All Night Long (24 page)

The limo glided to a halt in front of the funeral chapel. Ryland examined the scene through the heavily tinted windows. He relaxed when he saw that there were only a small number of media vehicles.

“I don’t see any sign of Irene Stenson,” Alexa said, sounding relieved. “Everything is going to be fine, Ryland. Stop worrying. As soon as the funeral service is concluded, the press will lose interest in this tragedy.”

“I agree,” Hoyt said. “Things are under control, sir.”

“Your father is here,” Alexa said. “He’s just going into the chapel.”

“Mr. Webb’s flight from Phoenix was on time,” Hoyt said. “I checked earlier.”

Ryland watched his father, distinguished in a gray suit, make his way into the church.

A volatile mix of anger, resentment and, yes, plain old
fear churned through him, the same poisonous elixir that he always experienced when Victor Webb was in the vicinity. He could not remember a time when he had not felt the intense pressure to live up to his father’s demands and expectations. Nothing was ever good enough for the old bastard.

The sooner Victor went back to Phoenix, the better, Ryland thought. Whatever happened, he had to make certain that the sonofabitch did not discover the blackmail problem. Victor would be furious, and when he was furious, there was hell to pay.

Ryland’s fingers clenched around the folder. He had to find the blackmailer and get rid of him before his father found out what was going on. In the meantime he had no choice but to continue making those damned payments into that mysterious offshore account.

One thing was certain. When he did finally succeed in identifying the blackmailer, the extortionist was a dead man. Or a dead woman.

He watched Victor disappear into the chapel. There had been, he reflected, a number of convenient deaths over the years: his wife, the Stensons and now Pamela. Each tragedy had helped him manage a potentially difficult situation. Why not another one?

He was momentarily dazed by his own daring. Get rid of Victor?

For years he had relied not only on the old man’s money, but also on Victor’s connections and his uncanny ability to assess an opponent’s weaknesses. Victor had always been his real campaign manager, the strategist, the power behind the throne.

I’m fifty-three years old,
Ryland thought.
I don’t need the bastard anymore. I can run my own life.

He felt as if he were having an epiphany.

Money would not be a problem. He was Victor’s sole heir. Besides, Alexa was rich in her own right.

He did not need his father. What a liberating thought.

The door of the limo opened. Ryland assumed an expression that was appropriate for a father who had just lost
a troubled daughter to drugs and alcohol and followed Alexa out of the car.

V
ictor Webb watched his firstborn son walk slowly, somberly toward the front of the chapel. Anger and a fierce regret clawed at his insides. Years ago he had made a terrible mistake, and now there was no going back.

On the outside, Ryland appeared to be all that a man could want in a son. Victor had showered him with everything required to achieve that goal. He had given Ryland a world-class education, money and connections. Victor knew that his greatest dream, that of founding a powerful dynasty that would last for generations, was on the brink of being realized.

But he also knew now that his worst fears had proven true. In spite of everything he had done to forge his son’s character, it was clear that Ryland lacked the strength of will required to overcome the cracks at his core. Deep down inside where it mattered, Ryland was weak.

He had, indeed, made a grave mistake back at the beginning, Victor thought. He had two sons. He had chosen to give everything to the wrong one.

I
spoke with Dr. Van Dyke yesterday. She informed me that you haven’t returned any of her calls.” The Old Man looked at Luke across the width of the library. “She says you appear to be refusing to face your issues. You may be in some kind of denial, she says.”

Luke came to a halt in front of the hearth and rested one arm on the carved oak mantel. He looked at the shelves full of heavy tomes and scientific papers that surrounded him. Every volume, journal and article in the extensive collection concerned the subject of wine making. Viticulture and enology were matters of great passion for everyone in the family except him.

It wasn’t that he had not tried to follow in his father’s footsteps. At various times in his life, including six months ago, he had made serious attempts to develop the kind of enthusiasm and all-consuming interest in wine making that drove his father and Gordon Foote and the others. But he had failed. In the end, he had always followed his own path, first into academia, then into the Marines and now into The Project.

He had known from the moment he and Irene arrived at the sprawling complex that housed the Elena Creek Vineyards
cellars, wine-tasting facilities and reception rooms that sooner or later his father was going to corner him and raise the subject of Dr. Van Dyke.

He and Jason and Hackett referred to their father as the Old Man, but the term was in respectful recognition of John Danner’s status as the eldest male in the family, not a comment on his advanced age.

The Old Man was, in fact, only in his late sixties. He had the hard, ageless face of a hawk, and thanks to a disciplined exercise regimen, some good genes and Vicki’s strict attention to his diet, he possessed the physique and stamina of a much younger man.

Dressed in an elegantly tailored tuxedo, as he was tonight, with a glass of very good Elena Creek Vineyards cabernet in his hand, the Old Man looked as if he had been born prosperous, Luke thought. The truth was that he and Gordon Foote had fought their way up every rung of the ladder of success.

“I’ve been a little busy,” Luke said.

John’s heavy silver-gray brows bunched together in a watchful frown. “With Irene Stenson?”

“And the lodge,” Luke said. He paused a beat. “Also, I’m doing a little writing.”

John ignored the reference to the lodge and the writing. “Irene is an interesting woman,” he said. “She seems intelligent. Quick. Rather striking.”

“I see you noticed the dress,” Luke said. “She looks good in it, doesn’t she? Must be all that Pilates training.”

“The what?”

“Never mind.”

John snorted softly. “Jason tells me she’s a reporter and that she has a troubled past.”

Note to self,
Luke thought.
Strangle youngest brother at earliest convenience.

“Jason used the word ‘troubled’?” he asked.

“No,” John admitted with obvious reluctance. “But that was the implication.”

“What, exactly, did he tell you about Irene?”

“Not a great deal. He seemed taken with her, to be honest. But then he explained that her father killed her mother in a murder-suicide years back and that Irene has cooked up some kind of crazy theory about Senator Webb’s daughter having been murdered.”

“There are a few murky details surrounding the death of Pamela Webb.”

John’s eyes sharpened. “I read in the paper that it was an accidental overdose involving meds and alcohol.”

“Irene believes there is more to it. I’m inclined to agree.”

John’s mouth tightened. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” He searched Luke’s face with a worried expression. “Jason also told me that you were with Irene when she found Pamela Webb’s body.”

“Yes.”

“That had to be very difficult for you, given what happened to your mother when you were a boy.”

Luke swallowed some of the intense cabernet. “You’ve been talking to Dr. Van Dyke too much.”

“I think you should talk to her, too.”

“Haven’t got time right now. Like I said, I’m busy.”

John stirred, visibly annoyed. “What’s all this about the senator’s lake house burning to the ground?”

Luke smiled humorlessly. “Jason did a very good job of filling you in, didn’t he? I’ll have to speak to him about that.”

“Don’t blame your brother. I asked the questions. He answered. Look, I know you don’t want to admit you might have some issues. No one wants to admit that they’ve got psychological problems. That goes double for men who have seen combat and probably quadruple for Marines. But Dr. Van Dyke says that PTSD is a wound, just like having shrapnel in a leg. It can fester if it isn’t cleaned out.”

“I’d like to know how Van Dyke can justify coming up with a diagnosis without ever interviewing the patient.”

“That’s exactly why she thinks you should make an appointment with her. She wants to get a solid diagnosis. Even though you refuse to talk about it, we all know that you went through some terrible stuff during your last couple
of years in the Corps. No one can be exposed to that kind of thing and not be affected.”

“I never said it didn’t affect me. What I’ve said is that I’m dealing with it.”

“The hell you are. After you got out of the Marines you were unable to adjust to working here at the winery. You failed to establish a normal, intimate relationship with the woman you planned to marry and had to end your engagement—”

“Dad, this isn’t a good time.”

“Then you take yourself off to the middle of nowhere, buy a third-rate, fleabag motel and get involved with a rather odd woman who appears to be trying to construct a conspiracy theory about the death of the daughter of a U.S. senator. I don’t need a degree in psychology or psychiatry to know that doesn’t sound exactly normal.”

The door opened before Luke could come up with a response.

Gordon Foote walked into the room. He took in the scene with a knowing expression and raised his eyebrows at John.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “Should I go back out and come in again?”

“Don’t bother,” John growled. “You’re family. Not the first time you’ve seen Luke and me go at it.”

That was no less than the truth, Luke thought. Gordon had been his father’s friend and partner since before Luke was born. The bond between the two men had been forged when they were enthusiastic students in the wine-making program at the University of California at Davis. Together they had built a dream. Elena Creek Vineyards had survived economic recessions, drastic changes in the global marketplace and a number of earthquakes. Today it thrived, thanks to the dedication and effort of these two men.

In many ways the pair could not have been more different. Gordon was the easygoing, genial sort, the kind of man who could walk into a room full of strangers and, within ten minutes, be on a first-name basis with everyone. Women loved to dance with him. Men enjoyed his company.
Hostesses knew that the easiest way to ensure a successful party was to make certain that Gordon Foote got an invitation.

Even Gordon’s ex-wife was fond of him, although she had left him several years ago during one of the downturns in the wine market. She had assumed, as many in the industry had, that Elena Creek Vineyards was headed for bankruptcy. By the time it became clear that the company was destined to flourish, she had remarried.

Gordon had remained happily single, devoted equally to the business and to his daughter, Katy. As far as Luke could determine, he did not lack for feminine companionship.

Gordon crossed the room to where the open bottle of cabernet stood on a side table. He gave Luke a wry, commiserating look. “Who’s winning this one?”

“It’s a draw so far.” Luke smiled slightly. “Neither of us is giving an inch.”

“What else is new?” Gordon raised his glass in a mocking salute. “Don’t let me stop the two of you. Always fun to watch the fireworks.”

John moved his hand in a let’s-change-the-subject motion. “I assume you were sent in here to fetch me?”

“Afraid so.” Gordon grinned and rocked on his heels. “The big cake event will commence in fifteen minutes. You’ve got a few billion candles to blow out, and then you get to take Vicki onto the dance floor for the annual birthday waltz.”

John groaned. “I hate the candle part.”

Gordon chuckled. “Tradition must be honored. Don’t worry, I made sure that there’ll be a fire extinguisher nearby.”

Luke decided to seize his opportunity. He started toward the door. “I’d better go find my date.”

“Last I saw of Miss Stenson, she was outside on the terrace talking to Vicki,” Gordon offered helpfully.

“Just the scenario I was hoping to avoid,” Luke said.

John scowled. “You can’t blame Vicki for being curious about her.”

“Your dad’s right,” Gordon said. Some of his cheerful,
bantering air evaporated. Concern took its place. “From what Jason told us about Miss Stenson this evening, she sounds a little unusual, to say the least.”

Luke nodded. “Works for me.”

He opened the door and let himself out of the room.

G
ordon watched guilt and a father’s fear coalesce on the face of his old friend. The signs and indications were subtle: the white brackets at the edge of his mouth, the way he gripped the wineglass. Most people would not have noticed. But he and John had known each other for a very long time.

He picked up the bottle, crossed the room and refilled John’s glass.