Blood Rubies (28 page)

“And you, Peter? Are you happy for me, too?”

“Of course,” he replied, his tone solemn, his gaze still on the floor. “Who is she?”

“Carly Summers. Toni's friend.”

“We met her at Christmas!” Ana said.

“Yes. She lives in New York City and has a weekend place in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. We've been meeting there or in Rochester.”

“Why Rochester?”

“She's a musician, a talented pianist. There's a fine music program in Rochester, the Eastman School of Music. She offers master classes there periodically.”

“I understand why you didn't tell us right away, because of Mom and all, but when the police insisted on knowing where you were Monday night, why didn't you just tell them?”

Stefan patted Ana's hand, then placed it on her thigh. He stood up and stretched, arching his back. “Because I'm only human.” He walked toward the front door. “Carly is married.”

I pushed my fingers against my lips.
Oh my,
I thought.

“Oh, God,” Ana said.

“Married?” Peter exclaimed as if he were unfamiliar with the word.

“The police called her to verify my story. She was upset—so upset. Understandable, of course. She dreads her husband finding out. There are children involved, and his elderly mother. Complications. Family complications. I must respect her need for privacy or I'd tell him myself.” He looked at Ana, then Peter, then back to Ana. “This isn't some sordid affair. We love each other.”

“What's going to happen?”

“She's gone to visit her daughter in Los Angeles. I begged her to come up here, to be with me through this difficult period.” Stefan ran his fingers through his thick graying hair. “She says she needs time alone, time to think. I don't know why. She doesn't love him. She loves me.”

He trudged to the door, pushed it open, and looked back over his shoulder. “I don't want to talk about it any more. It's a private situation.”

He left, and Ana and Peter exchanged astonished glances, then followed him out.

I opened the door a tiny bit, and the pencil fell to the floor. I placed it back in Ellis's container and sat down to wait.

*   *   *

Ellis returned about ten minutes later.

“Sorry about the wait,” he said, sitting behind his desk. “This thing's a real hairball, if you'll excuse my French.”

“Excused. What in particular is wrong now?”

“We can't get a break. Those police recruits went through every book in Milner's office. Nothing. The search of his condo and office is now complete. Nothing. We checked whether Milner's GPS was working when he hit the water. He hadn't turned it on. And Judge Sandler just refused our request for a court order to compel McArthur to reveal who used the Fabergé egg as collateral with him.”

“I'm surprised. How come?”

“She thought ADA Donovan's petition was specious.”

“Specious. That's harsh.”

“Yeah. She said that if we can connect the dots, showing that the Yartsin egg is the one McArthur has, she'll grant the petition.”

“If you could do that, you wouldn't need the petition.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“But they're so rare.”

“I know. What else can we try?”

Ellis and I brainstormed every which way, trying to find an unassailable connection between Ana's egg and George McArthur, without luck. Finally I stood up and told him I was going back to work.

*   *   *

After checking in with my staff working the tag sale, I scooped up Hank and went upstairs. My standing rule was when in doubt, do more research.

Hank curled into a tight ball in my lap, purring.

“Are you a good boy, Hank?”

He mewed.

“I know … you are
such
a good boy.”

Google led me directly to George McArthur's company. McArthur was the founder and majority owner of McArthur Evergreen Technologies based in Birmingham, New York. The photo that accompanied his welcome-to-our-Web-site letter showed a man of about fifty with a professional grin and short brown hair. He was wearing a blue collared shirt, open at the neck. The letter was standard issue, saying everything that potential customers and investors wanted to hear. Business was booming. Patents were pending. The future was in sight and looking good.

McArthur Evergreen Technologies manufactured small cuplike vessels that captured wind, efficiently converting it to energy. The cups could be attached to any tall structure, like a cell tower or a roof. It was, according to the company's “about” page, the first time wind power didn't require a windmill. I was impressed. So were technology reviewers from major newspapers and magazines. One article in a 2008
Technology Today
magazine roundup of up-and-coming firms to watch quoted McArthur Evergreen Technologies' director of marketing, Ana Yartsin.

*   *   *

I called Ellis and got him on his cell phone.

“I was just about to call you and pass along a little good news,” he said, “but you go first.”

“Ana got an MBA and worked in business for seven years before going back to culinary school. For five of them, she was the director of marketing for McArthur Evergreen Technologies.”

“As in George McArthur.”

“Yes.”

“So we now have two breaks. The techs found the flash drive.”

“That's great. Where?”

“Under one of the seats. They said it could have been in his shirt pocket, that as water rose, it got swept away. When the car pitched, it followed the tide, sliding under a mat.”

“Can they read anything on it?”

“Not yet. It has to dry out. For days, probably. They talked about using a blow dryer, but they were afraid the extreme heat might fry it.”

“Oh, God, Ellis. What a mess. The data's there, but we can't get to it.”

“Not
yet
.”

“I hope you're right.” I patted Hank's bottom, and he settled in tighter. “What should we do about Ana?”

“
You
should do nothing. I'll check it out.”

I stroked Hank's chin, and he raised his head a little to offer better access.

“Okay,” I said.

He told me he'd let me know when the data on the drive was available for me to look at, and I wished him luck. We hung up. I was tired of sitting and tired of thinking. I wanted to go dancing.

I texted Ty. “Dancing tonight?”

He replied right away. “I just made the rez.”

I smiled. What a guy.

“I've got to go, Hank.” I slid him down onto the floor. He meowed his objection and ambled away. “Sorry, baby.”

I went to close the folder, then stopped. I cut-and-pasted the old magazine article, then printed it out. I had a feeling I'd want to consult it again.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Most Sundays while Ty is working, I putter. I cook. I organize photos in albums. I polish silver. Today, I sat at my home computer researching everything I could think of that might possibly be related to Ana's relationship with McArthur Evergreen Technologies.

I read magazine articles, various interviews Ana conducted with the press, investor reports, annual reports, and archived internal company newsletters. At noon, I stood up and stretched. I knew a lot about the company, but if anything I'd learned was relevant, the link was beyond me.

“Time to cook,” I said. I made my mother's recipe for Dijon chicken, letting the maple-syrup-infused sauce simmer as I made a tuna salad sandwich for my lunch.

The sun was veiled with a thin layer of wispy gray clouds. The temperature hovered in the high forties. A dreary day, a lonely day. I wished I had a hobby like whittling or knitting or jewelry making. A girl I'd known in college who'd majored in premed had made metal sculptures to relax. Her dad was a welder, and she'd learned to use a blowtorch in high school. I looked out over the meadow.
A metal worker,
I thought. My mouth opened. I ran for my computer.

Within ten minutes, I'd located four free ways to solicit metal workers for day work: a discussion forum, a free jobs-available site, an industry association job board, and a nationally organized, community-based job posting system for tradesmen. I called Ellis.

“We've been working to identify who brought the genuine Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe to Drake Milner. Maybe we can work it backward. Instead of issuing a call-for-sightings, what would you think of my issuing a statement saying, ‘I've seen your work and I have a job for you'?”

“So he'll contact you,” Ellis said, thinking aloud.

“Exactly.”

“I like it. How would you work it?”

“I'd post an ad.” I told him about the sites I'd found.

“You get any nibbles, you call me before you reply.”

I promised I would. I wrote an ad, then revised it, trying to sound complimentary but not over the top, since a craftsman had to know the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe replica was not, by any stretch of the imagination, stellar work.

The heading read:
You created a Fabergé egg snow globe replica.

The text read:
I've seen it, and I want one, too! Will pay top dollar.

I created a dedicated e-mail account on a free service and added response instructions to my ad:
E-mail with a time I can call you. Don't forget to include your phone number.
I listed the e-mail address, reread it carefully, and said, “Okay, then.”

Twenty minutes later, all four ads were uploaded, and I went back to the kitchen to finish my sandwich.

*   *   *

At two, I called Wes.

“Do you know anything more?” I asked. “About anything?”

“Yup. I'm just heading out to Locke Pond. Meet me there in ten.”

Before I could ask him why, he'd hung up.

*   *   *

Locke Pond looked as dark and dangerous as it had the day I'd discovered Drake Milner's car submerged in the water.

I rolled to a stop at a police barricade a hundred yards from where I'd parked before. Another barricade was positioned several hundred yards down the road. Officer F. Meade was standing with her back to me, watching for oncoming vehicles.

Wes's shiny red car was next to two marked police cars and an unmarked white van. The van's sliding side door was open. Inside, all the seats had been removed. A bench ran the length of the cargo hold. Blue mesh gear bags were scattered throughout.

Wes was standing at the barricade arguing with Griff.

“What's so secret?” Wes asked, sounding outraged.

“Nothing is secret, Wes,” Griff replied, smiling tolerantly. “You can't make a conspiracy out of this, no matter how hard you try. A crime scene is what we have here, nothing more.”

“And I'm the voice of the people demanding information.”

“You're not allowed to traipse through an active crime scene. You know that, Wes.”

“Hi, Wes,” I said, joining him. “Hi, Griff.”

“Josie.” Griff touched his cap, old school. “You all right?”

“I'd be doing better if the temperature would catch up with the season, but I'm fine.”

“It's cold, all right.”

Wes, agitated, moved away, standing on tiptoes, trying to see through the trees.

“What's Wes trying to see?”

“Divers.”

“Are they dredging the pond?” I asked, surprised. I couldn't imagine what they were looking for. “Is it confidential? Can you tell me what they're doing?”

Griff thought about it for half a minute, then shrugged. “They're not dredging. The medical examiner issued a statement to the press, which is why he's here.” Griff nodded toward Wes. “So I guess I can fill you in.” Wes saw Griff's motion toward him, and he hurried back to join us. “She's ruled Drake Milner's death a homicide. He was hit on the head with a rock. I guess she found some bits of mica embedded in his skull. Those divers, they're looking for the rock.”

“How horrible,” I said, wincing. “Gruesome.” I paused. “Do they really think they can locate one rock in particular? The pond is huge!”

“They used this new imaging software and added animation and color enhancement and I don't know what-all else, so they have a picture of the rock they're looking for, or at least the part of it that did the damage. Then they calculated trajectory. It's amazing what they can calculate nowadays.”

Wes rejoined us and listened in.

“From the angle of the blow,” Griff continued, “they figured the killer hit Milner while he was behind the wheel, then chucked the stone into the water, lowered the windows a couple of inches so the water could get in, put the car in neutral, hit the auto-lock button, closed the door, and pushed the car in. Since they know where the car entered the pond from the tire tracks, they can approximate where the killer would have been standing when he threw the rock. It's like a slice of pizza with the killer at the pointy end. The arc of the wide end is the farthest a large, athletic man could reach. If the killer threw the stone like they think he did, it can't be outside that arc. That's the only area they need to search.”

“Can I get copies of the animation?” Wes asked, making a note.

“Not from me.”

Wes started arguing with him, moaning about freedom of the press and the public's right to know, like always, and I walked away.

The wooden sawhorse barricades ended about ten feet into the woods. While Griff was engaged with Wes, I sidestepped to the end, moving slowly, then trotted deeper into the woods toward the pond. When I reached the trees that lined the pond, I looked back. I couldn't see the street, which meant Griff couldn't see me.

It was hard going. The woods were thick and dark, with giant conifers creating a solid ceiling overhead and tangled vines and unseen roots underfoot. I pushed aside a low-hanging branch, ducked under another, stepped around a spiky bush, and crawled over an ancient tree trunk that had fallen diagonally across my path. I began to hear voices and speeded up.