying for nothing.

But Logan was anything but a sucker. If he thought there was any truth to Donnelli's story, that might be enough reason for her to look deeper into it.

And to give credence to any plan Logan might have for a smear campaign. He could be lying, digging desperately for a way to get what he wanted.

She had made a deal with him and he had kept his end of it.

Oh, what the hell. She was too tired to make a decision now. She would go to bed and hope she would see things more clearly in the morning. It would be the sensible thing to—

The window.

She stiffened and inhaled sharply. Imagination. She wouldn't let herself be tricked by her own mind. She was tired and discouraged and prey to her own imagination. She wouldn't let herself be—

The window.

She moved slowly across the room to the window and stood looking out into the darkness.

Darkness. Mosquitoes. Bugs. Snakes.

His Italian designer loafers were being ruined by the damp, rotting foliage on the trail, Fiske realized with annoyance.

He had never liked the woods. He remembered one time when he was a kid, he'd been sent to some fucking camp in Maine and been forced to stay there for two weeks. His parents were always sending him somewhere to get rid of him.

Bastards.

But he'd fixed them. He'd made sure the camp would never accept him back after that summer. They hadn't been able to prove anything, but the counselor had known. Oh, yes, he had known. It had shown in the prick's scared face, the way his eyes slid away from him.

That summer had taught him a few lessons he'd been able to apply to his chosen vocation. Camping nuts almost always needed reservations for a camping site at a national park, and each reservation was tidily documented by the forest rangers.

There was a glimmer of fire up ahead.

Target.

Approach directly or wait until they were asleep?

Adrenaline was starting to pump through him.

Direct approach. Let them see him, feel it coming.

He ruffled his hair and smeared a streak of dirt on his cheek.

The gray-haired old man was sitting staring into the fire. His wife came out of their tent, and she laughed and said something to him. There was an air of intimacy and affection between them that Fiske found vaguely annoying. But then, he found everything about this kill annoying. He didn't like being forced into practicing his skills in the middle of the wilds, and he would make sure the old man and woman realized it.

He paused, drew a deep breath, then burst into the clearing. “Thank God. Can you help me? My wife is hurt. We were setting up camp down the road and she fell and broke—”

“I know where they're camped,” Gil said. “I'm on my way. But I'm two hours behind. The ranger said there was another inquiry earlier this evening.”

Logan's hand tightened on the receiver. “Be careful.”

“Am I stupid? Of course I'll be careful. Particularly if it's Fiske.”

“Fiske?”

“I called my contact in the Treasury Department and the word is that Timwick's been known to use Albert Fiske on occasion. Fiske was a hit man for the CIA and a damn good one. He always wanted the toughest jobs, the most prestigious hits. He takes inordinate pride in his efficiency and ability to do jobs no one else can do. In the last five years he's severed his ties with the Company and struck out on his own, and he's done very well. He moves fast, knows the system well enough to make it work for him.” He paused. “And he likes it, Logan. He really likes it.”

“Shit.”

“I'll call you back when I find them.”

Logan slowly replaced the receiver.

“He moves fast.”