Sharp Edges (7 page)

Eugenia listened to the slap of the waves against the hull of the boat and wondered how she was going to share a kitchen with Cyrus Chandler Colfax.

Four

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T
he man who had once been Damien March reclined in a white lounger positioned on a gleaming white tile deck at the edge of a turquoise blue pool. He sipped a gin-and-tonic from a nineteenth-century Baccarat glass and surveyed the expanse of azure Caribbean sea that lay beyond a profusion of brilliant red frangipani.

All his life he had worked toward the goal of surrounding himself with beauty and perfection. He lusted after the beautiful and the perfect the way other men lusted after sex. Money, he had discovered long ago, was the key to possessing both. Money bought power, and power could purchase many beautiful, perfect things.

Here on this remote island he had come very close to creating paradise for himself. For the most part he was satisfied with his pristine, private world.

The government of the small, independent island he had chosen for his new home prided itself on being extremely accommodating. The attitude of the local officials was that money and those who possessed it should not be subjected to the sort of irritating rules and laws that interfered with the natural flow of business.

Here in paradise, for a price, one's privacy was completely protected. Discretion was the watchword. Banking and investment transactions were never questioned. One's business associates were not subjected to embarrassing investigations or humiliating searches at the local airport.

Best of all, the government was happy to issue its own passport in any name one chose to anyone who was willing to pay the price. The current fee was one million dollars. A bargain as far as the man who had once been Damien March was concerned. Indeed, he had been so pleased with the deal that he had insisted upon giving the helpful officials a gratuity of five hundred thousand dollars.

But every paradise, he had discovered, even his, had its serpent. The disloyal viper who had stolen the Hades cup from him had paid for his crime. His body had washed up onto the beach just below the white villa not long after the cup had disappeared.

The former Damien March had been extremely annoyed by the death of the thief. Obviously the person or persons who had bribed the creature to steal the cup had wanted him dead before he could be found and made to talk.

The murder had been a very intelligent move on the part of those who had arranged the theft of the cup, but it had left the ex-Damien March with virtually no clues and no trail.

Fortunately he knew of a private investigator who was not only remarkably talented when it came to getting results, but who was also, at least in this case, awesomely motivated to find the Hades cup.

"Another drink, sir?"

The ex-Damien March looked at the woman who stood in front of the lounger. She wore only the bottom half of a small, white thong bikini. Her breasts were high and full. Enhanced, he decided, but the surgery had been well done. Her hair was the color of gold, and her eyes were as blue as the sea. Contact lenses, he thought, but what the hell. When it came to human beings, nothing was one hundred percent perfect, no matter how much one paid. That was why he preferred art to people.

"No, my dear. I have some work to do. Ask the chef to serve lunch out here by the pool."

"Yes, sir." She turned and walked back into the cool shadows of the villa.

The former Damien March studied the twin globes of her buttocks. He couldn't be certain from this distance, but he feared that they were starting to lose some of their buoyancy. He would have to start thinking about a replacement. He did not look forward to the task. Good help,
perfect
help, was so bloody hard to find.

He put down the gin-and-tonic, sat up on the edge of the lounger, and reached for his laptop. It was time to get a status report on the missing Hades cup.

He booted up the computer and checked the encrypted messages from his people on the West Coast. They were short, but encouraging.

…Colfax has made contact with the director of the Leabrook Glass Museum in Seattle. They have both gone to Frog Cove Island (off coast of Washington). Staying in a private home. Former owner of the house, Adam Daventry, collected glass. Died in a fall last month. Apparent accident…

Interesting. Colfax was on to something at last. The ex-Damien March smiled to himself and took another sip from his glass of gin-and-tonic. Cyrus Chandler Colfax reminded him of the old saying about the mills of the gods. Colfax ground slowly, but he ground exceedingly fine.

He had put the right investigator on the case, the ex-Damien March thought. If anyone could find the Hades cup, it would be Colfax. Once Cyrus had recovered the cup, he would be relieved of it. And then he would be killed. This time, the ex-Damien March thought, he would make certain of the results.

He had always known that sooner or later he would have to get rid of Colfax. It was the old story of the tortoise and the hare. Eventually, through sheer, dogged persistence, the tortoise always caught up with the fleeter, smarter hare, leaving the hare with no choice but to make turtle soup.

Assured that things were moving forward on the main front, the ex-Damien March opened another computer file. For the past three years he had kept his eye on a politician from California who had shown excellent potential.

Zackery Elland Chandler II was now running for the Senate. It was a very tight race against an incumbent, but Chandler was two points ahead in the polls.

The man who had once been Damien March had owned many fine things in his life, but he had never owned a U.S. Senator. It was time to think about adding one to his collection.

The blackmail note was waiting for Zackery Elland Chandler II when he booted up his computer to read his e-mail.

Old sins cast long shadows. The young woman from Second Chance Springs died a long time ago, but her connection to you has survived. I'm sure you'll be happy to know that the link to your past can be kept quiet. For a price.

Zackery stared at the screen in disbelief. A crank, he thought. It had to be a crackpot. He double-checked the e-mail account to see if he had accidentally accessed the wrong one. He maintained two. One had an address that was widely available to the public. The second was for his business and personal use.

He was in his private account, the one with the address that was not widely circulated.

He read the note again. Politicians got a lot of strange mail. Most of it could be ignored. It would have been easier to dismiss this message if it were not for the reference to Second Chance Springs. The name of the small spot in the road near the California-Mexican border rang a very distant bell.

There had been a woman once, a student at the small college he had attended his freshman year. She had worked part-time as a waitress in a coffee shop near the campus. He had dated her for a while. Slept with her a few times. He could not recall her name, but he had a vague recollection of her telling him about her boring life in a place called Second Chance Springs and how she yearned to escape.

She had made him nervous, however, when she talked about her future. He had made it clear that she should not look to him for help with her plans. He had his own agenda, and it definitely did not include marriage for several more years.

He had not spelled out the rest of it, which was that when he did marry, his bride would not be an unsophisticated little nobody from a place like Second Chance Springs.

His goals had been mapped out for him by his father at a very early age. Zackery was headed for a law career followed by public office.

When he was young, Zackery had done everything he could to please his impossible-to-please father. But by the time he went off to college he had internalized the elder Chandler's goals. Zackery wanted the future that had been decreed for him. After the death of his father, he had wanted that future with even more fervor.

He had achieved the first goal with a lucrative law career. When the time had come, he had moved into the political arena. He had used his success in California state politics to establish a reputation that, according to the polls, could take him into that most exclusive of all clubs, the U.S. Senate.

It had all been astonishingly easy up to this point. He was fifty-four years old, and he was doing what he had been born to do. There had been no serious setbacks in his life, no major tests, no hard choices to make.

Maybe it had been too easy.

He tore his eyes off the computer screen and looked at the framed picture of his wife, Mary, and his son and daughter.

The coffee shop waitress from Second Chance Springs had been nothing more than a brief fling at the end of his freshman year. Jesus, he'd only been nineteen years old.

He had transferred to an East Coast college the following fall and never looked back. He had made certain to leave no forwarding address at the coffee shop.

Damn. He could not even remember her name, let alone what she had looked like.

Five

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C
yrus dropped his duffel bag and two of Eugenia's expensive-looking red leather suitcases onto the front steps of Glass House. He eyed the massive, stainless steel doors that guarded the structure.

Glass House was well named, he thought. It was all bright, reflective surfaces and see-through walls. Heavy glass blocks formed a frame for the gleaming doors. Beyond the doors the house was mostly walls of thick, double-paned glass that revealed the building's steel skeleton. There was one solid portion that ran the length of one side of the third story. A veranda with clear acrylic panels wrapped the lower story.

Glass House was perched on an isolated bluff at the far end of Frog Cove Island. The exotic architecture should have resulted in a light and airy appearance, Cyrus thought. He wondered why it didn't look like a big, gossamer-winged butterfly sitting here overlooking the Sound. What it actually resembled was a large, squat beetle armored in a glass carapace.

He studied the electronic code box next to the door. "Daventry believed in top-of-the-line security."

"Not surprising." Eugenia set her red leather garment bag and red leather cosmetic case down beside the rest of the matched set of luggage. "He had a fortune in glass to protect."

"I can see a lock like this in the city, but it seems a little extreme for Frog Cove Island. It's not like they've got a crime problem around here. I checked. Last major event was a boat stolen out of the marina. That happened eight years ago."

"I should think you would appreciate expensive security systems." She glanced around at the looming trees. "I wonder where the caretaker is. He was supposed to be here to meet us and let us inside."

"Maybe he went into Frog Cove to pick up groceries or something."

"No problem." Eugenia opened the flap of her sleek leather shoulder bag. "I've got the code."

He took the piece of paper from her and glanced at it. Written in bold, flowing handwriting, which could only have been Eugenia's, was a string of numbers and the words
Daventry house security code
.

He cleared his throat politely. "Anyone ever point out that it's generally not a good idea to carry around a key code that's clearly labeled like this? Someone steals your purse, he's got instant access."

She smiled a little too brightly. "More free advice?"

"Forget it." He turned to punch in the code. "You knew Daventry, right?"

"We met." Her voice was suddenly very cool.

"Ever been here to Glass House?"

"No." She hesitated. "What made you ask?"

"I heard he liked to throw big parties. Invited the local art crowd and some off-island friends from the art world. Just wondered if you'd ever been one of his guests."

"No, I was never one of his guests, and I resent the interrogation."

"Just curious." He watched the green light wink on in the code box. There was a series of clicks as the lock disengaged. "Daventry's last lover was someone who used to work at the Leabrook. Her name was Nellie Grant."

"My, my. You have done some homework."

"Did you know her well?"

"I knew her, yes."

Her brittle tone brought all of his instincts to full rev. He pushed open one of the twin steel doors. "See much of her after she came out here to stay with Daventry?"

"No, I did not. She died the day after Daventry did. Washed overboard on her way back here to the island." Eugenia hoisted her garment bag and cosmetic case and prepared to step past him. "Don't waste your breath on any further questions, Colfax. You can't put me down in your notebook as a contact to prove how industrious you were to your clients. I have no intention of participating in your fraudulent investigation."

Nellie Grant's name definitely meant something to her. The link between the Leabrook's former employee and Adam Daventry had been worrying Cyrus. But a small piece of the puzzle had just clicked into place. He had never been a big believer in coincidence. Now he was more certain than ever that Eugenia's involvement in this situation was anything but coincidental.

He wondered if she had known Adam Daventry far more intimately than she had implied. She claimed that she had never been on the island, but she might have lied. When he had launched his initial inquiries, one of the first things he had discovered about Daventry was that the man had had a long string of lovers. All of them had been either artists or women who were closely connected to the art world.

The possibility that Eugenia might have been one of those lovers could not be overlooked. He had a strong suspicion that a mutual fascination with old glass would have been a powerful lure for her. When she chose a lover, he thought, she would seek out a man who shared her interests. The arty, highbrowed, sophisticated type.