Deadworld (13 page)

Chapter 21

Laurel stood before a painting of an Old West town churned into a muddy swamp by a powerful storm. “You have a knack for painting, Mr. Anderson, and an apparent fondness for the Old West.”

He gave her a nod of thanks. “A fascinating part of our history, in my opinion. Would either of you care for coffee or tea?”

Laurel smiled. “Tea, thank you. Agent Rutledge prefers coffee.”

Jackie frowned. She was not in the mood to be taking anything except information from Nick Anderson today. Her thought was quickly lost, however, as her eyes roamed the expansive, light-filled living room, which opened on to the other side of the loft area. It was a very warm room, stained a rich, reddish brown in the trim and a similar tone in the solid, craftsman furnishings. There was a certain modern, Western flair to the decor in his home, surrounding you in earth tones and natural materials and accented with wood and brass. For owning a company worth millions, the wealth was very understated. The sunken area before the huge river-rock fireplace had a charm and coziness all its own. Jackie ignored the pang of jealousy. Who wouldn’t like to curl up in front of that fire?

“Do you like any flavors in your cappuccino, Agent Rutledge?” he called over to her. “I’m not partial to them myself, but I’ve a cupboard full of the stuff if you have a preference.”

Jackie glanced over at the kitchen. Nick was working before a restaurant-style espresso machine. “No. I really don’t need the coffee. I just need some questions answered.”

“Have a seat then. I’ll have these ready in a minute. Shel, did you want one, too?”

“Nope. I’m good, thanks.”

Jackie spun on her heel and found Shelby Fontaine standing in the far corner by the archway leading out to the foyer. The far side of the living room had a pool table, and she stood by it in black jeans, a black T-shirt with the Pink Panther emblazoned on the pocket, bare feet, and sunglasses. She had a bottle of beer in one hand and raised it toward Jackie with a smile.

“Good morning, agents.”

“A little bright in here for you, Ms. Fontaine?” Jackie failed to hide the sarcasm.

“No, just a little hungover,” she replied with a little laugh.

“Are you available for a few questions, Ms. Fontaine?” Laurel said.

The smile got a little bigger when she turned toward Laurel who sat now by the fireplace. “Anytime.” She slinked her way over to the U-shaped configuration of overstuffed couch cushions in front of the fireplace. A round glass table sat in the middle of them, a twelve-inch bronze statue of a cowboy rearing up on his horse in the center. Shelby flopped down across from Laurel like a big, lazy cat and put her bare feet with their bright red toenails up on the table.

There was something unnerving about the woman that Jackie could not put her finger on it. Maybe it was just Laurel’s “touch of death” vibe that put her on edge, but something was telling her that Shelby Fontaine was not the “diva poser Angelina wannabe” that she appeared to be. So why the front? They needed to get her alone.

Jackie reluctantly moved down to the seating area and stood next to Laurel, who gave her a faint “thank you” smile. Cordial cop just went against Jackie’s grain. She wanted to be able to pace around while she questioned Nick, point fingers, and look down on the suspect. It was a far better position to be in than this “over for coffee” setup in which she now found herself.

The sounds of frothing milk finished, and Nick walked over, carrying a tray with steaming mugs on it, and set it on the table next to the cowboy statuette. A smooth, white froth topped two of the bowl-sized cups, while a third had the string of a teabag dangling down the side. A small white teapot sat next to it. Jackie almost smirked. The cowboy was serving tea. How cute. It was a nice suck-up move. He seated himself on the empty couch, closer to her than to Shelby. What sort of odd relationship did these two have? The image of the old newspaper clipping popped into Jackie’s head then, the story of a pissed-off Shelby Fontaine decking one Nicholas Rembrandt on the courthouse steps.

Jackie picked up her coffee and took a sip. The black liquid beneath the deceptively docile-looking foam was pure venom. It was coffee concentrate, distilled smoky heaven. The bastard.

“Is it too strong for you, Agent Rutledge?”

There was no hint of a smile there, but Jackie could sense it lurking in the background. “No. It’s fine.”

There was a quiet chortle from Shelby, who said nothing and sipped on her beer.

“So what can we answer for you today?” he asked. “I’m assuming you know where I’ve been the past twenty-four hours, given the constant surveillance we’ve been under.”

So this was how it was going to be. Smart-ass. Jackie took a deep breath, her gaze lifting upward to see the other side of the open, upstairs room. Nestled behind the rail was the unmistakable mass of a piano. He played piano, too? What else could this man do?

“Are you familiar with the Woodbridge Federal Credit Union?”

Nick nodded. “I do my banking there.”

That figured. “Does the name Adam Moreland ring any bells?”

“Can I assume that’s the boy who got killed?”

There was the slightest hint of something there in his voice. Sadness perhaps? Remorse? “Yes, Mr. Anderson. He was drained of blood just like the other boy, laid out on a pile of pennies in the bank vault.”

He simply nodded at her, his mouth drawing just a bit tauter. It was a momentary expression, quickly covered by a drink from his coffee mug. Shelby sat up, suddenly interested in what Jackie had to say. A tap from Laurel had Jackie turning to find the tarot card in the little baggie. Jackie kept her face expressionless and took the evidence from Laurel’s hand.

“We did find this interesting piece of evidence, Mr. Anderson.”

He leaned forward to look. “Oh? What is it?”

The tone of his voice held genuine curiosity now, and Jackie wondered why that might be. She handed the baggie to him, her gaze zeroing in on his face, watching for any changes in expression. He plucked it from her fingers, holding it up and turning it around to examine both sides. Shelby leaned forward to see, and unlike Nick’s steady, nonplussed stare, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arched high in surprise over the top of her sunglasses.

“Interesting,” he said. “It’s a tarot card.”

“Yes. A very old, handpainted tarot card. Forensics still needs to get us an accurate date, but, assuming it’s not a fake, we’re guessing it’s roughly a hundred and forty years old.” It was pure conjecture, but Jackie wanted to play the hunch anyway. Still, he was frustratingly blank. The man must have been made of stone.

Shelby, on the other hand, did not run so cold. Her mouth had quirked into a half smile. “Roughly? Are you an expert on antique tarot cards, Agent Rutledge?”

“I am,” Laurel chimed in. “I have a set similar to this at home. I collect them, and this style dates from Civil War times, more or less. It’s a valuable collector’s item.”

“I see,” Shelby said. She turned toward Nick for an instant, and the smile looked decidedly smug before she took another drink from the bottle of beer.

Nick’s look of stone disappeared for a second, transforming into a flash of annoyance. Jackie caught the exchange out of the corner of her eye, and that was all she needed.

“Is it familiar to you, Mr. Anderson?”

He smiled and handed it back to her. “Please. Call me Nick.”

“Fine, Nick.” Her voice took on a harder edge. “Do you recognize the tarot card?”

“Not specifically, no.”

“So you don’t know anything at all about this specific hundred-and-forty-year-old tarot card?”

He stared at her then, holding her gaze, with those bizarrely bright, hazel-brown eyes. Jackie forced herself to hold it, pushing down the impulse to look away from the penetrating look. It was a Laurel look, one of those peering-into-your-soul sorts of looks that made your stomach squirm up into knots. Finally, he blinked away the contact.

“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

Bullshit. Bull . . . fucking . . . shit. “I think you’re lying to me, Nick.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You’re lying—not telling me the truth, hiding something. I’ll bet you know exactly what this is,” she said, waving the card at him, “or know what it means in relation to this murder investigation.” She took a long drink from her coffee and set it down on the table before getting to her feet. She needed to pace. “I have a little hunch, Nick.”

“Okay.” The cool facade had a trace of hesitancy in it.

“I think you probably know something about that penny we found on the first victim. Hell, maybe it’s even yours, but, oddly, it’s missing from evidence now. I don’t suppose if we got a search warrant that we’d find that penny of yours tucked away in a drawer here somewhere?”

Shelby leaned back on her couch, one arm behind her head while she sipped on the beer. There was a pleased grin on that gleaming, red mouth. Jackie wondered for a moment why she would be pleased by this turn of events. Did she want Nick to get nailed, perhaps?

“I told you, Agent Rutledge, I’m not—”

She waved him off. “Something is very wrong with this case. My bullshit meter is redlining, and it just about shorts out pointed at you, Nick.” Jackie stepped by Laurel and walked around behind the couches, circling behind Nick. She wanted to push his defenses. “And, Ms. Fontaine, why do you find this so amusing?”

She grinned. “I’m just have fun watching Nick squirm. Not many women can do that to him.”

Jackie stopped in her tracks. She didn’t appreciate the tone. “I’m only after the truth here, Ms. Fontaine. Squirming is not the issue. I have two dead boys with the blood drained out of them, and if for some reason you all have information pertaining to my investigation, I’d suggest you share, because, trust me, I’m this close to hauling you both in for obstruction.” Laurel gave her one of those “calm down” looks, but Jackie ignored it. A pleasant conversation was not what was needed for this. She needed to dig under that thick skin of his, and being nice had gotten them nowhere.

Nick turned on the couch to face her better. “Agent Rutledge, I appreciate your dedication and zeal in going after guys like this.”

She leaned toward him, hands on the back of the couch. “But?” The stare came again, his mouth drawn into a tight, firm line. She wanted to tell him to stop, but it was the wrong time for weakness. “But what, Mr. Anderson?”

He shook his head. “You’re just looking at the wrong guy for answers, that’s all.”

Shelby actually rolled her eyes at his comment, and Jackie leaned down closer to him, no more than a couple feet away. There was a razor-thin scar that ran from his temple down along the jawline to his chin.

“You protecting someone, Mr. Anderson? Shelby, perhaps?” It was a shot in the dark, more to provoke a reaction, but the bemused smile was not what she had expected.

“No, Agent Rutledge. I am not protecting anyone. Trust me. I would be more than happy for you to catch this killer.”

“I trust you about as far as I can throw you.” Shelby snorted, and Jackie had finally had enough of her amused silence. “What about you, Ms. Fontaine? Someone here knows more than they’re saying, and all you’ve been doing since we got here is give Nick every condescending response in the book.” Jackie was starting to think that arresting them might be a good idea regardless, but she was not on good enough terms with Belgerman at the moment to afford any kind of screw up.

“I just work here,” Shelby said with mock innocence. “Nick tells me to say something, I say it. If he doesn’t, I don’t.”

“Bullshit. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Anderson?”

Again, the careless shrug. “I work for him.”

When she was not more forthcoming, Jackie stood up straight, hands on her hips. “Do I look stupid, Ms. Fontaine? How about the non-pat answer, just to humor me?”

“I’m not fucking him, if that’s what you mean.”

Jackie threw up her hands in disgust. “I really should just arrest you both.”

Nick said, without looking at her, “That would waste all our time, Ms. Rutledge.”

“Gee, you think? I don’t know what your game is here, Nick, or you, for that matter, Ms. Fontaine, but it’s damn obvious to me that you know something. You’re either hiding something, or—far handier for me—you are both involved, and given that I’ve got two dead boys on my hands and don’t want a third, I’d say that arresting you is looking like a good option here.”

“I assure you,” he said. “You’ll find no direct evidence—”

“Direct?” That was it. The evasive bullshit had to end. “That’s the problem here. Things are just vague enough to keep us guessing. Is that what you want, Mr. Anderson? People are dying here. Kids. Are. Dying. Either you’re directly involved, or you know who is doing this. And, frankly, I’m fucking sick of your evading everything we ask. Why are you protecting this monster? Or are you in league with him somehow? Is that it?”

“I’m in league with no one, Ms. Rutledge.” He took another drink from his coffee and set it down on the table. “I’m protecting you.”

Not the answer she’d been expecting. Jackie took a step back. “What? So you do know who the killer is?”

“You, the FBI, and anyone else who tries to get involved. You won’t catch this monster. You can’t.”

“Presumptuous bastard.” She gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to punch him.

“Jackie,” Laurel said quietly.

“Nope.” She waved a finger at Laurel. “Not calming down this time.” The finger drifted back over and stabbed at Nick. “How dare you, Mr. Anderson, if that is what your real fucking name is. You don’t presume anything about us. It’s my . . . our job to catch killers like this. We are far more capable, with more resources than you’ll ever have, to nail monsters like this. How could—” She paused, fists now clenched at her sides. God, it would feel so good to deck the prick. “Who is it, Nick?”

“You read the file from 1970?” He leaned back in the cushions, an arm flung along one of the pillows, showing little regard for her tirade. “Two FBI agents were killed by him then. You get involved, the same thing will happen.”