Secret Combinations (27 page)

Kenyon came to a small lane running off Gloucester Road. He turned and wandered down the quiet, deserted lane, past a row of tiny, brightly colored houses that must have been the servants' quarters a century ago.

The lane curved gently to the right. Kenyon walked about two hundred feet before he realized, to his annoyance, that it was sealed off at the end by an ancient churchyard.

Kenyon turned around, and immediately spotted someone entering the lane behind him. The man was wearing a black windbreaker and a Chicago Bulls cap pulled down over his face, but there was no doubt in Kenyon's mind who it was: Charlie Dahg.

Kenyon realized he was trapped. The wrought-iron fence surrounding the churchyard stood eight feet high. Grabbing hold of one of the iron bars, he boosted himself up, ripping his jacket as he clambered over the pointed tips.

Kenyon landed in some bushes on the other side. Pulling himself out of the shrubbery, he surprised an elderly woman tidying a grave. He smiled and waved to the startled woman as he scrambled over a marker stone and hurried out the main gate.

Kenyon found himself on a quiet residential street bordered by tall, red-brick townhouses on one side and the church on the other. He sprinted down the block as fast as his injury would allow.

He reached Church Street and turned north. Kenyon counted to thirty, then walked slowly back and peered around the corner. Sure enough, about two hundred feet back, he spotted Dahg moving cautiously along the street in pursuit.

Damn, he needed to alert the police, but he didn't want Arundel to know where he was going. The moment the Scotland Yard detective saw O'Neill, he would know that Kenyon had lied to him about her identity. He turned and ran the next two blocks, heading for the bright lights of a busy street ahead.

He came out onto Kensington High Street. Many of the shops lining the streets were closed, but the sidewalks were packed with people out for a breath of fresh air. The stitches in his butt were starting to ache and he knew he couldn't run much further. He needed to do something, and fast. Kenyon slowed down and looked around and spotted a tube station ahead. He entered, hoping to blend in with the crowd.

The underground station was part of a large shopping mall. A pharmacy was still open, and a uniformed security guard stood by the door. It was a large store, with security cameras in the ceiling and detectors at the exit. Perfect, thought Kenyon. It was time to snare Dahg.

Kenyon entered the mall adjacent to the drugstore. A decorative fountain stood in the middle of the main aisle of the mall. The agent paused on the far side and watched the entrance. As soon as his tail appeared, he stepped into plain sight and headed for the drugstore.

Entering the store, Kenyon walked up to the fragrance counter and picked up a boxed vial of perfume. As he examined the label, he carefully peeled the bar code off the slippery cellophane. It curled into a tiny cylinder in the palm of his hand. The agent put the perfume back on the shelf and started back toward the main exit.

Dahg had entered the store and was busy trying to blend in, his face buried in a copy of
Sports Illustrated
at the magazine rack. He was studiously facing away from the agent.

Kenyon strolled straight toward Dahg. As he passed, he softly placed the bar code sticker onto the back of his pursuer's windbreaker. The agent then kept on going right out the front door of the drugstore.

He was about fifty feet down the street when the siren at the exit went off. Kenyon turned to see Dahg being detained by the security guard. The ex-
CIA
man knocked him to the ground with a vicious punch, but a second guard came out and grabbed him by the torso.

Kenyon didn't stick around to watch the rest of the fight. He continued on his way, taking several doglegs and detours until he was fairly certain he wasn't being followed by any of Dahg's henchmen.

It was almost midnight by the time he reached O'Neill's building. The street was deserted, the only movement came from the wind swaying the sycamore trees that lined one sidewalk. Kenyon stood staring up at O'Neill's apartment. The windows were open to let in a late night breeze, and there was a light burning inside, but he couldn't see anyone on the patio. He climbed the steps to the front door and pushed the buzzer.

A few seconds later, O'Neill answered. “Yes?”

“It's Jack.”

There was a brief pause, then the door unlocked.

O'Neill was waiting at the front door when Kenyon reached the top of the stairwell. She was wearing a short cotton nightdress that ended at mid-thigh. She stared at Kenyon for a moment, noting his haggard look. The chill of their last encounter hung in the air.

“It's late, Jack,” she finally said.

“I know. I need to talk to you.”

O'Neill hesitated a moment, then let him through the door.

Kenyon walked into the living room and glanced around. O'Neill appeared to be alone, preparing for bed. There was soft jazz on the stereo and a cup of tea sat on the coffee table. He stared at the couch and thought about her warm skin under his hands.

O'Neill approached Kenyon, her arms folded across her breasts. “What did you want to talk about?”

Kenyon turned to face the lawyer. “You haven't been telling me the truth.”

O'Neill pushed her hair back over one ear. “What do you mean?”

“You know Ricci is dead.” He stated it as a fact.

O'Neill nodded. “I read about it in the papers. He killed himself.”

Kenyon shook his head. “He didn't commit suicide. He was murdered.”

O'Neill's hand flew to her mouth. “How do you know?”

“The police told me. They think I did it.”

O'Neill, unsteady, sat down on the couch. “But why? You had no reason to kill him.”

“It seems I had several.” He stared at the picture of Lydia over the fireplace, then turned to O'Neill. “I found out that Ricci was using Lydia's gallery to forge paintings.”

Kenyon didn't have to ask if she knew; the solicitor blanched and turned her face away.

“I went to Ricci's apartment to confront him,” Kenyon continued, “but he had already slit his wrists in the bathtub. I thought he killed himself because I had discovered his scheme. I told the police about it when they came to take the body away.”

O'Neill said nothing; she continued to stare away from Kenyon.

“When they found out Ricci's murder had been faked to look like a suicide, they came back and did a more thorough search. Know what they found?”

O'Neill shook her head.

“They found a laser pen. Just like the one that must have been used to blind Lydia and force her to crash.”

“It
couldn't
be Ricci,” said O'Neill. “He's too much of a coward to kill anyone.”

“But not coward enough to blackmail someone,” countered Kenyon. “You know what else they found in Ricci's apartment? A
DVD
.”

O'Neill turned toward the painting of Lydia.

“You know what was on it,” said Kenyon. “You and Lydia. Making love.”

O'Neill sat staring at Lydia's portrait, tears flowing down her cheeks.

“Bruno was blackmailing you and Lydia, wasn't he?” asked Kenyon.

“No.”

Kenyon bent forward over the couch and gripped O'Neill by the arms, lifting her to her feet. “Godammit, you think this is some kind of game? Somebody killed Ricci in cold blood. Quit lying to me!”

“We didn't know
who
it was!” shouted O'Neill. “You have to believe me!” She began to cry in earnest.

Kenyon resisted the temptation to hold her close. He released her arms, and she sank back onto the couch, sniffing several times and wiping her nose on the sleeve of the nightdress. “A copy of the
DVD
came in the post several months ago,” she began. “There was a note. They wanted one hundred thousand pounds.”

“And Lydia
paid
?”

O'Neill nodded. “She put it in a plain brown bag under a bench in Kensington Park.”

Kenyon cursed at their stupidity. “I take it the blackmailer wasn't through.”

“That was the last I heard about it until you came and told me Lydia had taken out another one hundred thousand pounds for Archie Lump,” said O'Neill. “I thought
he
must be the blackmailer.”

“And that's why you tried to stop me from finding her killer? To hide your dirty little secret?”

Kenyon instantly regretted his choice of words.

“Is that how you see us?” asked O'Neill, suddenly defiant. “Two filthy dykes slutting in the closet?”

“No, I . . .”

O'Neill stood up and faced Kenyon. “She was the best thing that ever happened to me. She
believed
in me.” O'Neill turned toward the portrait. “I loved her so much, I would have done anything for her.”

“I'm sorry,” said Kenyon. “I didn't know.”

O'Neill turned back to the agent, her face knitted in anger. “That's bloody right, you didn't know. And it's something you'll never know.” She turned back to stare at the painting. “Get out of my home.”

Kenyon, his heart torn, turned to go. He was almost at the door, when he stopped. “I won't leave until you answer me one last question.”

O'Neill didn't turn around. “What is it?” she asked.

“Did the blackmailer threaten to hand the
DVD
over to the media?”

“No.”

“Did he threaten to show it to your boss at the law office?”

“No. I don't care about them.”

“Then what
did
he threaten to do that was worth one hundred thousand pounds?”

O'Neill finally turned to face Kenyon. “To show it to Raymond Legrand.”

Kenyon was thunderstruck. He suddenly recalled seeing Legrand outside Ricci's apartment the night he was killed. “Did the blackmailer carry through with his threat?” he asked.

O'Neill shrugged. “I don't think so. It wouldn't make sense—he'd never get another shilling out of her.”

Kenyon nodded. “Did Lydia confess to Legrand?”

O'Neill cocked her head to one side. “Maybe. Lydia and Legrand had a big fight the night of the auction. When Lydia left, she was very angry.”

Kenyon stared at O'Neill, her arms wrapped around her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks. He wanted badly to go over and hold her in his arms, to comfort her in her grief. Instead, he turned and walked out the door.

By the time Kenyon got back to Lydia's house, it was late. He poured himself a scotch on the rocks and sank into the living room couch. A few pale beams from the streetlights pierced the darkness.

Kenyon thought about Lydia. For some reason, her relationship with O'Neill made him strangely proud. It had been foolish of Lydia to have given in to the blackmailer, but he was glad that Tanya meant so much to her.

Kenyon also thought about Legrand. He never realized how deep Lydia's love for him must have run, to pay up that much money to keep her relationship with O'Neill a secret.

Kenyon glanced at his watch. It was nearing three in the morning, which meant it was almost seven at night in San Francisco. Thursday evening. He dialed Gonelli's home number, but her voice mail answered. “I ain't here,” said the recorded voice. “Leave a message.”

“Marge, it's Jack calling. Ricci didn't commit suicide; he was murdered. The cops think I did it, but I saw Legrand there that night. I think he was out to revenge a blackmail plot. I need to know how to handle this. Call me as soon as you can.”

Kenyon hung up, then dialed the main switchboard at the office and got hold of Sue, the receptionist. “This is Jack, in London,” he said. “Where's Marge tonight?”

“Marge is gone,” said Sue.

“She's not at home yet,” said Kenyon.

“No, I mean she's gone out of town,” said Sue.

Kenyon cursed under his breath. “Okay. Put me through to Leroi.”

Kenyon's partner was still at her desk. “Man, what you
doing
over there?”

“What do you mean, Jazz?” asked Kenyon.

“Shit, Marge was spittin' bullets all over the office this afternoon.”

“Over what?” asked Kenyon, suddenly wary.

“Over you, cowboy. She got some message from Deaver, then she grabbed the first flight to London she could book.”

Kenyon cringed at the mention of the assistant
US
attorney. “Give me a call as soon as you know what's up.”

“Don't you worry,” said his partner. “I got a hunch you are gonna find out soon enough.”

Kenyon hung up the phone and trudged up to bed. God, he thought, what else can go wrong?

Kenyon slept until eleven in
the morning when he was awakened by the sound of Señora Santucci puttering around in the bathroom off the main bedroom.

“Don't you ever knock?” he asked, reaching for his shorts on the floor.

The housekeeper came in to admire Kenyon's butt as he pulled on his boxers. “Get up, lazy bone. I know you say not to come early in the morning, but today is big cleaning day. You go get some coffee in the kitchen.”

“In a bit,” Kenyon replied. “I'm going for a run first.” He grabbed some sweat socks and a 49er's T-shirt, and headed out the door.

The morning was hot and hazy. Kenyon headed north on Gloucester Road to Kensington Park.

As he picked his way up the sidewalk past pedestrians and garbage cans, Kenyon's mind went over the past two weeks. First, Simon is killed, then Lydia, then Ricci. A computer virus that could destroy the world's economy was floating around in the hands of terrorists, and, to top it all off, the police thought he was a murderer.
The whole world is fucked
, Kenyon thought.

He considered Legrand. He had no doubt the Frenchman had murdered Ricci. He wondered how Legrand found out Ricci was blackmailing Lydia. He didn't think the gallery manager made good on his threat to tell Legrand; it made no sense for a blackmailer to lose the opportunity for further paydays.