Against the Storm1 (16 page)

M
aggie started working on the client list for Trace. She kept both email and snail mail addresses as a means of promoting her shows and the release of her new photo collections. It was all on computer, which was a major help. She went back two years, looking for anyone who had purchased two or more pieces, but the list was too long and unwieldy. She narrowed it to three purchases, then to four.

Each effort took a while. Eventually she checked her watch, saw that she needed to leave in order to make her appointment at the gallery and closed down the machine.

When Maggie arrived, Faye was busy with customers picking up framed photographs they had purchased at the gala.

“The walls are practically empty,” she said, beaming as she met Maggie by her car. “What a terrific show.”

Maggie made a mental note to get the new buyer information from Faye to add to her client list. Then she leaned into the back of her Escape and pulled out the first of five pieces from an earlier show she planned to
put on display until she’d had time to print and frame more pictures for the new collection.

“Here, let me help you.” Faye reached for another of the 24 x 36 photos, which were bubble-wrapped for protection.

“I can do this,” Maggie said. “You’re hardly dressed for it.” The gallery owner wore a tailored blue skirt with a light blue silk blouse and low-heeled sandals.

“I’m fine,” Faye said. “Faster if we both carry them in.”

Working together, they got them inside and unwrapped. “I hope you can get the replacements done fairly soon. I’ll have to hang something else until I get them. I’d like to have them up no later than week after next.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” She would have to get in touch with the company that did the prints, but Fine Art Photo Imaging had always been prompt. The framing was another matter, but she worked closely with Frontier Framing and because she gave them a lot of business, her jobs got top priority.

For the next half hour, Maggie worked with Faye, climbing ladders and carefully hanging photos in the empty spaces left by those that had sold, adding some other photographers’ pieces Faye had in the other room, then adjusting the spotlights to show off each work to its best advantage.

“The opening was such a success the Weyman people have already been calling to set up a date for a benefit next year,” the gallery owner said as she climbed down a ladder. “I hope you’ll be able to do it again.”

“I don’t see why not.”

She smiled. “Your pieces really made the show a hit. People loved what they saw. There’s such a poignancy about your work. You’ve got a wonderful talent,
Maggie, for catching exactly the right shot at exactly the right moment.”

“Thanks, Faye.”

The dark-haired woman reached up and adjusted a smaller photo along the wall. “So…what about the cowboy? Half the women at the opening were swooning over him.”

And I was one of them,
Maggie thought.
The one who wound up in his bed.
The notion didn’t sit as well as it might have.

“Actually, he was here as my bodyguard.”

One of Faye’s dark eyebrows went up. “Do tell.”

Maggie filled her in on the stalker and the notes and phone calls she had received. “I thought maybe it was one of my clients. I was hoping he might show up last night, but I don’t think he was here, and neither does Trace.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Just keep an eye out. We have a description of someone who could be him, but no way to know for sure. A big guy in his forties, with silver-streaked dark hair. If someone fitting that description, or anyone else comes in wanting an unusual amount of information about me, let me know.”

“Don’t worry, I will. I hope you catch the sick bastard.”

“So do I.”

“In the meantime, bring me those photos as soon as you can. I can’t sell them if I don’t have them.”

Maggie smiled, enjoying the momentary high from her success. Like everything in life, she knew it could end in a heartbeat.

“Magnificent photograph.” Richard Meyers stepped back to admire the framed picture
Harbor Sunset
he
had been instructed to purchase last night and pick up this morning.
Harbor Sunset
was an amazing shot of the Blue Fin Marina awash in the red-orange light of a flaming sunset. “Too bad it’ll have to be destroyed.”

Garrett Logan stared down at the picture on the table in his study. “You had just better hope we get our hands on that…what is it? The negative, but they don’t call them that now.”

“Memory card. We’ve got to get rid of everything Maggie might have photographed that day. That means we need to get hold of the card she used in her digital camera.” Richard walked over to the wet bar in the corner, poured the last half of a can of Diet Pepsi into his frosty glass. “I talked to Faye Langston last night. Maggie prints and frames each picture one at a time. She works out of the studio in her home. If we move on this, we should be able to make the entire collection disappear before it becomes a problem.”

Garrett looked down at the information card that had come with the purchase, the words elegantly drawn in calligraphy. The date of the photo was April 20.

His stomach clenched. “It’s already a problem.” He raked a hand through his thick silver hair. “Of all the bad luck.”

Picking up the magnifying glass he had been using to examine the shot, Garrett leaned over to study the photo again. The names of the expensive white yachts lined up along dock B weren’t apparent until he looked through the glass. Once he did, there was no doubt that the plush, fifty-one-foot Navigator,
Capitol Expense,
was his personal yacht. There was also no doubt he was the man sitting at the table on deck.

And the woman across from him…

He felt a wave of nausea. Thank God for Richard. He
could count on him to handle this problem the way he did everything else. The man had become indispensable. Which worried Garrett a little, since he knew that was exactly Meyers’s plan.

“Once we get rid of the memory card,” his aide said, “there’ll be no proof the two of you ever met. This’ll all go away.”

Annoyance filtered through the senator. Richard had a way of making everything sound so easy. “That’s all well and good, but how, exactly, do you intend to make that happen?”

“I’m not quite sure yet. We’ll need to do a little digging, find out everything we can about Maggie O’Connell—where she lives, where she works. We’ll figure out where to find the card and get rid of it.”

Garrett felt a trickle of his old self-confidence returning. Getting information out of people was his long suit.

“I heard a little gossip last night,” Richard continued. “Just a whisper, but apparently, Maggie’s been having some problems. Claims some guy has been stalking her, even broke into her house. I thought maybe you could use your connections with the police department, see what’s really going on. Might be something that could work to our advantage.”

Garrett started nodding, his confidence growing. “I’ll handle it. I’ll get on it right away. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Richard smiled. “Perfect.”

Trace adjusted his phone against his ear. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said to Mark Sayers, the man on the other end of the line.

“Hey, no problem. We appreciate your help on this.”

Trace hung up and leaned back in his chair, a smile of
satisfaction on his face. On Monday afternoon, Parker Barrington had been arrested for embezzling funds from Sommerset Industries. Since the money ran into the tens of millions, the D.A. was able to convince the court that Parker was a flight risk, and the judge refused to set bail. At least the bastard was in jail. Which was a damned good start, but still not enough.

After Emily had amended her statement, refuting Parker’s alibi for the night of Hewitt’s murder, the police had gone back and done a more in-depth autopsy on the body. The results were not yet in but were due any day. Trace hoped the coroner would find something that would prove the shot that had killed him was not self-inflicted.

The office was humming, Annie working away up front. Through the glass wall in his office, he could see Alex Justice leaning back in the chair behind his desk, his feet propped up, his cell phone pressed against his ear. Ben was staring at his computer screen as if it held infinite secrets, working the keyboard and mouse. Rex had come and gone. He’d been making daily stops at Maggie’s, picking up video cards from the wireless cameras aimed at her front and back doors, looking for anyone who might have approached the town house aside from neighbors and the kids playing in front. No one seemed out of place or looked suspicious.

Trace got up and walked into the office next door. Sol looked up from the computer screen, sat back and pulled off his horn-rimmed glasses.

“What’s up, boss?”

“I’ve got some names I need you to run. I want to know if any of these guys have a connection to Maggie O’Connell.”

Sol rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You think one of them might be her stalker?”

“They fit a possible description, but I talked to them at her opening on Friday night and I didn’t get any vibes. Doesn’t mean something can’t turn up.” He set the brief list down on Sol’s desk. “And while you’re at it, take another look at the first list of names I gave you. Go a little deeper, see if we might have missed something.”

They had both done a search of the personal acquaintances Maggie had listed for Trace that first day. So far neither of them had come up with anything.

Maybe the third time would be the charm.

“I’ll give it a shot,” Sol said, which meant he might have to cross a legal line or two, but both of them would pretend he hadn’t. Turning back to the computer screen, he started pounding away on the keyboard, and Trace returned to his office.

Roger Weller’s name was on Maggie’s original list, but sometimes the most interesting information couldn’t be found on the net.

Last night Trace had phoned Johnnie Riggs, a good friend and ex-Ranger buddy who lived in L.A. Riggs made a living by digging up information—the kind people wanted to keep hidden. Mostly he worked nights, hanging around bars and nightclubs, talking to people on the street, working his contacts. If you wanted to know about someone in Southern California, Johnnie Riggs was your go-to guy.

Trace hadn’t connected with Riggs last night, but he had left a message. When the phone on his desk started to ring, he wasn’t surprised to hear his friend’s husky voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey, man, glad you called,” Johnnie said. “I was beginning to think you’d cocked up your toes.”

Trace chuckled. “Still alive and kickin’. Hard at work, just like you. I need you to do a little digging.”

“Yeah? Got a name?”

“Roger Weller. He’s a celebrity of sorts, fairly famous photographer. My client used to work for him. Says he taught her everything she knows.”

“That right?” Johnnie said, a suggestive note in his voice.

“According to her, not that kind of everything. She’s fairly well known in the business herself. From what her photographs sell for, she makes more than a decent living, and Weller’s a far bigger name.”

“So the guy’s got bucks.”

“I did a preliminary search on the net. He’s got a house in Laguna Beach. Owns his own gallery there.”

“Not a cheap place to live.”

“I want to know his off-the-record story, not just what the magazines say about how talented he is. And I want to know if he had more than a mentor-student relationship with Maggie O’Connell.”

“That your client?”

“That’s her.”

“Redhead?”

Trace felt a trickle of annoyance. “As a matter of fact.”

Johnnie chuckled.

“She’s got a stalker, Hambone.” It was Johnnie’s Ranger name, well deserved since the man could eat his weight in food and never gain an ounce of fat. “This guy put cameras in her house, bugged her car. He isn’t kidding around.”

“Not good.”

“No, it isn’t. Let me know what you find out.”

“Will do. I’ll get back to you soon as I have something.” Johnnie hung up the phone and so did Trace.

He needed to know about Weller, but it bothered him to be checking up on Maggie. He wanted to trust her. For the most part, he did.

But marrying Carly proved he couldn’t trust his instincts with women. He needed to be sure Maggie was telling him the truth.

Ashley swung her racquet at the ball, slamming a return her sister missed, and scoring the final point in the game. It was over at last—thank God—since after having the baby, she was way out of condition.

“That was fun,” Maggie said, walking toward her.

Ashley took the towel she handed her, wiped her face and neck. Both of them were perspiring and panting. Mrs. Epstein, the next-door neighbor, was watching Robbie while they played. Ashley looked down at her cheap, pink-and-silver plastic wristwatch. Robbie had been sleeping when they’d dropped him off, but he was probably awake by now.

She bent at the waist, bracing her hands on her knees and sucked in a final deep breath. The pounding of balls in the neighboring courts echoed around them. “I am so out of shape.” Which was why her sister had won the first two games, then let her win the third.

“Give yourself a break,” Maggie said. “You just had a baby.”

Ashley straightened, blew out a breath. “I haven’t played in ages.”

“I try to play a couple of times a week. I don’t always manage.”

Ashley grinned. “It felt really great, even if you did let me win.”

Her sister laughed. “Next time you’ll beat me fair and square.”

Ashley glanced back down at her watch. “We’ve been gone almost two hours.”

Maggie walked over to the bench against the wall and began to stuff her gear into a blue-and-white gym bag. “I know you’re nervous. It’s the first time you’ve ever left Robbie with someone else. I’m a little nervous myself.”

“We should get back.” Ashley handed her the racquet she had borrowed, and they headed for the door. All the way to the town house, she worried, which she guessed all new mothers did. But when they knocked on Mrs. Epstein’s door and the older woman pulled it open, everything seemed to be fine.