Thread of Fear (15 page)

I didn't know. But I knew I'd never be able to forgive myself if I kept pretending I was working for her and not for Anchor. And I knew that the chances were good that she would never see him again.

“I think you remember the good,” I said. “Just like you do with Aaron. You remember why you loved him.” I was speaking in past tense, like he was already gone, but I couldn't help it.

Her eyes pooled with tears and she nodded. “I'll try. I just... I need closure on this. I need to know where he is. If he left because of the affair, fine. If he left because of his...his job... well, then he did. And God only knows what will happen to him.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I just need to know.”

I nodded. I knew where she was coming from. Not just because I'd been in her shoes but because she'd just given me a very important piece of the puzzle.

A piece she knew nothing about.

THIRTY ONE

“Patrick Dennison has worked for you for a little over eight years,” I said to Anchor. “Is that right?”

Anchor thought for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds correct.”

We were sitting in a private room in a steakhouse at The Venetian. Dark wood, dim lighting, soft music, attentive waiters. The kind of place that you didn't leave without it setting you back at least a couple hundred bucks. He'd suggested a dinner meeting when I'd called from Kathleen Dennison's driveway, asking to meet with him as soon as he was available. I'd agreed because it gave me the better part of the afternoon to get my thoughts in order and let me think about how I wanted to approach him about something that was bothering me.

Our server came to the table. Anchor ordered the petite filet and sautéed spinach. I asked for the ribeye and a baked potato. She refilled his wine glass but didn't touch mine since I hadn't had a drink yet.

“So he'd been there about two years when his son went missing?” I asked.

Anchor reached for his wine glass. “If you say so,” he said, sipping carefully. He pressed his lips together, then swallowed. “I don't recall that as clearly.”

“Tell me about the first time he stole from you,” I said. “Specifically when it happened.”

He swirled the wine in the glass, his eyes following the movement of the liquid.. “I'm not sure I recall the exact date.”

I didn't believe that, but I didn't say anything.

“I know that it wasn't a terribly large sum,” he said, still staring into the wine. “But it was clear from the books that it was gone—”

“When?” I asked again, cutting him off. “Tell me when it happened.”

Anchor peered at me over the glass, his expression impassive. But his eyes were shrewd, calculating. “He'd been employed with us for two years.”

I stared back at him. “So when you found out it was him, what happened? How did you deal with him?”

Anchor picked up the linen napkin next to him. It had been folded into a fluted design and he undid this carefully before positioning it in his lap. “I instructed him that it wasn't to happen again.”

“That doesn't sound even remotely like you.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “No. I don't think you're really a second chance kind of guy. You're a one-chance-and-you're-out kind of a guy.”

Anchor lifted an eyebrow. “That sounds harsh.”

“You are harsh.”

He gave a small shrug and said nothing.

“So you told him that it wasn't to happen again,” I said. “How did you convey that?”

“I'm sure there was a meeting or something.”

I looked at him for a long time. He stared back.

“Do you think I'm stupid?” I finally asked.

“Quite the contrary,” he said. “I find you to be anything but.”

“But you expect me to believe that you don't recall how you dealt with an employee who stole from you?” I asked. “One who's now gone missing again and you want found?”

He picked up the delicate stemware and brought it to his lips.

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Let's just say for a second that you did have a memory lapse and couldn't recall your interaction with him six years ago. Let's pretend I'm buying that. But you also want me to buy that you didn't then look him up when he disappeared this time with your money? That you didn't look in your files or whatever the hell you keep on people and that it didn't jog a single memory from six years ago? That's what you want me to believe? Even though I'm anything but stupid?”

Anchor adjusted his glasses, as if he needed to look at something more clearly. “We dealt with him.”

“How?”

“How we saw fit,” he said shortly.

“How?”

“I don't see how this is relevant to your investigation,” Anchor said, demonstrating irritation for the first time since I'd known him. “How will this help you locate Mr. Dennison now?”

“It'll tell me exactly what I'm dealing with,” I said.  “Because I don't think I have the full picture. All I have is what you've told me. And I don't think that's the entire picture.”

Anchor folded his hands and placed them on the table, a centimeter away from his wine glass. “I'm not going to divulge how it was dealt with. That's our business. But you can be certain that he understood the message and the consequences if it were to happen again. You can be sure of that.”

“Oh, I'm absolutely sure of it,” I said. “I have no doubt.” My stomach knotted, knowing the direction I was about to take in the conversation. “So his theft coincided with his son's disappearance. Am I getting that right?”

Anchor shifted, recrossed his legs. “Yes. You are getting that right.”

“Which happened first? The theft or Aaron's disappearance?”

“You should just ask the question you want to ask, Mr. Tyler.”

“The theft was first,” I said. “At least that's what I'm guessing.”

Anchor didn't respond. He reached up and smoothed the navy blue tie knotted at this throat. It was a subtle gesture, probably automatic, but I noticed.

“And then Aaron went missing.”

Anchor stayed silent.

“It's funny because I told Kathleen Dennison the other day that it's really hard for people to stay hidden,” I said. I picked up my wine glass for the first time, studying its contents. The aroma was fruity, complex, and I was sure it was something I would have enjoyed. But I had no appetite: not for wine, not for food. “Regular people make mistakes. So they get found. Or they turn up dead. It's a rarity for someone to just completely vanish.” I pushed the glass away from me and leveled my gaze on Anchor. “It takes a certain kind of skill to make that happen. Don't you think?”

Anchor stared at me, his eyes flat.

“So I'll go ahead and ask the question, but I'm pretty sure I already know the answer.” I leaned forward again, tenting my fingers to keep them from trembling. “Did you take Aaron to punish his father?”

Anchor didn't answer right away. He met my gaze, unblinking. He reached for his glass, his eyes still on me, and brought it to his lips. He drained it and then set the empty glass back on the table. 

A grim smile appeared. “Yes.”

THIRTY TWO

Our food arrived at the table, but neither of us moved. The server stood there for a moment, awkward and unsure. She asked if we needed anything else. She was met with silence. She finally just nodded and moved away from the table.

“It's not what you think,” Anchor said when she'd left.

I shook my head. “You don't know what I think.”

“No, but I can assume what you think.”

“Maybe just tell me what happened and I'll let you know if you're right or not.”

“I'm not sure it's any of your business,” he said.

“I'm making it my business,” I said, glaring at him. “Just like I inherited this bullshit with Delzano and Carina Armstrong, I'm inheriting this, too. It's a part of the deal.”

He pressed his lips together. “It in no way impacts your search for Mr. Dennison.”

“I say it does. So either you tell me or I leave now.”

“Mr. Tyler, I've told you this isn't a volunteer job,” he said. “We discussed that this is repayment for my previous assistance. You agreed to the terms.”

“Yeah, I can also walk and deal with the... what was the word you used before? Unpleasantness?” I shrugged. “Your call.”

Anchor stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I wasn't sure if it was to try and intimidate me or to get me to back off, but I held his gaze. The game had changed and I was angry. Pissed. He'd taken Dennison's son and I wanted to know why.

Anchor finally blinked and picked up his knife and fork. He carefully sliced off a tiny piece of steak. “When I was informed that Mr. Dennison had stolen from us, I gave him an opportunity to come clean. We called him in, told him about the discrepancy in the books. He denied any knowledge.” He speared the meat with his fork and held it aloft his hand as he spoke. “We already knew he had knowledge, so I knew he was lying. I had to make a decision. Was he worth keeping or was he expendable?” He popped the piece of meat into his mouth and chewed.. “I decided that he was worth keeping.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He has tremendous financial skills and acumen,” Anchor said. “And he had two years of working knowledge of our operation. I decided that the transgression didn't necessitate his termination, but that it did need to be addressed.”

In any other circumstances, this might have impressed me, the fact that he'd valued skills over honesty or loyalty.

“So you went after his kid.”

He glanced down at his plate and sliced another piece of the steak. “What I decided to do was show him that he'd made a very big error in judgment. I needed to make sure he knew that that kind of thing would not be tolerated and that the consequences could and would be painful.” He held the fork up again, the reddish brown meat impaled on the tines. “People are rarely more vulnerable than with their own families. I think you learned that, unfortunately.”

My hands were balled into fists in my lap and my stomach clenched.

Anchor wiped at his mouth and dropped the cloth napkin back in his lap. “I made the decision that we would bring his son into our custody, simply to show him that we could. The intent was to demonstrate to Mr. Dennison how serious we take honesty and that anything less simply isn't tolerated. It was meant to scare and deter.” He glanced at my plate. “You should eat. The food is outstanding.”

Bile surged in my throat. I ignored his last comment. “And you do that by killing an innocent kid?” I asked, incredulous.

Anchor laid down his silverware and shook his head. “No, that was never the intent. Never.”

He sounded sincere, truthful, but what did I know? I was finding out more about Anchor by the day, none of it good. I couldn't say he was above murdering an innocent child; after all, he'd asked me to terminate Dennison and was using my own family as leverage against me. “So what happened?”

Anchor shifted in his chair. “We took custody of the boy walking home from school. He fought, I'm told, but I'd given strict orders that he not be hurt. I didn't want him injured or threatened. This was about his father, not the boy.” He cleared his throat and for the first time since I'd met him, he looked slightly uncomfortable. “They finally got him calmed down and into a secure location. They were getting him situated and he fought again. In the midst of the commotion, he suffered a seizure.”

I opened my mouth but he held his hand up, stopping me. “And before you question how I knew that, I have medical professionals at my disposal. One was dispatched immediately to the location. That person confirmed the seizure. The boy never regained consciousness. He died within minutes.”

The server returned and asked if we needed anything. Anchor waved her away.

“Obviously, it changed things,” Anchor said. “We had a far different situation on our hands after the accident.”

“It wasn't an accident,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. “You kidnapped the boy and put him under undue stress. You caused the seizure.”

“There's no proof of that,” he said calmly. “It might be true, it might not. Regardless, it wasn't the intent.” He picked up his fork and dug into the spinach. “Nonetheless, it changed the course of action. We had to make some difficult decisions. Rather, I had to make some difficult decisions. It was ultimately my responsibility.”

I wasn't sure if Anchor was expecting sympathy from me, that he'd been put into such a difficult position. I had none to give. I wasn't interested in his excuses. I wanted to know what happened.

“We had to dispose of the body,” Anchor said. He twirled the fork in his spinach, almost as if he were drawing a design in it. “We didn't have another choice.”

“Right.” I didn't bother trying to hide my disgust.

“So I arranged for that,” he said, ignoring me. “Immediately. There was no point in waiting. It couldn't be undone.”

“What did you do with him?”

“I'm not going to tell you that,” he said flatly. “But there's a reason you weren't able to locate him. No one could and no one will.”

I'd been right. Only professionals know how to make someone disappear. And Anchor was the worst kind of professional.

“What about the men who disposed of him?” I asked. “You aren't worried about them?”

He stared at me for a moment, then shook his head. I assumed they wouldn't be findable, either.

“So then I had to make a decision,” Anchor said. “Tell Mr. Dennison about what occurred or let him assume something – and someone else – was responsible for his son's abduction. It wasn't an easy decision.”

“So you chose the coward's way out,” I said. “You let him think someone else was responsible for taking his kid. And for years he and his wife have wondered what happened to him, holding onto that sliver of hope that their son was still alive.” I shook my head. “Incredible.”

“No,” Anchor said.

“No?” I gave a short laugh. “Tell me what's not incredible about that.”

“No,” Anchor said. “I meant that I told Patrick Dennison what happened to his son.”