THE TAINTED TRUST: A DOUGLASS CRIME AND ROMANCE THRILLER SERIES (THE KING TRILOGY Book 2) (39 page)

Kerri was captivated by the scenery and astounded by the people of Monaco. It seemed outrageous to her that while the rest of the world worked and struggled to survive, the wealthy inhabitants of the idyllic sun-drenched paradise frivolously wasted their days and nights in the extravagant pursuit of happiness. After a breakfast of toast and boiled eggs in accommodations befitting Visconti’s new found wealth, she relaxed in the warm sunshine on the balcony. Still in her pink silk nightgown, she rested her bare feet on the wrought iron railing and leaned back in her deck chair.

Visconti, looking resplendent in his red and yellow flowered beach clothing, rainbow shades and brown leather sandals, approached her. “How would you like to go for a walk on the beach?” he asked while still grooming his hair with his hands.

“Would you mind if I didn’t? I’m exhausted. I really want to put my bathing suit on and just relax in the sun.”

Visconti feigned a pout. “Guess I’ll have to soldier on without you.”

“You poor baby,” she said, then stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “How long will you be gone?”

“An hour, maybe two. See you later,” he said, then turned and left.

Kerri waited on the balcony until she saw Visconti leave the hotel, then hurried inside and proceeded to overturn furniture, dump the contents of every drawer on the floor, and overturn rugs and mattresses. When she had finished making the suite appear as if it had been burglarized, she changed into her minuscule peach bikini. She covered herself with sun-glasses, faded jeans, white T-shirt and sneakers, then placed her wallet in a large cotton bag and picked up Visconti’s briefcase. She left the door to the suite unlocked.

When the elevator doors opened to the lobby, she stepped out and looked around to ensure no one was looking at her, then hurried to the front doors. She took a taxi to the Banque de Monte Carlo, three blocks from the hotel. She paid the driver, then hurried inside.

“May I be of service?” a young expensively dressed clerk asked, speaking perfect English.

“I would like to rent a safety deposit box,” Kerri said as she lifted the briefcase to the counter. “Large enough for this.”

“Do you have an account with us?” the clerk asked.

“… No. Can’t I just pay cash?”

“Certainly,” the clerk said, staring at the dark brown leather briefcase. “Please come this way.” He led Kerri to the vault in the rear of the bank, then approached one of the hundreds of safety deposit boxes lining the walls. Using his security key, he unlocked the top lock, then turned the key in the bottom lock. “This should be satisfactory,” he said, pulling the box out far enough to show her the size.

Kerri fitted the briefcase into the box. “This is perfect.”

“Would you like to be alone for a while? We have some private rooms just outside the vault.”

“No. I’ll just leave it here for now. Thank you.”

“The clerk shoved the box into the opening, then closed and locked the door. He removed the key from the lower lock and handed it to Kerri. “Please come this way.” He led her to a small office where he gave her a card. “Here is your identification card. Please do not lose it. It’s very important.”

Kerri paid in cash for six month’s use of the box. “Thank you,” she said, extending her hand.

“Thank you very much for your business. Please come and see us often.”

Kerri took a taxi back to the hotel and hurried to an empty deck chair on the terrace. She removed her jeans and T-shirt, lifted her sun glasses to the top of her head, closed her eyes and smiled, satisfied that she had finally made something happen.

Visconti inserted his key in the door to the suite, turned it and tried to open the door. When it failed to open, he turned the key the opposite way. “No!” he shouted. He rushed inside and was horrified to see the state of disorder of the suite. He raced to the bedroom, descended to his knees and rooted through the debris like a dog looking for a bone, desperately looking for his briefcase. After fifteen minutes of swearing and unsuccessful search, he snatched the telephone receiver and dialed number of the front desk. “This is Louis Visconti. I want to report a robbery. I want the manager up here immediately,” he demanded.

“Is anything missing?”

“Yes. My briefcase.”

“Please don’t touch a thing, sir. The manager and the house detective will be there very shortly. Would you like me to call the police?”

“Ah, no… The contents of the briefcase are rather sensitive.”

“I understand. I must advise you that a claim under the hotel’s theft insurance can only be validated by a thorough police investigation and report.”

“Forget the police! Just tell the manger to get his ass up here, now!”

The hotel manager and house detective arrived within two minutes. After conducting a survey of the suite and commiserating with Visconti, they promised to interrogate the hotel’s staff in the course of completing an exhaustive search for his briefcase. Again Visconti declined an offer to call the police.

As soon as the manager and house detective left, Visconti returned to the bedroom and continued to sort through the debris in search of his briefcase, or some clue as to its disappearance. Instead he found Kerri’s photograph of her father and mother. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the window. “Holy shit!” he swore, staring at the photograph in the bright sunlight. He inserted the photograph between the folds of a large white towel, then headed for the hotel’s terrace.

Visconti forced a smile as he lowered himself into the deck chair beside Kerri’s. “Did you make certain the door was locked when you left for the pool?” he asked, his face almost devoid of color.

Kerri’s heart pounded. “Yes. Why?”

“Someone broke into our suite. The place was torn apart.”

“Oh, no!” she said, bolting upright, feigning surprise. “Is anything missing?”

Visconti nodded. “My briefcase. My entire life support system is in there.”

“Can it be replaced?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to have to make some calls to find out.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I called the hotel manager. He and the house detective looked around the suite and promised me they would do a complete investigation… Did you bring your wallet with you?”

Kerri gasped as she quickly reached into her bag. “Thank God I did!” she said, removing it for him to see. She stood then sat beside him. “I’m so sorry, Louis. You don’t deserve this,” she said, forcing herself to hug him, and certain he did.

Visconti reached for his towel and removed the photograph. He held it inches from her face. “I found this while I was looking for my briefcase,” he said, glaring at her eyes. “Who are the people in this photograph?”

Kerri stared at the photograph in shock, desperately trying to think of how to respond to Visconti’s question. “That’s my mother,” she said, pointing to Barbara.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Mom dated him for a while after she split from my father. She told me his name, but I can’t remember.”

“So you’ve never met him?”

“I probably did, but it was a long time ago. I was very young… Do you know him?”

Visconti shook his head. “He looks like someone I used to do business with.” Again he looked at Kerri suspiciously. “I never did ask… What’s your maiden name?”

Kerri used her mother’s maiden name. “Larkin,” she lied, holding her breath.

Visconti lowered his eyes to the photograph, then back to Kerri. His frown gradually gave way to a grin. “I think you’re better looking than your mother.”

Relieved, Kerri swallowed dryly and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, releasing her vice-like grip on the arm of Visconti’s chair.

“I’ll see you later. I’ve got to go back to the suite and make some calls.”

“I’m going with you. I want to see if anything else was stolen.”

CHAPTER 93

Deep Bottom Cove, Massachusetts. September 20. 10:00 A.M.

Heavy clouds and a thick morning mist hung over the still water and obscured the view of the trees, less than a hundred yards away from John Hill’s sixteen foot aluminum fishing boat. Hill, still head of C.I.D. for the I.R.S., had just cast his line about thirty feet from the boat which floated in a narrow secluded cove on Martha’s Vinyard. He turned to his friend, Alex McDowell, now the director of Canada’s Security Intelligence Service. For years, the two had annually enjoyed a week of fishing together. They had always alternated between McDowell’s summer home in the Gatineau Hills, near Ottawa, and Hill’s summer home on Martha’s Vinyard. By mutual agreement, both had avoided the razor for three days. “Look’s like rain,” Hill muttered. “You want to pack it up?”

McDowell secured the handle of his rod under his seat, then scanned the sky. “Let’s risk it. I think it’s going to clear. Even if it doesn’t, I don’t mind getting a little wet.” He turned to face Hill. “I understand your people struck out at Louis Visconti’s office.”

“Yup. A big zero,” Hill admitted, hiding his disappointment by turning to concentrate on his line. “We couldn’t find one shred of evidence, hard or soft. Nothing.” He glanced at McDowell. “Have your people talked to King yet?”

McDowell shook his head. “He’s disappeared. His wife and his lawyer say they have no idea where he is. We think they’re lying through their teeth.”

Hill rolled his eyes. “That’s nice. So who’s got the money, Visconti or King?”

“Good question. Maybe they both have it. Maybe they’re in this thing together.”

“What does King’s stepson say about it?”

Again McDowell shook his head. “He’s disappeared also. No one’s seen him since he left our office in Toronto last Thursday. The Ontario Provincial Police found his company van on a dirt road about fifty miles west of Toronto. There was absolutely no clue in that vehicle. It was sanitized.”

Hill continued to stare at the water and chuckled. “The whole thing is so familiar. As soon as we get close to King and that money, they both disappear.”

“We’re going to find both,” McDowell promised. “What about Visconti? I presume you’re looking for him.”

Hill nodded.

“John, how much money do you think we’re looking for?”

“The only number we have to work with is the one Phillip Servito gave us.”

“Three hundred million! That’s bull shit. It’s got to be more than that after ten years.”

“Suppose we recover three hundred million. Would you close the books?”

“Nope, but I’d do it in a heart beat for five. Four would let me sleep at night. We could save the asses of everyone who was even remotely connected to this disastrous investigation”

“And you and I wouldn’t have to admit that after ten years of looking, we couldn’t find over three hundred million gasoline tax dollars.”

CHAPTER 94

Kerri found Visconti seated at the ornate French provincial desk in the living room of their suite. His right hand rested on top of the telephone, his head slumped. He turned to face her. “I have to leave immediately,” he said.

Kerri threw her cotton bag onto the couch and hurried to his side. “Why?” she asked, pretending to console him by rubbing his shoulders.

Visconti leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. “I have to drive to Geneva and identify myself in person. It’s the only way I can clear up this whole mess.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“I’d enjoy the company, but I think you should stay here and try to find out who broke into this place.”

Kerri surveyed the mess she had made, then forced herself to hug Visconti. “How long will you be gone?”

“No longer than twenty-four hours.” He stood and took her in his arms. “While I’m gone, I want you to buy yourself the most expensive evening dress you can find. When I get back, I’m going to take you to dinner, and then to the European Casino. I think it’s time I showed off Monte Carlo’s newest and most beautiful resident.”

Visconti left almost an hour later, a black leather over-night bag slung over his shoulder.

Kerri returned to the balcony and waited until she saw him leave the hotel and step into a taxi. She raced to the telephone and placed a collect call to her father on Azimuth Island. Her hands trembled as she dialed.

Mike was awakened at four A.M., Toronto time, by the relentless jangle of the rural telephone near his bed.

“I have a collect call for Mike King from Kerri Pyper in Monaco. Will you accept the charges?” the operator asked.

“Yes,” Mike said, jerking himself upward in his four poster bed.

“Dad, I’m sorry to call at this time. It’s the first chance I’ve had.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine… How are you?”

“Still free and running from the law. I’ve got all the comforts of home here, but no people. I’m starting to talk to myself. I’m getting more fresh air and exercise than I’ve had in years. I must have canoed at least a hundred miles since I’ve been here, I’m sick of reading the same old magazines for the zillionth time, and I’m lonely as hell.

“How’s Phillip?”

Mike closed his eyes. “… He’s disappeared. No one’s seen him since late last week. The police found his van on Friday. It was abandoned on the side of a dirt road… It doesn’t look good, Kerri.”