Secret Sisters (25 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Madeline stared at the image on the private investigator's license that had just come up on Jack's computer screen. A moment ago she had been standing at the kitchen table, but when Norman Purvis's picture appeared, she was once again struck with a disturbing sense of vertigo. She could feel his overwhelming bulk crushing her into the sacks of garden loam. His hand across her mouth, threatening to suffocate her. His voice grating in her ear.
Be quiet, you stupid little bitch, or I'll kill you. I swear I will.
She wanted to scream her rage to the uncaring universe, but she couldn't breathe.

She collapsed into the nearest chair.
He's dead. Dead and buried under the gazebo. He can't hurt you.
But the mantra was no longer a source of comfort because his ghost was staring up at her from the license, haunting her. From beyond the grave the bastard had managed to turn her world upside down again.

Jack was still on the phone, but he was watching her closely. She tried to concentrate on listening to his side of the conversation, but she could not look away from the monster in the picture.

“Hang on,” Jack said into the phone. He reached out and gripped Madeline's hand.

His touch broke the nightmarish trance. She looked up from the computer screen and into Jack's eyes.

“He's dead,” Jack said.

She nodded, unable to speak. Jack took his hand off hers and did something fast on the keyboard. The license disappeared. A newspaper clipping about the murders of Carl Seavers and Sharon Richards took its place. She read it, oddly numb now.

. . . A stockbroker and a female companion were found dead from gunshot wounds in a suburban neighborhood . . . Police speculate that drugs may have been involved . . .

“No,” Jack said. He was once again focusing on the scanned images open on his computer. “You and Daphne are not coming back here to the island. You're going to Arizona. Don't worry, Madeline and I are going with you. We'll leave the island on the late ferry. Meet you at Sea-Tac. Buy four tickets to Phoenix.”

Madeline looked up from the screen. It was the first time Jack had said anything about leaving the island.

“. . . As soon as I end this call I'll get in touch with my contact in the FBI and make sure he sees this material,” he continued. “What do you mean, how will I explain the stuff coming into my possession? I'll tell Joe we came across the items in the course of what we assumed was an unrelated investigation that we are conducting for a client. No, he won't push it. I'll cite client confidentiality and the fact that he owes me a couple of favors. Not the first time this has happened. Joe and I have an understanding . . .”

The first of the scanned photographs came up on the screen. Madeline stared at it, stunned.

Jack ended the connection in his customary fashion—he tapped a button and put the phone aside. He continued to focus intently on the screen. “So this is what was in the damn briefcase. Incredible. No wonder your grandmother and Tom were afraid to go to the police.”

The photos had all been shot just after dark on what appeared to be a summer evening in a quiet residential neighborhood. There was still a little light in the sky. In addition, the photographer had been aided by a fair amount of ambient light from streetlamps and nearby houses.

“If Egan Webster knew that Grandma and Tom had seen these pictures, I don't doubt for a second that he would have arranged for them to suffer fatal accidents,” Madeline said. “And he probably would have gotten rid of Daphne and me and Daphne's mom, as well.”

“Your grandmother made an executive decision,” Jack said. “She looked at the bottom line and made the hard call.”

Madeline continued clicking slowly through the images. The camera had been a very good one. In spite of the low lighting, there was no difficulty making out a male figure dressed for a twilight jog. In the first few images it was impossible to make out his features because the hood of a black windbreaker had been pulled up to conceal much of his face. Nevertheless, she could tell that the man was tall, with a slender, athletic build.

The next series of photos showed the subject standing on the front steps of a bungalow-style house. The door of the house was open. Another man was silhouetted against the interior lights. In two of the photos a woman could be seen in the background.

“The victims,” Jack said. “Carl Seavers and the woman who was with him that night—Sharon Richards. She was probably collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time.”

More pictures followed, several of which had obviously been taken at much closer range through a living room window. The venetian blinds were only partially closed. The camera had been aimed through the cracks.

In the living room shots, the face of the visitor was visible. He had pushed back the hood of his jacket. His silver-blond hair and distinctive, sharp-boned profile was unmistakable—Egan Webster as he had looked two decades earlier.

In the next photo Egan was shown with a gun in his hand, bending over two bodies. Even though she had steeled herself for what she knew was coming, Madeline was shocked in spite of herself.

“My God,” she whispered. “Egan Webster shot them in cold blood.”

“Norman Purvis must have been stunned when he realized what he had photographed,” Jack said. “He was probably scared as hell. But he also must have realized that what he had was worth a fortune in blackmail money.”

“The gun looks strange.”

“Silencer,” Jack said.

“Webster planned the killings.”

“You don't take a silencer out jogging if your only reason for having a gun is for self-protection.”

Madeline clicked to another photo. It had been shot from a more discreet distance, but it was a fairly clear image of Webster exiting through the rear door of the bungalow. In the scene he was illuminated by a bright porch light. It was possible to make out an old-fashioned laptop in his gloved hand.

Madeline shuddered and turned away from the screen.

“We were right,” she said. “Egan Webster murdered Carl Seavers and stole the computer that must have contained the stock-picking program. But how could Porter-Purvis have known that Webster planned to murder Carl Seavers that night?”

“I doubt if he had any clue about what was going to happen that night. I think we can assume that Porter-Purvis was hired to follow Webster for some other reason. Purvis had probably been tailing Webster for
days, stalling as much as possible so that he could pad the bill. He just got lucky with the photos of the killings.”

“Lucky.”

Jack moved one hand impatiently. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Okay, we know that Porter-Purvis was a private investigator. Who would have hired him to follow Egan Webster?”

“No way to know for sure yet, but offhand I can think of one very common reason why PIs get hired to follow married men around.”

“Damn. Even at the age of twelve Daphne and I were aware of the rumors about Egan Webster's womanizing. Everyone on the island knew he had a reputation. I'll bet Louisa Webster hired a PI to get some proof.”

“The PI got something that was a lot more valuable,” Jack said. “He must have come here to the island that night to make a big trade—maybe one last payoff. Webster was very rich by that time. The PI used a different name when he checked into the Aurora Point Hotel. Trying to be careful.”

“Webster must have gone crazy for a while, wondering why the blackmailer just disappeared,” Madeline said. “He must have wondered why the demands stopped.”

Jack lounged deeper into his chair, brooding on something only he could see. “Maybe he tried to search for the blackmailer from time to time. But he would have had almost nothing to go on.”

“Unless he concluded that Louisa had hired someone to follow him and confronted her. Then he could have gotten the name of the PI from her.”

“That information may not have led him to the anonymous Mr. Porter,” Jack said. “And even if he did connect the two names, he still had a problem because Porter-Purvis had vanished. You know, it's interesting to think that Louisa and Egan Webster have probably both been sweating this mystery for years, wondering if and when the blackmail material would come out into the open.”

“And now it has.”

Jack smiled a thin, humorless, utterly unnerving smile.

“Yes,” he said. “It has come back to haunt them. In fact, it's now online in the form of a couple of email attachments and it's about to go to the FBI. There's no way this can be hushed up.”

Madeline looked out the kitchen window and thought about the gazebo.

“What about the part of the past that is connected to Daphne and me and Daphne's mom?” she asked.

“The rest of the story will come out once the FBI and the San Diego police get involved. You and Daphne and Daphne's mother will probably have to give statements, but I think that will be the end of it. Daphne's mother acted as she did because she feared for her daughter's life as well as her own. The sooner it comes out, the safer you and Daphne will be.”

Madeline thought about that. “You may be right. In any case, there's no going back to the way things were.”

Jack smiled. “That's what I like about you, Madeline. You go straight—”

“—to the bottom line.” Madeline bared her teeth. “You know, I'm really getting tired of having people tell me that's what they admire about me.”

“It's not the only thing I admire about you,” Jack said.

She eyed him with some suspicion. “You're sure?”

“Positive.”

“Name a few other things.”

“I'll be happy to go through the list point by point.” Jack got to his feet. “But not right now. There's something else we need to do first.”

“What?”

“We're going to have a little chat with Egan Webster.”

She shot to her feet. “Hold on, bad idea. You're turning this problem
over to the FBI, remember? Let them handle Egan Webster. He's a cold-blooded killer. We know that for a fact. You just said I'm good with the bottom-line thing, remember? Well, that's the bottom line here.”

“Not quite. There's only one strong emotion that a man like Webster comprehends. Fear.”

“Fine. I get that. But soon he'll have the FBI breathing down his neck, not to mention the local cops. Let them make him feel fear.”

“I don't think that's going to be enough to neutralize Webster. He's got platoons of lawyers to throw at the forces of law and order. He may not win in the end, but his legal team can probably keep him out of jail, at least long enough for him to get to some no-name island or a country that doesn't have an extradition treaty.”

Madeline wanted to argue, but there was no point. Jack was right.

“All right,” she said.

He raised his brows, amused. “Just like that?”

She gave him a warning look. “It's not like I've got a better idea.”

“If you do happen to think of one, please let me know.”

“I'll do that.” She paused to make sure she had his full attention. “I'm going with you when you talk to Egan.”

“No.”

“This is not open for debate.”

He watched her, not speaking. She smiled.

“Forget the gunslinger stare,” she said. “I'm in charge here, remember?”

Jack's expression hardened but he did not respond. Instead he did a quick staccato on the table with his fingers. “There is one really big question left to answer here.”

“Who decided to tidy up the Webster family history?”

“Right, that question. But first things first. Let's go talk to Egan Webster.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

“I must admit that you and Ms. Chase are among the very last people I expected to come here today,” Egan said. “Please, sit down.”

“We won't be staying long,” Jack said.

He was pleased to see that Madeline picked up the cue. She made no move to take a chair. She had excellent intuition, Jack reflected. There were times when you made sure to sit in the presence of the enemy because it demonstrated confidence and hinted at superior firepower. But there were other occasions when common sense dictated that it was more prudent to stay on your feet—occasions when you might have to pull out a gun. He did not think that would be necessary today, but with a guy like Webster it seemed wise to take precautions.

When they had arrived at the Webster compound a short time ago, it had come as no surprise to see that the household had been plunged into shock and mourning. The shock was real enough, Jack thought. But he wasn't so sure about the cloud of mourning. He suspected that most of it was a thin cover-up for what everyone else on the island felt—relief. As far as he could tell, no one—with the possible exception of Louisa—had been fond of Xavier Webster.

The housekeeper had announced in low tones that Egan was in seclusion with the rest of the family, but when Jack had pushed her, she had disappeared to let her employer know who was at the front door. When she had returned, she had immediately escorted the visitors into the study. Egan had received them with an air appropriate to a grieving father.

“Well, then, what was it you wanted to say to me?” Egan asked. He made a show of looking at his watch. “My wife and I have an appointment with a funeral director this afternoon.”

“Louisa came to see me earlier today,” Madeline said. “Threats were made.”

“I know.” Egan closed his eyes briefly. He looked at Madeline with an imploring expression. “I apologize on her behalf. I hope you will understand that she is distraught at the moment. She never lost hope that Xavier's mental health issues would respond to therapy, you see. Between you and me, we spent a great deal of money on doctors and counselors and cutting-edge treatments over the years. But in the end, we failed to find a cure.”

“Yeah, that much was obvious last night,” Jack said.

Egan flashed him a reproachful look. “I'm trying to explain that my son had some problems.”

“You no longer need to concern yourself with Xavier's problems,” Jack said. He walked to the desk and set his computer down in front of Egan. “You've got more than enough of your own. The photos on this computer were emailed to the FBI and the San Diego police this afternoon. What happens next is up to the authorities.”

Egan stared at the computer and then looked up. For the first time he appeared wary. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“In addition to reopening the case involving the murder of Carl Seavers and Sharon Richards, I'm going to make sure that the FBI takes another look at the hotel fire that killed Edith Chase. We've been
assuming that it was Xavier's work, but in light of this new evidence, it seems you had plenty of motive.”

Egan turned a violent shade of red. “I have no idea what this is about, but I do know you're acting crazier than my son.” He reached for the phone. “I'm calling the police.”

“Show him the pictures, Madeline,” Jack said. “And don't forget the notes.”

She moved to the desk and, without a word, brought up the first of the incriminating photos.

Egan scowled at the image, clearly bewildered. In the next instant he realized what he was looking at.

“No,” Egan hissed. “It's not possible.”

Madeline clicked through a few more pictures. When she got to one of the pages in the old notebook, Egan looked stunned.

“That's enough,” Jack said quietly.

Madeline picked up the computer and stepped back.

“They're fakes,” Egan said. Everything about him was tight with rage and something that looked a lot like panic. “Everyone knows it's possible to doctor photographs and documents online.”

“In addition to the photos, the private investigator left very detailed notes,” Jack said. “He saw you buy the gun, Webster. And the silencer. It gets better—he got a picture of you ditching both off a pier near La Jolla.”

“Lies,” Egan whispered. “All lies. Where did you get these?”

“Long story. No reason to go into it now. The FBI has the details. Those are just scanned copies of the originals. Not sure who has those. You, maybe? Are you the one who hired the woman who posed as Ramona Owens to help you clean up the Webster family tree?”

“Get out of here.”
Egan started to open the top drawer of his desk.

“Don't,” Jack said. He had his gun in his hand now. “Get up and move away from the desk.”

Egan stared at the weapon. Slowly he got to his feet. He took a couple of reluctant steps to one side.

“You don't know who you're fucking with, Rayner.” He looked at Madeline. “You are a very foolish woman.”

“You murdered my grandmother, didn't you?” Madeline asked. “You killed her, you bastard.”

The dangerous edge on her voice worried Jack. He had been afraid that it might be a mistake to let her accompany him today. The kind of mutually assured destruction strategy that he had employed with Webster did not allow for stray fireworks and emotional outbursts. Success relied on maintaining absolute control.

“Time for us to leave,” Jack said quietly. He spoke to Madeline, but he did not take his attention off Webster.

“You're the reason Tom Lomax is dead,” Madeline said. “Were you the one who murdered him and then tried to hunt me down at the hotel that day, or was that Ramona? Either way, you're responsible for his murder. And you set your own son up to take the fall when things started to go wrong.”

Webster shook his head. “You stupid little bitch. You should have sold the hotel when you had the chance. Before this is over I'll see Sanctuary Creek Inns destroyed. Do you hear me?”

“Madeline,” Jack said. “The door.”

He did not raise his voice, but Madeline finally got the message. She turned and walked to the door. Jack kept his focus on Webster.

“Whatever happens next is between you and the authorities,” he said. “But you're smart. I'm betting you'll be safe on some no-name island before the guys with the badges knock on your door. But just so we're clear, if for any reason I have cause to believe that either Madeline or Daphne is in danger at any time, I will come after you myself.”

“Get out of my house, you son of a bitch,” Egan roared. “You'll pay
for what you've done to me. I promise you that. You have my fucking
promise
.”

Madeline had the door open. She was out in the hall. Jack picked up his computer and followed her, never turning his back on his target. He closed the door on Webster and looked at Madeline.

“We're leaving now,” he said.

“Okay.”

He kept the gun in his hand and instructed Madeline to get behind the wheel of the SUV so that his hands were free. Just in case.

Madeline drove straight to the ferry dock, where her own car was waiting in line.

The ferry sailed on time.