A Shot of Red (12 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Groggy from her overnight flight, the train ride from Zurich, and the six-hour time difference from New York, Mia checked into the Ameron Hotel Flora—upscale and secure, yet not over the top like the Grand Hotel National or the Palace. Blending in was her plan, and that would be easier at a hotel where there were fewer staff paying close attention to each guest.

Mia unlocked the door and stepped into her room, her nerves on edge from lack of sleep and the realization that she was actually here in Switzerland to investigate a murder. Lila had allowed Mia to go with the understanding that she’d find out what was in Brent’s safe-deposit box, report back, and they’d decide together what to do next. Mia had to agree to return as soon as possible—or when Lila decided it was time—and Lila would cover for her until then.

The room’s contemporary Swiss decor appealed to her with its blond wood-plank accent wall and deer-pelt ottoman paired with a modern high-backed chair. An upholstered black headboard made the bright-white bedding pop, accented with throw pillows and a bright-green raw silk blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Stepping past, she grazed her fingers across the blanket, tempted to nestle herself in bed for a nap. But half the day was already gone, and she had to get to Luzerner Kantonalbank this afternoon. As exhausted as she was, she wondered if she’d even be able to sleep, especially after she found out what was in Brent’s safe-deposit box.

At the far end of the room, a door led to a balcony. Mia stepped outside into the crisp air and squinted against the sun. As her eyes adjusted, the view of majestic Mount Pilatus came into focus. Her heart stuttered at the sight of the towering snow-capped mountain where Brent had supposedly fallen to his death. How could a place where something so ominous happened be so beautiful?

Mia quickly glanced in the other direction where the octagonal roof of the centuries-old Wassuerturm water tower rose above the gabled buildings. Her father and Lila had brought Mia to Lucerne when she was a senior in high school, and she loved learning the history of the landmarks. She remembered that over the years, the water tower had been used as a prison and torture chamber. Mia shivered. Her father wasn’t here with her this time, and Lila was oceans away. The lovely city of Lucerne had a menacing undertone now, and Mia was here alone.

She went back into her room, closed the balcony door, and took a deep breath, suddenly fearful after all of her bravado up until now. “You can do this,” she murmured. “You
have
to do this.” But she wasn’t sure what that meant except for finding out what Brent had left for her.

Mia set out on foot to go to Luzerner Kantonalbank, which wasn’t far away on Pilatusstrasse. As she walked, she heard several different languages being spoken by the people on the sidewalks. German was the local dialect, yet English was widely understood. A group of Chinese tourists chattered as they boarded a brightly painted motor coach. She’d forgotten about the screech of the wires tethering the city’s electric buses to the overhead tangle of cables that powered them. The high-pitched sound carried on the cold wind that blew up from the lake, through the streets and between buildings.

Gazing into shop windows as she passed, she was amazed again at how many stores sold watches, and she’d seen only a fraction of them. She pushed up the sleeve of her coat and glanced at the white gold Cartier tank watch her dad had given her for college graduation—almost 8:00 a.m. at home. By now, Lila would have told everyone that Mia had come down with the flu. But had they believed her? Whatever Mia did here, she had to do it fast. Her cover story might work for now, but there was no way it was going to last.

She found the modern, five-story Luzerner Kantonalbank building on a busy corner. Before she went in, she stopped and shifted her gaze up and down the sidewalk scanning the people for anyone who might be following her. No one caught her attention, but the tingle of her nerves told her someone was watching.

Mia turned her back and headed into the bank, trying to hide her apprehension with a purposeful stride and her chin up. She stepped inside the sleek, expansive lobby where it looked as if a black-and-white spaceship had landed in the center, and tellers had taken up their stations at the helm. Behind them, digital advertisements featuring beautiful, satisfied customers appeared on a projection screen and changed at steady intervals. The marble floors were polished to high gloss.

Mia waited in line behind a young man in a military uniform, her pulse pounding as if she’d recently downed a double espresso and chased it with Red Bull. She could usually scare up enough confidence to deal with most situations, but this one was clearly out of her league. Why hadn’t she even considered Lila’s offer to hire a private investigator?

Because you’re the only one who can open the box.

When her turn came, she approached the teller, who reminded Mia of an older version of Ellen, but the somewhat familiar face didn’t ease Mia’s nerves at all. The teller greeted Mia with a nod and a pleasant smile.

“Do you speak English?” Mia’s voice wavered. She’d been on national television in the States yesterday and she hadn’t sounded this wired.

Get a grip.

“How can I be of assistance?” the teller asked, her words clipped with a German accent.

“I need to access a safe-deposit box.”

“Of course. May I see your identification and I’ll get someone to help you?”

Mia reached into her purse, pulled out her passport, and handed it to the teller, who discreetly glanced at the photo and back at Mia. Referring to the passport, she typed some information into her computer, then handed the booklet back to Mia.

Within seconds, a fit man in a dark suit and red tie came down the stairs on the right side of the lobby and approached Mia. He was nearly handsome, with hazel eyes, a narrow nose, and lips that tended to curve upward at the corners. His blondish hair had started graying at the temples. Mia guessed him to be in his early forties.

“Ms. Moncure,” he said with the same German accent as the teller and a quirk of a smile. He extended his hand and Mia shook it firmly. “I’m Frederic Weiss. I’ll take you to your safe-deposit box.”

He led Mia out of the lobby to the back of the bank, passing an expansive vault filled with wall-to-wall safe-deposit boxes. The vault’s massive steel door stood ajar, but the contents remained secured by an inner door of horizontal bars of varying widths with a shimmering matte finish.

Mia’s breath hitched. Whatever Brent had wanted her to have—wanted her to know—was in that vault. Mr. Weiss invited her to have a seat in a small, private room appointed with a sleek black table and two upholstered chairs. He verified her identity again and briefly left the room.

Mia listened as the barred door swung open with a whine. Mr. Weiss’s footsteps echoed on the marble floor in the vault. After a moment, more steps, then the closing of the barred door. Erratically tapping her foot, she bowed her head and pinched her eyes closed for a second. She could look back with clarity and identify moments that had literally changed the course of her life, when afterward things would never be the same—like the moment she’d realized that her mother only had enough love for one of her twins, the day that her father had died, and the first night she’d spent with Gio. She had no doubt that one of those moments was upon her now as Mr. Weiss’s footsteps fell closer.

He entered the room and set a gleaming silver box on the table, about the size of a ream of paper, with the number 312 engraved on the front. An adrenaline-tinged pang of guilt and paranoia shot through Mia.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Moncure?” he asked.

It must have shown in her eyes. Mia shook her head quickly. “Do your customers select the box number they’d prefer, or is it assigned?”

“If a client has a specific request and we have a vacancy, we’ll honor it.”

“I see.” Mia wondered if Brent had requested number 312 since they’d gone on their first date on March 12. He’d reminded her regularly and made no secret about frequently using the number in passwords. She started to ask if he knew whether Brent had asked for box number 312, or if it had been a coincidence that the two of them exclusively shared that box. Now that was down to one.

“I’ll leave you now,” Mr. Weiss said.

Mia wasn’t sure if she felt more relieved or terrified.

“When you’re finished,” he said, “please press the silver button here at the top of the table leg, and I’ll return the box to the vault.”

Mia hadn’t noticed the button, but guessed it was wired down the table leg and into the floor. Any other time she’d be more curious about it, but right now the only thing she could think about was opening the box. “Thank you,” she said.

He nodded politely and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Mia sat for a moment, staring at the box. Usually satisfied to go it alone, this time she wished there was someone she trusted by her side. But she’d insisted on doing this by herself, and now she was getting what she asked for. She braced herself and reached for the box.

The smooth metal felt cool to her touch. Expecting a whine from the hinges, she opened the lid.

Silence.

Until she saw the handgun inside and her pulse thundered in her ears. The rest of the storm swirled through her body with a rush of dizzying heat. All the drama up until now had seemed surreal. That had all changed in an instant.

The gun—a small revolver—wasn’t the only item in the box, but it was the first thing that captured her attention. It lay on top of a crimson envelope, giving it a sinister appearance. Also inside was a black velvet box about half the size of the revolver. With a shaky hand, Mia picked up the gun. The shape and weight of it felt familiar to her. On closer inspection, she noticed it was similar to one she’d practiced shooting at a gun range where Brent had taken her several times. He’d lived in Northern Virginia where owning a gun was legal, and he kept one in his house. Since Mia had stayed over sometimes, he wanted her to learn how to handle a gun. Just in case…

Mia’s stomach filled with pins and needles, which didn’t take long since she only picked at the food they’d served on the plane. She’d known she was dealing with something ominous, but the gun made her hyperaware of the danger she’d put herself in. She surveyed the room, certain there had to be a security camera hidden somewhere. Checking the barrel of the revolver, she found it loaded and ready to shoot. Mia pointed the gun downward and smoothed her trembling finger over the trigger, hoping she wouldn’t have to fire it for real.

She carefully placed the gun on the table, picked up the envelope, and opened it, saving the velvet box for last. Mia furrowed her brow as she pulled out a portion of a sheet of plain paper that had been ripped vertically with a jagged tear. Only about a quarter of the left side remained. She flattened the paper on the table, sighing at the sight of Brent’s handwriting.

Dear Mia
, still legible at the top, was one of the few lines that was all there.

I wish I could’ve been… never suspect Moncure Thera… was wrong. …got to hurry… before vaccine launch… Matthew came to Lucer… Gio told me…

Mia’s heart jumped into her throat. Had Gio told Brent about their night together? She and Brent had been broken up at the time, but still. Brent would’ve been devastated to hear that, regardless. She squeezed her eyes closed. Surely Gio would’ve told her if he’d mentioned it to Brent. He and Brent had worked together on the One Shot launch plan, so that could be the connection he was referencing. Or maybe Gio
was
somehow involved in all of this.

…suspected something was goin… overheard conversation… new vendor for syringes… Picasso… Met with her… jewelry importer… bracelet. …you to have it… in the vaccine. The paintings on Spreuer Bridge… …today on Mount Pilat… do next.

The tear in the paper veered sharply into the left corner, leaving nothing else of what Brent had written.

What the hell?

Why would he have put this sliver of paper in the safe-deposit box—in a sealed envelope—and how had he expected her to make sense of it? A snaky chill slithered up her spine. Had someone tampered with the original letter Brent had left for her?

Again she shifted her gaze to each corner of the ceiling, feeling watched. She put the paper back in the envelope and turned her attention to the black velvet box. It was unexpectedly heavy, and something rolled inside. She set it on the table and carefully opened it. Atop a black velvet inset was a delicate bracelet made of antique-style milled silver beads alternating with opaque ivory beads shaped like natural pearls. It was unusual and exquisite.

Evidently this was the bracelet Brent had written about in his letter, and she could decipher enough to understand that he wanted her to have it. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t deserve a gift from him. Mia was the one who owed him, considering what he’d risked for her and her family’s company. Not just his heart, but his life. She carefully put it on her wrist, humbled to wear it in memory of him.

Mia blinked back her tears. No time for crying right now. No place, either. She lifted the black velvet box. The bracelet wasn’t nearly heavy enough to account for the weight of what had been rolling around inside. Mia pulled out the inset to find a dozen extra bullets for the revolver.

Brent had left her confused about nearly everything, but he’d left her certain of one. Whatever she was here to find out, someone surely didn’t want her to know.

She tucked the envelope with the torn letter inside, the black velvet box of bullets, and the gun into her purse. Still confused by the torn letter, she gazed into the empty safe-deposit box as if the other portion of it might materialize out of nothing. Why had Brent left only a piece of the letter? And if he’d left the entire page, what had happened to the rest of it?