All Night Long (32 page)

Irene turned away from the window and the view of Tess’s garden. It had been instinct as much as anything that had led her to bring the dress and the video to her former English teacher. She did not know what to expect from the video, but she had been very certain that she did not want to view it alone. She also knew that she could not wait until Luke returned from his meeting with Ken Tanaka. Tess Carpenter was the only other person in town with whom she felt comfortable enough to share whatever secrets might be revealed.

Student-teacher bonds ran deep. But it wasn’t just their old classroom connection that had compelled her to come here. She knew that, in the old days, her mother had considered Tess a friend who could be trusted.

She walked back to stand in front of the coffee table.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Hard to imagine that Pamela was sentimental about a childhood costume.”

Tess frowned in a considering manner. “She didn’t show it to you when the two of you were friends that summer?”

“No.” Irene studied the dress. “I never saw it.”

“But you do recognize the book?”

“Yes. I gave it to her for her birthday.” She sank down onto the couch beside Tess. “Thanks for letting me bring these things here.”

“No problem.” Tess poured coffee for both of them. “I must admit, you’ve made me very curious. Where do we start?”

“With the novel.” Irene looked at the volume, aware of a sad, wistful feeling. “She laughed when she opened her present and saw it. She said that the romance thing wasn’t for her. Later she told me that she had found a good use for the book.”

“What was that?”

Irene put the novel down on the table, flipped past the title page with its inscription, and turned to Chapter Two.

The rest of the pages following that chapter had been neatly glued together to form a solid block of paper. The center section had been hollowed out to create a small opening that was concealed when the book was closed. Inside was a small key chain–sized object.

“A convenient container in which to carry a supply of drugs, cigarettes or spare condoms,” Irene said. “Pamela said every girl should have one.”

Tess raised her brows. “You learned a lot from her.”

Irene wrinkled her nose. “I was such a complete dork. We had zilch in common. I never did understand why she wanted to hang around me that summer.”

Tess looked at the object she had removed from the book. “What’s up with the key chain?”

“It’s not a key chain.” Irene pulled her laptop closer. “It’s a computer data storage device.”

“Any idea what’s on it?”

“No,” Irene said. “But I’ve got a hunch it’s going to be very unpleasant.”

L
uke cruised slowly past Hoyt Egan’s apartment building, turned the corner and drove two more blocks. He found a space for the SUV on a street where three or four other similar vehicles were parked. Satisfied that his ride didn’t stand out in the crowd, he switched off the engine and tried Egan’s cell phone and landline one more time. Still no answer.

He reached into the plastic sack and pulled out the cap and windbreaker that Tanaka had supplied. Both articles of clothing bore the logo of a familiar delivery company. There was an outside possibility that Egan was home and not answering his phone for one reason or another. But the odds were good that a busy senator’s aide would not ignore his phones.

Luke picked up the empty box he had brought along and got out of the SUV.

The decision to try to take a look at Egan’s apartment had formulated at the back of his mind during the drive from Dunsley. Now that there was an indication that Egan was engaged in blackmail, it seemed like an especially good idea. He had no hard evidence on Egan, he reminded
himself, as he walked back toward the apartment complex, just that old familiar feeling deep in his gut.

Adrenaline spiked.

There was no one around when he reached the locked gate at the entrance of the complex, but he dialed Egan’s number on the entry phone system just in case. When he got no answer, he gave it a few seconds and then palmed the master key and opened the gate, making it look as though he had been buzzed in by a resident.

He went into the lobby, box under one arm, and climbed the stairs to the floor where Egan’s apartment was located.

He stepped out into an empty hallway, went down the corridor and knocked gently on Egan’s door.

When no one responded, he automatically tried the door before inserting the duplicate master key.

The knob twisted easily in his hand.

Another jolt of adrenaline shot through him. Guys like Egan, guys with heavy responsibilities and lots of important senatorial secrets, probably didn’t forget to lock their doors when they left their apartments.

He opened the door. The stench that wafted out of the room brought back memories and nightmares.

He didn’t need the sight of Egan’s body lying facedown on the blood-soaked carpet to know that death had arrived here first.

T
he message on the computer screen chilled Irene to the bone. She could almost hear Pamela’s voice in the words that she and Tess were reading.

“Think she’s telling the truth about the files being destroyed if I use the wrong words?” Irene asked.

Tess studied the screen with a worried expression. “Depends on what kind of encryption program she used, I suppose. But Phil says that, even with a good system, it would be next to impossible to completely delete all traces of the files.”

“Probably take a real expert to recover them, though.
The average person certainly wouldn’t be able to salvage anything.” Irene poised her fingers over the keyboard. “Here goes.”

She typed in
orange vanilla.

“That’s it?” Tess asked. “That’s the supersecret code?”

“Hey, we were teenagers, remember? Seemed like a great secret code at the time.”

The screen went blank. Irene froze, appalled.

“Wrong code?” Tess asked nervously.

“I can’t think of anything else. If that wasn’t it, I’ve just destroyed all the data Pamela stored on the computer.”

A list of files appeared. There were four of them.

Irene started to breathe again. “Might as well start with the one labeled Number One.”

She opened the file.

“A film clip,” Tess said. She leaned forward to get a better look.

Pamela appeared on the screen. She was sitting on the sofa in the Webb summer house.

“Oh, jeez.” Another eerie chill whispered through Irene. “This is going to be very, very weird.”

Tess watched the screen, her unease clear in her strained features. “You can say that again. Look at the date on the film clip. She made this the day before she died.”

“The day the Pine Lane house was rekeyed,” Irene said.

Pamela was dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a snug pullover that revealed a lot of cleavage. She had a glass of wine in one hand. Her smile was cool and sophisticated, but her eyes were shadowed.

“I never got that e-mail, because she never sent it,” Irene said. “She didn’t lose her nerve, she was murdered.”

On the screen, Pamela paused to take a sip of wine.

“She’s drinking wine, not martinis,” Irene said.

Pamela put down the wineglass and continued speaking into the camera.

Irene stared at the screen. “What is she talking about? That’s impossible. I was with her that night. There’s no way she could have shot my parents.”

“Hush.” Tess touched her arm. “Listen.”

Pamela tucked one long leg under herself and reached for more wine.

The scene of Pamela on the sofa winked out. Another living room setting appeared.

“The interior designer who did that place must have had a previous career as a wedding cake decorator,” Tess observed.

“Or else he specialized in bedrooms for little girls,” Irene said, studying the scene.

The room was a pink-and-white fantasyland. Pink velvet draperies, white carpet and furniture upholstered in pink satin created a fairy-tale feeling. But there was something off about it, Irene decided. This was going to be one of the old, dark, truly frightening fairy tales, she thought, not a modern, cleaned-up, politically correct version.

“No dolls,” she said.

Tess looked at her. “Dolls?”

“It looks like a girl’s bedroom except there are no dolls or tea sets, stuffed animals or children’s books. None of the trappings that you’d expect to see in a real child’s bedroom.”

“Like I said, the guy who did the place probably did wedding cakes on the side.”

Irene examined the image more closely. “There’s something old-world about the room, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Forget the fairy-tale color scheme. Look at the scale of the place and those windows. Early nineteenth century, I think. See those crown moldings? They’re not reproductions. It looks like an old house that you might see somewhere in Europe.”

Tess nodded slowly. “Now that you mention it, yes, it does.”

Before Irene could make any more comments, a man walked into view. There was no audio with the clip. The figure moved in unnatural silence.

At first it was only possible to see him from the waist down because of the camera angle. Then he lowered himself onto one of the pink chairs. The change of position brought his face into clear view.

“Ryland Webb,” Irene whispered.

“What in the world is going on here?” Tess said.

Webb settled back into the chair, hitched up his elegantly
tailored trousers and cocked one ankle over his knee. Everything about his pose suggested ease and familiarity. He had been in this room before.

He looked at someone off camera, smiled and made a comment. A moment later a drink was placed in his hand by a woman dressed in a black skirt, severe white blouse and starched white apron. It was impossible to see the maid’s face.

The toe of Webb’s gleaming shoe bounced a little. Irene got the impression that he was looking forward to whatever was about to happen. She sensed suppressed excitement in him. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. As she watched, he loosened his tie and focused his attention on a point across the pink-and-white room that was just out of the camera’s view.

Irene’s cell phone rang, jarring her so badly that she jumped a good three inches. She did not take her eyes off the screen as she punched the key to take the call.

“Irene?” Luke’s voice carried the hard, no-compromise edge of command.