Light in Shadow (25 page)

“Yes.”

The quiet conviction in the single word reassured her as nothing else could have done in that moment. She gave him a tremulous smile.

“Because trust is one of your nonnegotiable rules in a relationship, too, isn't it?” she said.

“Figure you gotta be able to count on something or what the hell's the point of getting married?”

“Yes. Well, the point here is that I did trust Preston. I can't believe that he was cheating on me. But if he had been involved with someone else, I would not have killed him. I would have filed for divorce.”

“Understood,” he said.

“What's this all about?” she asked. “Did you really think that I might have been the killer?”

“No.”

For some reason, that simple answer incensed her. “Then why the third degree?”

“It occurred to me that if Preston was seeing someone else and tried to break it off, that other person might have had a motive to kill him.”

She contemplated that for a moment.

“You're thinking about a romantic triangle like the one you're constructing for the murder of Camelia Foote, aren't you?” she said. “I can see the logic, but that doesn't
work in this case. Preston was not sleeping with another woman. Trust me. I would have known.”

“Okay. Sorry about the inquisition. But I had to be sure.”

She looked at him standing there, silhouetted against a dying sun, booted feet braced slightly apart. He reminded her of an oncoming train. You might be able to kill a man like this if you tried really hard and if you were fast enough and lucky enough, she thought, but that was the only way you could stop him.

“I know,” she said softly.

She raised her camera and took the picture. Going for the little glimpse of his soul that she saw in that moment.

The photo would give her something of him to keep when this was all over.

 

Preston was a gentle man . . . our love was a very gentle thing. . . .

Ethan was wide awake, looking up at the shadows of the ceiling and he knew that he was not going to go back to sleep. He was familiar with this brand of insomnia. It was job-related. It happened a lot when he was closing in on answers.

He had a choice. He could either lie here and brood or he could get up and go into another room and brood.

Beside him, Zoe slept peacefully. He did not sense any of the restlessness that he had come to expect whenever she was having one of her bad nights.

He eased himself away from the warmth of her body, pushed aside the covers, and rose from the winged bed. He found his trousers in the darkness, pulled them on, and padded barefoot out into the dark hall.

There was enough moonlight coming through the windows to illuminate his path. He made his way into the kitchen and turned on a light.

Inside the refrigerator, he found a plastic bowl full of leftover cheese ravioli. Zoe had cooked dinner this evening. She had doused the ravioli in very expensive olive
oil and freshly grated Parmesan. He peeled off the lid and helped himself to a sample bite.

As he had suspected, it was just as good cold as it had been hot. Was he a trained detective or what?

He dumped a little habanero-laced hot sauce on the pile of ravioli, located a fork, and carried his treasure to the kitchen table. One of the pads of paper he kept handy in every room of the house was on the windowsill together with a pen.

He sat down, ate some of the ravioli, and opened the notepad.

But the first word he wrote was not what he had planned to jot down.

Gentle.

Well, shit. This was not going to be a very productive night if he didn't get past the gentle thing.

He crossed it out very deliberately and tried again.

People with reasons to kill Leon Grady and Preston Cleland.

“What are you doing?” Zoe said from the doorway.

He put down the pen and looked at her. She was swathed in a white robe and a pair of slippers. Her hair was mussed from the pillows and their earlier bout of passion. His wife.

He was startled by the heated rush of hunger and need that shot through him.

“Are you okay?” Zoe came toward him, concern darkening her mysterious eyes.

“Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd do some work.” He indicated the plastic bowl. “Want some cold ravioli?”

“Sure.”

She changed direction, opened a drawer, found a fork, and sat down across from him. Leaning across the table, she speared two ravioli and simultaneously craned her head to read his notes.

“What did you cross out?” She sat back and popped the ravioli between her lips. “A bad conclusion?”

“Yeah.” He watched her eat for a moment, thinking that this would be a good time to keep his mouth shut. But for
some reason, he could not seem to manage that simple feat tonight.

“I'm not like Preston, am I?”

She blinked, stopped chewing, and swallowed hurriedly. Then she cleared her throat.

“No,” she said. “No, you are very different.”

“You don't see me as a very
gentle
man, do you?”

She hesitated. “Gentle is not the first word that comes to mind, no.”

“And our relationship,” he said, unable to turn aside now, even though he sensed that disaster was bearing down on him. “You probably would not describe it as a very gentle thing.”

“Uh, no. Probably not.” She reached across the table to fork up more ravioli. “Mind if I ask what this is all about? Why the focus on our relationship here? It's not like we're really married.”

“Yeah, we are really married.” He realized his jaw had gone rigid. Always a bad sign.

She flushed. “You know what I mean. Our marriage is just a device. Part of your strategy for dealing with my case.”

“And the fact that we're sleeping together? How do you account for that?”

Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink, but her gaze did not waver. “We're sleeping together because we're attracted to each other. Not because we've got a piece of paper that says we're married.”

“Does that sound a little complicated to you? It sure as hell does to me.”

“We seem to be coping.”

“Cleland assumes I married you because you hold the key to that block of shares.”

“Forrest judges everyone by his own standards and motivations,” she said. “He wouldn't understand a man like you in a million years.”

“You think you understand me?”

“Not completely. Parts of you are pretty deep and you
don't go out of your way to reveal them. But I know you well enough to be sure that you didn't marry me for those shares.”

“What makes you so damn certain of that?” he asked.

She paused with the fork full of ravioli halfway to her mouth. “If I say intuition, you'll do that thing with your eyes.”

“What thing?”

“You can make them appear amused and scornful and sort of steely all at the same time. Something to do with the way you narrow them, I think. You do a squint that would have looked good on Wyatt Earp.”

“A squint, huh? Maybe I should make an appointment to have my eyes checked.”

She smiled. “It's not just intuition that makes me sure you didn't marry me in a sneaky maneuver to get hold of those shares. I've got some rock-solid evidence that says I can trust you.”

“Like what?”

“I've seen the way you approach your work. I know you crave answers more than you'll ever crave money. Something in you needs to do your bit to keep the karmic scales balanced. I also know that when you sign on for a job, you'll do whatever it takes to see it through. That's who you are.”

“You make me sound like some kind of machine.”

She put down the fork and folded her arms on the table. “Are you always like this in the middle of a case?”

“Yeah.”

She raised her brows.

“Well, maybe not,” he said. “This case is different.”

“How so?”

“You're different.”

“From your usual client?”

“No.” He picked up his fork and ate another mouthful of ravioli. “From all the other women I married.”

“Oh. Well, now that you've brought up the subject, curiosity compels me to ask, in what way am I different?”

“You're just different, that's all.”

“Okay, let's try this from another direction. How do you feel about me?”

“I'm not sure,” he said. Might as well be savagely honest. Not like there was anything to lose. “But whatever the hell it is, it isn't exactly soft and gentle.”

“I see.” Her mouth curved in a slow, inviting grin. “Is that a problem for you?”

“Not if it isn't a problem for you.”

She got up, rounded the table, and sank lightly down onto his lap. She put her arms around his neck.

“Trust me,” she said into his ear. “It's not a problem.”

Radnor Security Systems
sprawled across the second floor of a large building located in an office park on the north side of town. The interior resembled an upscale brokerage or insurance firm. The furnishings were sleek. The art on the walls was what Ethan privately termed Southwestern generic—lots of stylized images of red rock canyons, desert vistas, old adobe buildings, and sunsets, all done in shades of turquoise, red, and purple.

He was mildly impressed by the air of important hustle and bustle. Shiny new computers sat on every desk. The employees who came and went from the glass-walled cubicles on one side of the room looked serious and professional.

The receptionist was polished and polite. He sat behind an acre of curved and gleaming wood, lord of a complicated-looking phone system and a really spiffy computer. The little plaque on the desk identified him as Jason.

“May I help you?” Jason asked.

“I'm here to see Nelson Radnor,” Ethan said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

Jason looked regretful in a polished and polite sort of way. “I'm sorry, Mr. Radnor is in a meeting. May I suggest that you make an appointment?”

Ethan propped himself on the corner of Jason's glowing desk and folded his arms. “Tell him Truax is here.”

Jason was clearly troubled by this request, but after the briefest of hesitations, he reached for the phone. “Truax, did you say, sir?”

“He knows me.”

“Just a minute.”

Jason punched in a number and spoke softly into the phone. When he replaced it, he was smiling again. Relieved. He got to his feet.

“This way, please. Would you care for coffee or bottled water?”

“Neither, thanks.”

He followed Jason to an office at the far end of the long row of glass-walled cubicles. Nelson's office did not have any glass.

Jason knocked once, opened the door, and ushered Ethan inside.

“Mr. Truax, sir.”

“Come in, Truax. Have a seat.” Nelson was in his shirtsleeves. He waved a hand toward a padded leather chair. “I wasn't expecting a visit from the competition today. What's going on? Decide to take me up on my offer of some subcontract work?”

“Not yet.”

Ethan sat down and did a quick survey of the office. The desk was a hefty, burnished piece of sculpture composed of steel and glass. Nelson's chair was an executive model with a high back covered in black leather. The action was smooth. There was no squeak when he moved in it.

The carpet was dark gray, and the framed southwestern
scenes that hung on the walls were suitably masculine. A handsome wooden coatrack stood in the corner. An expensively tailored cream-colored jacket draped elegantly from one of the hooks.

There was no pink anywhere.

The place had an uncomfortably familiar feel, Ethan noticed. It looked a lot like his old office in L.A. He wondered if Radnor had gotten screwed by the same interior decorator.

“What can I do for you?” Nelson asked congenially.

“You can tell me who hired you to find Leon Grady,” Ethan said.

“Who the hell is Leon Grady?”

He had to hand it to Radnor, Ethan thought. The guy did not so much as flinch. Then again, maybe the ignorance was straight-up honesty. Radnor Security Systems probably did so much business that the boss didn't bother to pay attention to the small skip trace and missing persons work. It was a good bet he left those sorts of routine jobs to his underlings.

“Leon Grady was staying at the Sunrise Suites motel,” Ethan said, making the effort to be patient on the off chance that Radnor actually didn't know what the hell he was talking about. “He turned up dead a few days ago. The cops think it was a small-time drug deal gone bad.”

“Yeah, I think I did read something in the papers about a low-end dealer getting shot. But I didn't pay much attention. Radnor doesn't handle security for any of the companies in that part of town.” Nelson cocked a polite brow. “One of your jobs?”

“Grady was linked to one of my ongoing investigations.”

Okay, so he only had one ongoing investigation at the moment and the prospects of recouping his expenses, let alone getting paid for his time, looked a little dim.
So sue me.
There was no need to spell out the sorry details for the competition. In business you had to present a strong, competent, successful image. The environment had changed over the eons, but the rules of life in the jungle hadn't
altered appreciably. Showing signs of weakness was a good way to get eaten.

“I don't get it.” Nelson did concerned puzzlement very well. “What makes you think Radnor Security Systems is involved in this?”

“Call it a hunch. The cops are happy with the drug deal scenario but I've got some problems with it. I think it's possible that someone from out of town killed him, and that means the shooter had to find him first. Grady paid his motel bill in cash, presumably because he was trying to hide. I know that no one called me up and asked me to trace him so that leaves you.”

“It does?”

“Radnor has the biggest ad in the phone book, so I figure someone calling from out of town would feel more comfortable going with you. I want to know the name of your client.”

“I see.” Nelson cranked back in his squeakless chair and looked sincerely regretful. “I assure you, I have no personal knowledge of the situation.”

“I believe you. We both know that something this small would have been handled by one of your lower level people. A clerk, maybe. We're talking basic trace work here. Nothing complicated.”

“I personally review every case that goes through this office at least once a week. I haven't noticed the name Leon Grady.”

“Grady got murdered this week, not last. Maybe his file hasn't come up for weekly review.”

“Even if we did trace him for a client, you know I can't discuss it with you, let alone give you the name of the person who hired us.”

“I know all about your keen regard for client confidentiality,” Ethan said. “You made a big deal of it to that reporter from the
Herald
when you took credit for the Mason case.”

“You know reporters. They never get the facts straight. You can't blame me for a journalistic misunderstanding.”

“Wouldn't think of it. But I figure you owe me. Did someone from this firm track down Leon Grady?”

“I really can't discuss this, Truax. You know that as well as I do. There's a question of ethics involved.”

“Let me put it this way,” Ethan said. “If you don't show me the file on Grady, I will be forced to call the president of the Desert View Homeowners' Association and inform him that the association might want to review its contract with Radnor Security Systems.”

Nelson sat forward abruptly, no longer projecting polite regret. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I've got a hunch that the homeowners' association might be interested in knowing that some of the Radnor guards don't take the firm's rules about client confidentiality to heart. Some of them will, in fact, spill their guts about the personal lives of any of the folks living in Desert View for a beer and a couple hundred bucks.”

“Are you saying one of my guys took a bribe?”

“How do you think I cracked the Mason case so fast?”

“Shit. You can't prove a damn thing.”

“I don't have to prove anything. Like I said, all I have to do is plant a few doubts in the mind of the president of the homeowners' association. Panic will no doubt ensue. Nothing rich folks hate more than knowing someone will sell the details of their private affairs for a lousy two hundred in cash.”

Nelson glowered for a full minute. Then he leaned forward and hit the intercom.

“Jason, bring me the case files for the past week. Yeah, I know this isn't the usual day. Get 'em.”

Nelson released the intercom button and went back to scowling at Ethan.

“You play hardball, don't you?” he said.

Ethan shrugged.

The door opened. Jason appeared with a stack of printouts. He put them down on Nelson's desk.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Jason asked.

“No, that'll be all.” Nelson reached for the first printout.

Jason glanced thoughtfully at Ethan. There was curiosity and a new level of respect in his eyes. A few seconds later, the door closed softly behind him.

Silence punctuated by the occasional rustle of paper settled on the plush office. Several minutes passed.

“Son of a bitch,” Nelson muttered.

He sat back and regarded Ethan with an expression that was not all that different from Jason's. Curiosity and the beginnings of something that might have been grudging respect.

“You guessed right.” Nelson shoved the printout across the desk toward Ethan. “We did do a quick trace on a guy named Leon Grady. Client called in from out of town. Paid with a credit card.”

Ethan picked up the printout and read the name of the client. “Dr. Ian Harper.”

“It was a legitimate case. Harper said that he was Grady's employer and that Grady had disappeared with company funds.”

“Yeah?” Ethan read quickly through the file.

“Hey, it says right there that my man verified that Harper was, indeed, Grady's employer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Happens all the time, you know that. Embezzlement cases are almost as common as insurance fraud jobs.”

Ethan did not look up from the file. He badly wanted to make some notes, but he had a hunch Radnor would come unglued if he starting writing things down on paper.

“Most employers don't gun down the embezzlers once they find them,” he said absently. “They just try to recover some of the money. Does it worry you that you might have fingered Grady for the killer?”

“Damn it, don't give me any crap about having set the guy up. Radnor maintains the highest professional standards. All the rules were followed on that case. You can see that for yourself. Hell, you don't know that Harper killed Grady. You just told me yourself, the cops think it was a drug deal.”

“You're right.” Ethan finished reading and dropped the file on the desk. “I don't know anything for sure. Yet. See you around, Radnor. Consider us square for that little journalistic misunderstanding on the Mason case.”

He opened the door.

“Truax.”

Ethan paused.

“If you ever decide you want to work for a real agency,” Nelson said wearily. “Let me know. I could use someone like you.”

Ethan gave the office one last survey, taking in all the familiar, expensive details. “Thanks, but the decor doesn't work for me.”

 

Fifteen minutes later,
he walked into Single-Minded and stopped short at the sight of Zoe perched on a stool, heels hooked on the bottom rung. Her head was gracefully bent over an old, leather-bound book in her lap. Light gleamed on her sleekly knotted hair. She wore a purple tee shirt with a scooped neck and sleeves that went as far as her elbows. The myriad knife pleats of a teal green skirt draped elegantly around her ankles.

A hungry, possessive tide rose through him, tightening his stomach and heating his blood.

This was his wife. At least for a while. And he wanted her.

She looked up at that instant and smiled.

“Ethan,” she said. “I was starting to wonder what had happened to you. Did your hunch pay off? Did someone hire Radnor to find Grady?”

“About time you got back.” Singleton emerged from the gloom at the rear of the shop. “Any luck?”

The small spell that had bound him shattered. He pulled his thoughts back from images of damp, tangled sheets.

“It's a good news, bad news kind of thing,” he warned.

“What's the good news?” Zoe asked.

Optimists,
he thought.
You gotta love 'em.

“I got the name of the person who hired Radnor to trace Leon Grady here in Whispering Springs. It was, wait for it, Dr. Ian Harper.”

“
Harper.
Well, isn't that interesting.”

“Harper doesn't seem to have made any effort to conceal his identity or his goal,” Ethan continued. “Even used his Candle Lake Manor corporate credit card to pay for the search. Claimed Grady had embezzled funds.”

Singleton nodded. “Sounds like a reasonable story.”

“It all fits,” Zoe said, her expression fierce with satisfaction. “Maybe Grady threatened to blackmail Harper or maybe Harper realized that Grady had become a threat and a liability. Either way, Harper decided to get rid of Grady.”

Singleton lounged against his counter. “He must have tracked Grady as far as Whispering Springs and then used Radnor to find out where he was staying here in town. Then he flew in and whacked him.”