Secret Combinations (24 page)

“And then?”

“I had Harry call you.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Happy Harry. How does he fit into this scenario, exactly?”

“He's my cabby.”

“Ah,” said Arundel, flatly. “Your cabby.”

“Yeah, my cabby.”

“And was he acting in any other capacity for you this evening?”

Kenyon immediately recognized the warning in the question. He glanced at his watch. It was almost one, plenty of time for Arundel to interview Harry. Arundel was telling him it would be dangerous to lie. The agent took a deep breath, and let it out. “Yeah. He was my back-up.”

“Why would you need a back-up to visit your gallery manager?”

“Because I discovered Ricci was forging paintings and selling them through the gallery.”

Arundel raised one eyebrow. “You suspected a felony, and you didn't report it to the police?”

Kenyon stared down at the newspaper. “I didn't know for certain. I came here tonight to find out.”

Arundel stood and walked over to the counter. He idly opened a drawer. “It might make for a good mystery novel, but it is my general experience that organized criminals do not spill the beans as soon as someone confronts them with the evidence.”

Kenyon winced. “I was hoping to talk some sense into him.”

“At the very best, you were hoping to intimidate him.” He lifted a bread knife out of the cutlery drawer and examined the grip. “You don't strike me as a brutish man, so I will eliminate violence. What was it, Kenyon? A threat to go to the police?”

“No.”

Arundel turned his head to one side as he peered at Kenyon. “Something more subtle, then.”

Kenyon stirred in alarm. Harry knows about Lump, but he wouldn't say anything about that, thought Kenyon. Kenyon decided to keep his mouth shut.

Arundel continued. “Yes, I think it must have been something so devious, so diabolical, that Mr. Ricci had no alternative but to take his own life.” He replaced the bread knife and closed the cutlery drawer. “Now, would you be so kind as to submit to a voluntary search?”

Kenyon stood up. “I'm assuming I either comply or face the consequences.”

”An excellent assumption,” said Arundel. “Now, place both of your hands here on the counter, palms down, and spread your legs.”

Kenyon did as he was told, smiling grimly.

Arundel turned and signaled to a burly constable standing nearby. “If you would be so kind as to do the honors?”

The constable stepped forward and began to frisk Kenyon, removing each item from his pockets.

“What do you expect to find?” asked Kenyon. “A matching carving fork?”

“I was thinking more of a suicide note,” said Arundel.

The constable placed several items on the counter, including Kenyon's keys, his wallet, and the cell phone and extension mike cord.

Arundel flipped through the wallet as the constable continued his search, removing the wad of pound notes and riffling through them. He briefly examined the keychain, making particular note of the skeleton key to the safe. He picked up the cell phone, pressing the function key several times to check the stored data.

The constable finally finished his search and nodded to Arundel. The
DI
dismissed the man, then nodded to Kenyon to sit back at the table. “I am relieved to see, Mr. Kenyon, that among your many faults, concealing material evidence is not among them.”

Just then, an investigator came in holding a small wooden box. Kenyon immediately recognized it from his search of Ricci's office at the gallery.

“Found this in his sock drawer, sir,” the constable said to Arundel.

The
DI
admired the carving on the lid for a moment, then opened the box and lifted out a small bag of white powder. “Ah, it would seem that Mr. Ricci had nasal indisposition.”

Arundel placed the cocaine back into the box and handed it to the constable, then turned back to Kenyon. “Let's assume, for the moment, that Ricci was motivated to suicide by a fear of prosecution over the forgeries. Not a normal fear, but, when you take into account the tendency of cocaine addiction to induce paranoia, not an unlikely one. All it took was your threat of exposure to push him over the edge, and he took the coward's way out.”

Kenyon sat with his head bowed, saying nothing.

Arundel continued. “Odd that Ricci didn't write one, don't you think?”

Kenyon glanced up. “What?”

“A suicide note.” He nodded toward the table. “He makes a last supper, laces his tea with some form of barbiturate, then retires to the bathtub for a nice, soothing soak before slitting his wrists. All very clean, proper and tidy. Except for the suicide note. Most unusual.”

Arundel was interrupted by the return of the investigator. “Found this concealed in the closet, sir.” In his gloved hand, he held a small metal tube about the size of a fountain pen.

Arundel snapped out a red silk handkerchief and took the object in his hand. He pointed the device out an open window and rotated its head a quarter turn. A powerful red beam of light instantly shot across the road. Arundel traced the thin, brilliant red dot along the side of the Harrod's store for a moment.

Kenyon sat motionless, staring out the window at the side of the store.

Arundel turned the laser pen off and placed it on the table. “Well, now we know what frightened him so, don't we?”

Kenyon turned to the
DI
. “I . . . I didn't know.”

“No?”

Kenyon stared down. “No. I accused him of the forgeries and threatened to expose him if he didn't confess in full.”

“And?”

“He offered information to keep me quiet.”

“What kind of information?”

“He said he would tell me who killed Lydia.”

Arundel's eyebrows rose. “He offered to confess to her murder?”

“No. He never said anything about confessing. His words were, ‘I know what happened to Lydia.'”

Arundel nodded toward the laser pen. “I suspect he did. In fact, I don't doubt that forensics will turn up his prints, and only his prints, on this device.”

The
DI
turned to Kenyon. “Now, since our prime suspect can no longer confess, you must tell me precisely what happened. And I warn you, leave nothing out.”

Kenyon took a deep breath. “Ricci was forging works of an artist named Maggote.”

“The Frenchman who overdosed on drugs?”

“Yeah. Lydia represented his estate. It was easy for Ricci to whip up new works, authenticate them through the gallery, and sell them to clients under the table.”

“How did Lydia uncover his scheme?”

“By chance. One of the clients discovered he had a fake, and called her up. She paid to keep his mouth shut.”

“But her suspicions regarding Mr. Ricci were aroused.”

Kenyon nodded. “She dug around and discovered Ricci had made a copy of a painting,
Techno 69
, and swapped it for the real goods. Lydia unknowingly sold the fake to a corporate client.”

“How did Lydia react to this discovery?”

“Zoë, her receptionist, told me she had a big fight with Ricci, then threw him out and changed the locks.”

“When was this?”

“Two days before her death.”

Arundel nodded. “So, Mr. Ricci had time to set up an ‘accident.' Very clever, really. If it hadn't been for the entirely fortuitous donation of her retinas, we would never had discovered it.”

“It still doesn't make sense,” said Kenyon.

“How so?” asked Arundel.

“I never said anything about Lydia's murder. Why would he confess?”

Just then, the coroner wheeled the remains out of the bathroom. Both men watched silently as the dolly containing a black plastic bag passed by.

“Well,” said Arundel. “It would appear that we shall never know.” He sighed, and nodded toward the laser pen. “Normally, I would thank you for uncovering the means and motive for a murder. But this is not a normal situation. You have behaved in a manner that casts disrepute upon the
FBI
. Not only have you hopelessly tainted any opportunity for the Crown to prove a case of murder against Ricci, but you have precipitated a suicide. I hold you personally responsible for the death of this man.” Arundel motioned for Kenyon to pick up his wallet, keys, and phone. “Get out of my sight.”

Kenyon rode down in the elevator, silently steaming. Arundel was right, he had acted like a fool. He had rushed in blindly, not knowing how close he was, and now he would never know the whole truth of his aunt's death. “I'm sorry, Lydia,” he said, aloud. “I'm sorry.”

•  •  •

By the time
Kenyon left Ricci's apartment building, it was very early in the morning. It was raining hard, and the streets were deserted of traffic and people. Kenyon turned up his collar and began to walk home.

He passed the
V&A
Museum, its immense, illuminated facade glistening in the rain. A street sweeper rumbled past, the driver glancing briefly at the lone pedestrian. A taxi slowed as it passed, but Kenyon waved it on; he wanted to be alone and let the rain wash away his misery.

By the time he reached Herringbone Gardens, he was soaked through to the skin. As he walked up the steps, he heard a car door slam behind. He turned around to see deWolfe crossing the street.

“Jack! I've been waiting for hours,” he said. “Thank goodness you're all right. Did you locate the forgery?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“Ricci killed himself.”

“Good Lord.” DeWolfe reached out and steadied himself against the iron railing. “Why on earth would he kill himself over a forgery? It defies all common sense.”

“He didn't kill himself over that.”

“No?”

Kenyon stared down the quiet street. “The police found evidence he killed Lydia.”

“What, the laser pen?”

Kenyon nodded silently.

“But what about the forgery?” continued deWolfe. “Did they find that?”

“No.”

“We must continue looking. It has to be somewhere.”

“I don't give a shit about the forgery, anymore,” said Kenyon. “It's over, Hadrian. Go home.” Kenyon turned toward the door.

“But . . .”

Kenyon went inside and left the other man standing on the steps.

The interior of Lydia's home was in darkness, except for a faint yellow light from the streetlamp pouring into the living room. Kenyon grabbed a tea towel from the kitchen to dry his face and hair, then went to the sideboard in the dining room and poured himself a good, stiff scotch. He returned to the living room and sat on the couch, facing the bay windows.

God, how I hate this town,
he thought.
Everything about it stinks: the people, the cops, the weather. I'm going to sell this house and everything in it. With any luck, I'll never have to come back here again.

The phone rang. Kenyon glanced at his watch; it was after three in the morning. He reached over and picked up the receiver.

It was Gonelli, in San Francisco. “Hey, watcha up to, kiddo?”

“Not much, Marge. Just driving people to suicide.” Kenyon quickly explained what happened.

“Hey, it ain't your fault,” said Gonelli. “The guy was a slime. He robbed Lydia, then killed her. Why are you feeling so guilty?”

“I feel bad for Lydia,” said Kenyon. “I feel like I let her down, somehow.”

“You caught her killer. You done great.”

Kenyon rubbed his face. “Thanks, Marge. You know, I really miss you guys. I'm coming home on the next flight.”

“No, you ain't,” said Marge. “That's what I'm calling about. Remember I promised to run traces on Abdul Garbajian and
TEQ
?”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“Well, Garbajian's also known as Abdul Al Zabol, among a few other aliases. He's got a few sidelines going, like embargo-running of chemical weapons for Iran.”

Kenyon sat up in his chair. “What about
TEQ
?”

“Some high-tech outfit involved in military research. Ain't much on it in the public records. It's controlled by a numbered company.”

“Any connection to Garbajian?”

“Not to him, but you're gonna like what we did find. Before Deaver clamped down on the Cyberworm investigation completely, we managed to subpoena Simon's long-distance phone bills. Our boy made some calls from San Francisco to England several months ago. Guess who?”

“
TEQ
?”

“Yup. My gut feeling is this is what Deaver's after. I want you to check these
TEQ
guys out. Pronto.”

Happy Harry was busy Thursday
morning, and it wasn't until noon that the taxi driver finally picked Kenyon up at Lydia's home.

“Where to, guv?” asked the cabby.

“You know a town called Reading?” asked Kenyon.

“Yeah. Just west of London.”

“That's the one. Let's go.”

The cabby drove along Cromwell Road until it connected to the M4 motorway running west of London. Kenyon was amazed how quickly the city disappeared. As soon as they had passed Heathrow, the rows of brick houses gave way to rolling pastureland.

Traffic was light heading out of town, and the taxi made good time. Shortly after one, they reached Reading. Kenyon had expected a quaint village, but the city was a sprawling industrial center with endless row houses, low squat warehouses, and narrow streets crowded with trucks and buses.

Harry drove through town and descended down into the Thames River Valley where the crowded city gave way to modern buildings surrounded by landscaped parks. The taxi pulled up in front of a modern, four-story building. Three large, stainless-steel letters were affixed over the front entranceway;
TEQ
. The cabby parked the taxi near the entrance, and Kenyon disembarked.