No One Needs to Know (23 page)

Laurie almost didn’t recognize her, because she was wearing sunglasses. She’d changed from her work clothes into a pale blue top with beige slacks. Laurie tightened one arm around Joey and started to wave at her boss. But then she balked.

Cheryl was deep in serious conversation with a tall, handsome, thirtysomething man in a business suit. He wore sunglasses, and had neatly styled salt-and-pepper hair. Laurie didn’t recognize him. She was pretty sure he hadn’t been on the movie set.

He didn’t look too happy with Cheryl. He shook his head, and even started to jab his finger in the air at her.

Laurie wondered if it was some secret lovers’ quarrel. She was too far away to see if the man wore a wedding ring.

Cheryl was glancing around—apparently to see if they were attracting attention. She looked embarrassed. She gently put her hand on the man’s arm. She began to lead him down the path to the fishpond.

Laurie immediately moved Joey from the pond’s edge into his stroller seat. He let out a loud wail of protest. “Hush now, honey,” she whispered. Then she stole a glance at Cheryl and the mystery man. She glimpsed them just long enough to see Cheryl freeze in her tracks. From the look on Cheryl’s face, Laurie could tell she didn’t want to be seen. So Laurie quickly turned away, trying to act as if she hadn’t noticed her.

Once she got Joey situated in the stroller, she peeked up toward the start of the pathway again. Cheryl and the man were gone.

She took her time pushing Joey in his stroller around the hedges and up the pathway. He’d stopped crying. As she reached the promenade by the Black Sun sculpture, Laurie casually glanced around. She decided to pretend she hadn’t noticed Cheryl until now.

But she didn’t see Cheryl or the younger man anywhere. Obviously, they’d gotten the hell out of there once Cheryl had spotted her. But why? She didn’t care if Cheryl had a boyfriend.

Pushing Joey’s stroller, Laurie headed for her car. She decided to pretend she never saw Cheryl here this afternoon. After all, it was none of her business. She wasn’t going to ask Cheryl about any of this.

She probably wouldn’t have gotten an honest answer anyway.

The thin, pale woman with raven hair sat alone at the wheel of a dark blue SUV. The vehicle was parked across from the Asian Art Museum. She looked out at the “donut” sculpture. With a telephoto lens, she’d snapped several photographs of Cheryl Wheeler and Dean Holbrook, Jr., during a clandestine meeting.

The two had ducked down a path that led toward the water tower.

Dean Holbrook, Jr., was on her client’s list of “potential” candidates.

The woman had figured it would be only a matter of time before Cheryl approached him. And sure enough, she’d followed Cheryl here to the park ten minutes ago for this rendezvous.

It hadn’t looked as if Holbrook was willing to talk with her. But that hadn’t stopped Cheryl before. Hell, Cheryl’s food truck and her work partner had been blown to pieces, and even that hadn’t stopped her. Now she was on that film set every day, trying to dig up a lead.

No, Cheryl wasn’t giving up.

She had to be stopped. But she was still too high-profile right now. The food truck explosion remained a topic of interest for the police and the general public.

The woman would have to wait at least a few more days until she could scratch Cheryl’s name from the top of the list. Cheryl was the only
definite
amid the short roster of
potential
candidates—until now.

Working her mobile device, the black-haired woman sent an e-mail to her employer with the photos she’d just taken attached. She had a pretty good idea how her employer would respond. There could be no more meetings between Cheryl Wheeler and Dean Holbrook, Jr.

It would be impossible for Cheryl to get any information from a dead man.

The woman in the blue SUV noticed Cheryl’s new employee also happened to be in the park—with her child in tow. She was in apartment number three. Her name was Laurie Trotter.

That name was on the list now, too.

The poor, dumb thing probably had no idea what she’d gotten into.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

Sunday, July 6, 5:05
P.M.

Seattle

D
ean Holbrook, Jr., saw a strange, naked woman in his basement window.

He and his wife, Joyce, lived in a beautiful, old brick house in Washington Park, one of Seattle’s most desirable neighborhoods. With three bedrooms and a separate basement apartment, the house was too big for just Joyce and him. But Dean hoped to remedy that soon. They’d been trying to conceive for almost four years, and now they were looking into adoption.

They were certainly perfect candidates. He was thirty-five, and the youngest partner in one of Seattle’s most prestigious law firms, D. B. Donahue & Associates. Joyce was on the board of Northwest Ballet and several nonprofits. And they had this impressive home.

Dean was proud of the large, well-manicured front lawn. Their house was one of few on the block that had a fence—with big, potted geraniums atop the posts on either side of the driveway gate. Going in, they used the automatic openers in their cars. Going out, there was an electric eye to open the wrought iron gate. The mailman,
Seattle Times
delivery, FedEx, and UPS all had the pass code.

Dean had used the pass code to get in moments ago. He’d just finished a round of golf with some business associates at Broadmoor Golf Club, which was walking distance from his house. The older guys in the golf clique envied his youthful vitality for hoofing it to the clubhouse. Too bad he hadn’t been able to impress them on the course today. He’d played miserably. An off day, he’d told himself. But it was more than that. He’d been
off his game
in so many ways since Thursday afternoon, when he’d met with that bitch, Cheryl Wheeler.

A postgame martini had helped his disposition a bit. But he’d still been moody and on edge, hauling his golf clubs the seven blocks home. Ordinarily, Dean would have gone in the front door. However, earlier today he’d turned on the backyard sprinkler. So he’d needed to switch it off.

That was why he’d continued down the driveway, past the side of the house toward the backyard. And that was how he’d noticed the well-built, naked brunette in his basement window.

He and Joyce rented the basement apartment to his younger brother, Adam. Dean figured he was doing his only sibling a big favor, because the rent was dirt cheap: seven hundred a month for a spacious one-bedroom in one of Seattle’s best neighborhoods. Adam was thirty years old, and a “starving artist.” He’d won some awards at the Gage Academy of Art, and had some rinky-dink gallery in Belltown that carried his paintings. But it wasn’t a real living yet. So Adam supplemented his income as a cashier/checker at the Trader Joe’s about a mile and a half up the hill on 17th and Madison.

The nude woman glanced up over her shoulder at Dean, and seemed totally blasé about the whole thing. She didn’t try to cover herself or hide. She just stood there with one hand on her hip, and went back to talking to Adam. Dean couldn’t see who was in the living room with her, but he assumed it was Adam, who was probably naked, too.

He didn’t stop and stare, but he saw enough to notice she had a back tattoo and a rather voluptuous ass. Then he made a beeline for the backyard. He switched off the sprinkler system, let himself in the kitchen door, and unloaded his golf bag in the coat room. All the while, he shook his head in disgust. Adam drove him crazy sometimes. Could he possibly be more indiscreet? He could have lowered his blinds, at least. Did he even know this woman? They gave Adam a place to stay, and he was treating their beautiful home like it was a flophouse.

Joyce wasn’t home. But what if she were? What if one of those adoption agencies happened to come by here for a surprise visit—and they got an eyeful of that sideshow in the basement window?

Dean thought about going down there and giving his brother a talking-to. But he decided to wait until Miss Back Tattoo left the premises.

He went upstairs and took a shower, hoping it might mellow him out a little. He was getting dressed in the bedroom when he heard a car—and the mechanical hum of the front gate yawning open.

It was Joyce. She’d been visiting this gay couple who were friends of hers. They’d recently adopted a baby from a private agency. It was part social call, part research. “Include me out,” Dean had told her.

As Joyce’s Jetta pulled into the driveway, it passed the brunette woman—now clothed in jeans and a striped top. She was on her way out. The woman waved at Joyce, who stopped the car. They spoke briefly. Then the woman moved on through the open gate while Joyce parked the car in back.

Dean finished dressing, and hurried down the stairs. He caught his wife as she came in though the kitchen entry. She had close-cropped brown hair, and wore white slacks and a brown top that showed off her trim, athletic figure. “Hey, honey, how’s it going?” he said. And then without skipping a beat, he asked, “So what did Adam’s girlfriend say to you?”

Joyce set her purse on the breakfast table. “She said, ‘Hi, I’m Adam’s friend, Frieda.’”

“I came home and passed his window and there she was, standing in his living room, stark naked.”

“Well, good for Adam,” Joyce said, opening the refrigerator. “Though I didn’t know he was cougar bait. What do you want for dinner tonight? I still have all this food left over from the Fourth . . .”

“What do you mean, ‘cougar bait’?” he asked. Sometimes, Joyce’s laissez-faire attitude drove him nuts.

“She was at least forty-five if she was a day. So, we have all these hamburgers drying up. I guess I could make a casserole or spaghetti . . .”

“We’ll go out,” he said, dismissing the dinner discussion. “It doesn’t bother you that he’s bringing strange women into our home?”

Joyce closed the refrigerator door, and turned to him. “Honey, that basement apartment isn’t our home, it’s his. Aren’t you going to ask me about Stafford and David and their baby girl?”

“What if that woman was a prostitute?” Dean asked.

“Your brother’s really cute. I doubt he’d need to pay a prostitute—”

“I’m going to talk to him,” Dean said, marching to the kitchen door.

“Oh, leave him alone,” he heard Joyce groan, but he was already outside.

The house’s previous owner had sealed off one set of basement stairs, making the apartment totally separate from the main house. He and Joyce had access to the downstairs furnace room, laundry, and storage from a stairwell off the kitchen. He had to walk around the corner of the house to a set of outside steps that led down to Adam’s front door. Dean knocked on it—loudly. He almost expected to see his brother answer the door in just his underwear or in a towel. He was pretty sure Adam didn’t own a robe.

His brother came to the door in jeans and a paint-smeared white T-shirt that hung loosely on his wiry frame. He was barefoot. As usual, his wavy brown hair was a mess, and he needed a shave. But it was a look girls seemed to go for. “Hey, what’s up, Peeping Tom?” he grinned, leaning in the doorway frame. “Frieda said she saw you . . .”

“You know, I don’t care what you do with your life,” Dean said. “But at least have a little discretion. If you’re going to be screwing strange women in this apartment in the middle of the afternoon, at least lower the blinds so the neighbors don’t see.”

“What are you talking about? This place is surrounded by bushes and a fence. No one can see in here . . .” He stepped back into the apartment, which was reasonably neat—except for his painting easel, a mess of rags, soaking brushes, and paint in one corner of the living room.

“Well, I saw what was going on down here,” Dean said, following him inside. “What if Joyce was having friends over—or holding one of her board meetings here? What’s she supposed to say to them?
‘Oh, that’s just my bohemian brother-in-law fucking some stranger . . .’”

Adam shook his head. “God, you’re such a horse’s ass—and so full of shit. You say you don’t care what I do with my life, but you do. You’re always rushing to judge me.” He took the canvas off the easel and turned it around to show Dean a half-finished painting of the brunette. “I’m not screwing Frieda. She’s married, and has a son in college. She’s an artist’s model. I’m painting a life study, you moron. I kept the blinds open for the natural light.” He put the picture back on the easel. “Boy, I’m glad as hell you didn’t pass by the window two weeks ago when Jeff was posing for me. The shit would have really hit the fan.”

“Well, you should have told us—
warned us
—that you’d be bringing people in here to pose nude for you,” Dean retorted. He was still angry—and now, a little defensive. “Show a little responsibility, why don’t you? I’m giving you a real break with the rent here. The least you could do is conduct yourself with some degree of . . .” He threw his hands up in resignation. “Oh, the hell with it. You’re thirty years old. I thought by now, you’d have grown up and maybe amounted to something. But you haven’t. You have no respect for me or this house. Meanwhile, I’m the one who’s keeping a roof over your head. And I’m paying the bills for Dad at Evergreen Manor. When’s the last time you chipped in for that, huh?”

Adam stared at him, his pale green eyes filling with hurt. He stepped back, shucked his T-shirt over his head, and stomped into the bedroom. A few moments later, he came back into the living room wearing a blue Polo shirt that Dean recognized as one of his hand-me-downs. Hell, he even kept his loafer of a kid brother clothed.

“When’s the last time you visited him, huh?” Adam shot back. “I’m there every day. And I’m not asking for any medals. I want to go. I want to see Dad. I want to see him while he can still remember who I am.” He plopped down on the sofa, reached underneath it, and pulled out a pair of beat-up sneakers. He put them on over his bare feet. “On the rare times you visit him, you’re so uncomfortable that you make Dad uncomfortable, too. Jesus, why do you hate him so? You’re such a hypocrite. You always act like you’re such a great son, because you pay his bills at Evergreen Manor. But all the while, you can’t stand him.”