White Mountain (14 page)

The he turned to David making sure that they knew how close she’d come to a possible rape.

“He saw her in town and set her up for his own little party.
 
It was just luck that I saw him messing with her car.
 
I got suspicious and followed, but I wasn’t quite fast enough to keep her from getting hurt.”

The old man’s shoulders slumped.
 
If Samuel had still been alive, it never would have happened.
 
People had too much respect for him ever to do something like that to his daughter.
 
But Samuel was gone, and it was now up to them to make sure Isabella was protected.
 
He straightened slowly, thrusting his chin forward as he embraced Isabella.

“I’m terribly sorry this happened to you, dear, but rest assured that it won’t happen again.”

Isabella wanted to cry all over again, but not because of what had happened to her.
 
As she rested her cheek against her Uncle David’s chest, the unsteady rhythm of his heart was an all too vivid reminder of his waning years.
 
She shook her head and looked up at him.

“No, Uncle David.
 
It’s over, and that’s that.”
 
Then she glanced at Jack and smile.
 
“Besides, Mr. Dolan has already exacted retribution.”

David looked at Jack, suddenly aware that there was more to the story than had yet been told.

“Like what?”

Jack shrugged.
 
“I guess I broke his nose.”

David Schultz grinned and then thumped Jack on the back.
 
“Well done, young man.
 
On behalf of the uncles, I thank you.”

Jack nodded shortly.
 
“Her car is still on the road.
 
The spare is on, but she needs a new tire.”

“Jasper and I will tend to it immediately,” David said.
 
“All I need is the keys.”

Isabella dug them out of her purse and handed them over.

“Just charge the tire, Uncle David, and tell them to send me the bill.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” David said.
 
“I’m sending the bill to Lawton Cage.
 
It’s his fault that boy is so wild and unruly.
 
He can pay for this like he’s paid for everything else that boy has done wrong.”

Isabella sighed.
 
There was no use arguing any further.

“fine,” she said.
 
“But I’m serious when I tell you that I do not want this reported to the police.
 
The less I have to deal with that man, the better off I’ll be.”

David nodded in agreement, then patted her on the head as if she were a child.

“You go to your room and lie down now, dear.
 
We’ll take care of everything.”

Assuming that she would do as she’d been told, he left her standing in the lobby.

She looked at Jack.
 
“I’ve just been sent to my room, haven’t I?”

Jack wanted an excuse to touch her again, but that had come and gone out on the road by her car.

“It’s not such a bad idea,” he said.
 
“First maybe put some ice on your lip before it swells any more.”

“You’re probably right,” she said, and then glanced at her watch.
 
“Although it’s almost noon, and I usually help out in the dining room during the—“

“They’ll manage.
 
Besides, if you go in there with a fat lip, then you’re going to have to explain what happened at least a dozen times before you’re through.”

Isabella made a face.
 
“Ugh.
 
You’re right.
 
I hadn’t thought of that.
 
Well, that settles it.
 
I’m off to the kitchen for some ice and then into bed.
 
At least for a while.”

“I’d be happy to get the ice for you if you want to—“

Isabella laid her hand on his arm.
 
“You’ve done enough for me for one day.
 
I’ll get my own ice.
 
You go have some lunch.
 
You’ve earned it.”

Jack shifted from one foot to the other, unable to think of a single reason to delay her exit any further.

“Yes…all right, I guess I am a little hungry.”

“Enjoy,” Isabella said, and then squeezed his arm lightly before walking away.

Jack stood without moving, his gaze fixed on the confident set of her shoulders and the languid sway of her hips as she walked across the lobby.
 
Only after he could no longer see her did he realize he’d been holding his breath.
 
He exhaled slowly as his gaze moved from the doorway to the painting above the stairs.

The woman looked down at him, smiling slightly, as if she knew a secret she wouldn’t tell.
 
But there was no secret to what Jack was feeling.
 
He was getting too interested in someone who was part of his investigation.

He started to go into the dining room, and then changed his mind and headed for the stairs instead.
 
He needed to wash up and change his shirt.
 
He wasn’t about to eat a meal with Bobby Joe Cage’s blood on his sleeves.

Victor Ross was clipping the hedge at the front of the hotel when two of the old men came hurrying outside.
 
Unwilling for them to see his face, he turned and ducked his head.
 
But he caught just enough of their conversation to realize that Isabella Abbott had been involved in some upsetting incident.
 
They were obviously off to right the wrong, and Isabella had taken to her bed.

His mind raced as he thought back over the morning.
 
Earlier he’d seen on of the men, the one they called Thomas, leaving with a briefcase in his hand. And he still wasn’t back.
 
David Schultz and Jasper Arnold had just left the ground, which meant that John Michaels and Rufus Toombs were the only two unaccounted for.
 
He knew that the men occupied the entire upper floor of the hotel.
 
It was the first time since his arrival that he’d been given an opportunity to search Frank Walton’s room.
 
He gave the hedge a few more quick snips, then hurried around to the back of the building.
 
The fire escape was old but sturdy, and would serve his purpose nicely.
 
HE stored the tools he’d been using and washing quickly, anxious to slip into the kitchen for his noon meal.
 
It wouldn’t take him long to see whether the other two men showed up to eat.
 
If they did, he would have the upper story of Abbott House to himself for at least thirty minutes, and that was all he would need.
 
If there was anything of interest to his government in Frank Walton’s room, it wouldn’t take him long to find it.
 
If he came up empty-handed, he was going to contact his superiors, tell them that the old man was dead and buried, and call it quits.
 
He missed his bed and his friends, and was willing to admit he was too old for this spy stuff after all.
 
Besides, what could one old man possibly have known that would be of any interest to his country now?

It had been easier than Vasili Rostov expected.
 
He’d seen the two remaining residents of the third floor enter the dining room and take their seat at a table with several other diners.
 
After placing their orders, they quickly engaged in conversation, assuring him tat, for the time being, the top floor of Abbott House was unoccupied.

He’d stuffed down the last bite of his sandwich, then left through the back door of the kitchen, stating loudly that he had to get back to work.
 
Then he’d gotten his clippers, circled the building and gone up the fire escape to the top floor, picked the lock to the access door and stepped inside, leaving the clippers behind to use as an excuse if he got caught walking around the grounds later.
 
It wasn’t until he was staring down the long dark hallway that he realized he’d completely overlooked the possibility of an alarm.
 
He held his breath, waiting for something to sound, and when it didn’t, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

There were six doors.
 
Three on the left.
 
Three on the right.
 
With no way to ascertain which one had belonged to Frank Walton other than trial and error, he began by trying the first on his left.
 
It was locked.
 
As was the next, and the next and the next.
 
It seemed strange to him that six men would claim the entire third floor of a building for more than thirty years and still lock their doors behind them when they left.
 
But, he reminded himself, this was also a public hotel.
 
He supposed they did it as a means of protecting their private property from nosey strangers.

With no time to waste, he picked the first lock and slipped inside.
 
The aroma of coffee was still in the air, and there was a coffee cup on a side table with a few drops still in it.
 
An open book, a pair of slippers by a chair, and he quickly ascertained that this wasn’t Frank Walton’s room.

Without touching a thing, he backed out the same way he’d come in, locking the door behind him and moving to the next.
 
It wasn’t until he’d opened and closed three doors that he found the room he’d been looking for.

The moment he entered, he knew this was it.
 
The air in the suite seemed stale, and there was a faint but obvious layer of dust on the coffee table near the window.
 
The room was neat, the way it might be left when taking a trip.
 
He remembered how his mother used to clean their small cottage before going to bed, as if by the simple act of neatness she would be able to face the next day of privation.
 
But Walton had not been in this room for weeks, and it was inevitable that some dust would appear.

He peered back into the hallway, heard nothing, saw no one, and quietly locked himself inside.
 
Unless someone got a wild urge to suddenly pack away a dead man’s things, he should have ample time to search.

He paused momentarily, looking around the place that had been Frank Walton’s home and remembering the old man he’d seen in the alley.
 
There had been fear, but Rostov knew that he’d also seen recognition.
 
If Walton was so afraid of being found that he would kill himself rather than be taken back to Russia, there had to be a reason other than mere deportation.

The living room was furnished in dark, somber tones, and there were places on the heavy velvet drapes that had faded from a dark cranberry to a watered-down cherry.
 
The rug on the floor was imitation Persian, and the cushions on the wing-back chairs and sofa bore the indentations of years of use.

He moved first to an oversized highboy that had obviously been used as a desk and began opening drawers.
 
He found nothing more incriminating than some old gas receipts and two unpaid bills.
 
From there, he went to a small kitchenette.
 
It took exactly five minutes to search it without any success.
 
That left only two other rooms.
 
A small private bath and the adjoining bedroom.

Rostov started across the floor, and as he did a board squeaked beneath his feet.
 
Attributing it to the age of the house, he headed for the bathroom.
 
A few minutes later, he came out, no wiser than when he’d come in, save for the fact that his first impressions of Frank Walton had been right.
 
Rostov had found a bottle of EAP—etoposide/adriamycin/cisplatin—along with a paper listing side effects for the new compound being used in the treatment of some cancers.
 
Knowing this, Walton’s actions now made a strange sort of sense.
 
The decision to take his own life hadn’t been as drastic as Rostov had first believed.
 
The old man must already have been dying.
 
He’d just chosen his end then and there.

Frustrated, and more than a little worried as to what his superiors were going to say when he called to tell them he’d failed, he started toward a dresser.
 
Once again, the floor squeaked beneath his feet.
 
He looked down, realizing it was in the same place.
 
He frowned at his carelessness.
 
If someone was upstairs now, they might hear the sound.
 
Even if he got caught, they would merely assume he was a common thief, but he would be arrested and fired.
 
Rostov could not afford to have his true identity surface, so he circumvented the area and headed for the dresser.
 
A quick search revealed nothing but clothing.
 
From there he went to the bed, then the mattress, checking between it and the box springs for anything that might be concealed, taking care not to step on the squeaking boards in front of the bed.

To his frustration, he found nothing.
 
He move to searching behind heat vents and photos, behind paintings hanging on the walls, then looking in vain for any kind of safe.
 
Disgusted that his search had netted nothing of use, he stood in the doorway, giving the room one last sweep before calling it quits.