Secret Combinations (28 page)

No, Lydia must have revealed the blackmail to Legrand on the night of the auction. The private investigator had then found out who was doing it by his own means. He simply had to look at the tape to know it had to be someone inside the gallery. It wouldn't take long to zero in on Ricci.

Kenyon stopped on a corner to let a cab screech by. However Legrand had found out, he concluded, the result had been the same: he killed Ricci in revenge, then tried to make his death look like a suicide.

Kenyon thought about the one piece of the puzzle that didn't fit: the laser pen found in Ricci's apartment. If the gallery owner was successfully blackmailing Lydia, what sense did it make to kill her? Maybe Legrand knew. He'd call Arundel when he got back, and have the police pick up the Frenchman.

When he reached Kensington Park, Kenyon cut across the flower walk and joined the other joggers on the outer perimeter path. His wound had healed to the point where he was almost back to full gait. For the first time in two weeks, Kenyon pushed himself hard, running at full speed until the sweat rolled down his back and his lungs ached. It felt great.

After thirty minutes, Kenyon eased up to a slower pace, angling for a line of shady trees. An older Philippina maid was out walking a herd of long-haired dogs, and a young Swedish nanny pushed a blue stroller along the path. Both gave Kenyon the eye as he passed.

For the first time in days, Kenyon smiled. The hard run had helped clear his head and improve his mood. There were still quite a few unanswered questions regarding Lydia's murder and the Cyberworm case, but the agent had a feeling deep in his gut that something was about to break. He turned south and cruised home at a leisurely pace.

As Kenyon walked up to his house, he noticed a police van parked out front. The front door was wide open. A constable came out the front door carrying a box.

“Hey, what are you doing?” demanded Kenyon

“Talk to the guv inside,” was all the constable said.

Kenyon stormed up the steps and into the foyer. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

“We're seizing evidence,” said Will Deaver, standing in the living room with Detective Inspector Arundel. Both men looked grim.

“You'd better have a good explanation for this,” said Kenyon, advancing into the room.

“No, it's you who better have the good explanation,” Deaver replied. “Maybe I'll waive the death penalty.”

Kenyon stopped short. “What are you talking about?”

“I've been conferring with Mr. Deaver for the last few days,” said Arundel. “I'm afraid that he has a compelling case not only for murder, but for treason, as well.” He pointed to a chair. “Sit down.”

Kenyon complied, staring at them, wide-eyed. “You guys think I'm a spy?”

“Don't play stupid with me,” Deaver snapped. “I've had my eye on you from the very first day.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kenyon.

“That hot tip you got about the stolen software stank like shit,” Deaver said. “You sent the e-mail to yourself.”

“Why the hell would I do that?” asked Kenyon.

“Actually, it's not half clever,” said Arundel. “It allows you to set up and control your own alibi. Right under the nose of the
FBI
, you kill Simon, steal the software, then run off in pursuit of some imaginary felon in order to hand it off to a confederate. And the best part of all, you leave a hapless former
CIA
agent to take the fall.”

Kenyon pointed to his stitched rear-end. “Aren't you guys forgetting something? This imaginary felon shot me in the ass.”

Arundel turned and raised an eyebrow to Deaver.

“It was a slug from his own gun,” said Deaver. “The
FBI
was too stupid to check his hands for gunpowder.”

Kenyon shook his head in disbelief. “Deaver, you are so full of shit. If I'm the guy who stole the Cyberworm software, then who got the code? My evil twin Skippy?”

“No, the rest of your slimy spy ring,” said Deaver.

“Oh, now I've got a gang,” said Kenyon. “Deaver, are you on drugs?”

The other man ignored the taunt. “We've been down to the gallery, Kenyon. We spoke to a Miss Zoë Tigger.”

Arundel pulled out a notepad and consulted it. “Miss Tigger tells us you have been searching for a copy of a painting entitled
Techno 69
.”

Kenyon shrugged. “So?”

“We went through the records in Lydia's office, Kenyon,” said Deaver. “The original was purchased by
TEQ
, the company working on the encryption code.”

“Lots of people bought paintings from Lydia.”

“Yes, but this one was subsequently sold at auction to Abdul Garbajian, a man with connections to known terrorists,” said Arundel. “And it appears that you have been spending an inordinate amount of energy pursuing the copy. That's what you were really doing at Ricci's flat, weren't you?”

Kenyon stared at the floor. “No.”

Arundel closed the notebook and stared at Kenyon. “You went to his apartment and demanded the copy, and when he handed it over, you killed him and made it look like a suicide.”

“We got you lock, stock, and smoking barrel, Kenyon,” said Deaver.

Kenyon bent over and rested his forehead against his knees. This was all so crazy, he thought. It had to be some kind of bad dream.

“If you turn over the copy of
Techno 69
now, we may be able to arrange for leniency,” offered Arundel.

“I don't
have
it!” said Kenyon.

“Who screwed up?” asked Deaver, leaning forward. “Was it Bruno Ricci? I'll bet he was holding out for more money. Is that why you murdered him?”

“I could never kill anyone in cold blood,” said Kenyon.

Deaver stood up and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “A man who would kill his own mother is capable of anything,” he said.

“I'm an orphan.”

Deaver smiled. He was clearly enjoying himself. “You didn't think we'd find out?” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a yellow, aged document and handed it to Kenyon.

The document crinkled as Kenyon unfolded it. It was a Montana birth certificate for Jack Kenyon, dated July 5, 1978. He glanced to the bottom of the page. There was no name for the father. But in the line for the mother's name was typed Lydia Kenyon.

Tears welled in Kenyon's eyes.

Deaver leaned closer. “Who killed her Jack? Was it Bruno?”

Kenyon sat silently, the tears striking the birth certificate like drops of rain.

“Why did you have her killed, Jack?” Deaver pressed. “Because she screwed up? Or was it her taste in women?”

Deaver didn't even have time to scream. In one smooth motion, Kenyon came out of the chair and smacked the palm of his hand under Deaver's chin, hurling him backwards onto the couch.

Before Arundel could react, Kenyon grabbed the pole axe from the suit of armor and brandished it at him. “Don't make a sound,” he ordered.

Arundel, eyes wide, mutely stuck his hands skywards.

Kenyon glanced toward the hallway. The constable was down in the basement, still rummaging around. Deaver was laying on the couch, moaning softly. Kenyon stepped toward the seated Arundel. “You carrying?”

Arundel, his hands held elegantly in the air, remained strangely calm. “No.”

“Shh,” warned Kenyon. He could hear the constable coming up the stairs.

Kenyon waved the battle axe as he passed the doorway. “You. Drop the boxes and come in here.”

Perplexed, the cop did as he was told.

Kenyon pointed to Deaver. “Haul him downstairs.”

Arundel nodded, indicating he should obey. The constable grabbed Deaver by the shoulders and headed for the basement steps. Kenyon ordered Arundel to follow.

“It's pointless to run; you can't get off the island,” said Arundel.

“Just get moving,” ordered Kenyon. “I don't have all day.”

Arundel stopped in the kitchen and fished through a drawer.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Kenyon.

Arundel pulled out a cork screw. “I noticed some excellent Montrachet down there,” he replied. “Seeing as how we could be locked up for several hours . . .”

Kenyon shooed him down the stairs, then locked the door.

The agent leaned against the doorway.
This can't be happening to me
, he thought. The horror at being accused kept alternating with the shock of being Lydia's son. It was all too insane.

Kenyon placed the pole axe onto the kitchen counter. He leaned against the door for a second, wondering what to do next, willing himself to think clearly. He knew the cops would find the entrance to Señora Santucci's apartment any second. He had to get out of there.

All he was wearing was a pair of shorts and a sweaty T-shirt. Where was his wallet? He knew it was in his jacket, but where had he hung it the night before? He glanced down the hallway and saw it hanging on the deacon's bench by the front door. He hurried down the hall, grabbed the coat, remembering to leave his cell phone behind so they couldn't use it to trace him. He grabbed a ballcap and headed for the front porch.

“Stop right there.”

Kenyon turned. Special Agent in Charge Marge Gonelli was standing at the turn of the stairs. Her shoulders visibly sagged from the long airplane journey from San Francisco.

“Marge,” said Kenyon, taking a step toward her.

“Don't move,” she ordered. “You're under arrest.”

“Marge, I haven't done anything.”

Gonelli stared grimly at the agent. “Not according to Deaver.”

“None of what Deaver says is true,” said Kenyon. “You have to believe me.”

“What I believe is unimportant,” replied Gonelli.

“Oh, yes it is,” said Kenyon, squaring his shoulders. “Because if you honestly think I did any of this, Marge, then I have no one on Earth to prove my innocence except me.”

Kenyon tucked the jacket under his arm and turned toward the open front door. He paused, but there was no response.

He walked slowly down the front steps to the sidewalk.

Still, nothing.

He reached the sidewalk and turned toward Cromwell Road.

Then Jack Kenyon, fugitive, ran as hard as he could.

Kenyon reached the end of
the street and rounded the corner onto Cromwell Road. He figured he only had a few minutes before Gonelli let Arundel and his men out of the basement. They would immediately mount a pursuit.

He trotted west on Cromwell until he came to a busy intersection. He tried to flag down a cab, but they all drove by. Any second, a cop could appear around the corner.

Kenyon spotted an underground station. He sprinted across the street and into the dark entrance of the building.

He came to a stop inside and groaned aloud. The entrance to the trains was through a row of turnstiles, and two guards stood behind the barrier to ensure nobody hopped over.

A large crowd of students waited in line in front of the ticket office. Kenyon pulled out his wallet and walked up to the front of the line. “Kid, here's five pounds to let me butt in line.”

“Que?”

Kenyon uttered a silent curse. The student was Spanish. He waved the note in the student's face. “Uh, esta cinco dinero para primero,” he said, in his broken Spanish. “Hokay?”

The student smiled. “For ten, senor, si!”

Kenyon pulled out another bill and moved to the open ticket wicket. “That'll be five pound sixty for a day pass, love,” said the clerk.

Kenyon paid and received a pink cardboard ticket. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted the tall, rounded hat of a bobby entering the station. Bending over, he fumbled with the turnstile until it took his ticket. He rushed forward, but the turnstile refused to operate.

“Hoy, you,” said the underground guard, pointing to Kenyon.

Kenyon froze.

“You got to take your ticket back out, mate.”

Kenyon suddenly realized that his ticket was protruding from a different slot. He nodded to the guard and pulled it out. The turnstile clicked over, letting him through.

Without looking behind, he joined a large group of passengers getting onto an elevator. Just as he entered the enclosed space, he glanced up. A security camera stared balefully down at his face. He pulled down his ballcap, hustled inside the elevator and descended with the rest of the passengers.

The elevator stopped deep in the bowels of the earth and disgorged the passengers. Kenyon was carried along down a tunnel to the Piccadilly line platform where the crowd split into two: east and westbound. A train was standing at the eastbound platform. Kenyon rushed to an open door and pushed his way on board. He breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him and the train accelerated into the dark tunnel.

Kenyon stood near the door, his tall frame nearly scraping the rounded roof of the car. He glanced around, careful to keep his cap pulled down. Most of the passengers were either tourists with daypacks or commuters reading their newspapers. They swayed on straps as the car bucked and squeaked down the ancient tracks.

The next station was South Kensington. Kenyon peered at the route map on the wall above the windows. He was heading toward the center of town. He tried to do some quick calculations. One of the first places the cops would look for him would be the underground. They would check the security tapes at the nearest station, but he estimated he had at least half an hour before the cops on patrol would have a picture or description. That gave him twenty minutes, or about five stops of the underground.

Kenyon was all too aware that he was still wearing his jogging shorts and 49er's T-shirt. The jacket in his hand was dark blue, but it had an
FBI
insignia on the breast pocket. Might as well paint a bullseye, he thought to himself.

Three young men carrying bags from Harrod's got on at the next stop. One of them was wearing a Gap ballcap. He turned to his friend, who was wearing a Virginia Tech sweater, and poked him in the ribs. “Hey, Mel, tell Joe what the clerk said to you in the dressing room.”