Echoes (10 page)

“He said the test showed you didn't share paternity with whoever washed up on Plum Bay Beach.”

“I thought you were certain it was Nikki?”

“John is. I'm certain Nikki's dead—I agree with him on that—so until all this came to light, it made sense that the body the gendarmes found was hers. Now, things have changed.”

“How so?”

“Maybe whoever killed her didn't want her connected to the rest of these cases, connected to you. So he gave us another body, someone whose DNA wouldn't ring any bells.

“That's insane.”

“Is it? More insane than the fact that whoever fathered you also fathered three, possibly four, murdered women and a convicted rapist?”

“I told you, my father didn't stray even once, let alone multiple times.”

“It's the most logical explanation.”

“Only because you didn't know him, didn't see him with my mother.”

“Which is the same thing you're going to say when I broach the possibility that Ephraim Steele might be your father, the father of all of you.”

A memory pushed forward. She'd been six or seven at the time, old enough to be interested in her parents' conversation, but not mature enough to understand it. Ephraim Steele had been on the television, his ministry under investigation, and her mother had practically spat, calling him a venial, hypocritical ass. Her tone, as much as the words themselves, had caught Callie's attention; Sharon Pearson rarely had a negative word for anyone.

“My mother absolutely did not have an affair with Steele, but I think she knew him. Her family is Jewish, and as I recall, the Steeles were, too, until Ephraim climbed aboard the televangelist money train, changed his name from Steinmetz to Steele, and became a Pentacostal.”

“It's possible the sex wasn't consensual.”

Callie's skin went cold, almost numb. “You think Ed Steele learned to be a sexual predator—or inherited the desire—from his father?” Was such a thing even possible?

“His parents are dead, so we have no way of knowing that Ephraim was his biological father.” Mac reached across the table and unfolded her fingers that had clenched into fists. “According to the case file, Robin Cory's mother insists she wasn't assaulted—the FBI got to that question fairly quickly when the blood relationships came to light—but she can't, or won't, explain Robin's genetic abnormality. Will Cory is also mum on the subject. Frank Masters, Deborah and Diane's father, claims to have had no idea the women weren't his daughters, and says that if his wife was raped thirty years ago, he never knew about it.”

“Thirty years ago the stigma would have been intolerable.” Callie let the idea sink in. Why would all these women have kept the children conceived through violence? The joy on her mother's face in the photograph was real—would she feel that for a child of rape? But what other explanation could there be? Her father had not had affairs. They might have lied to her about everything else in her life, but nothing could convince her that her parents' love had not been deep and true.

“Sexual assault would explain a lot of the inconsistencies. If my father was out of the country nine months before my real birthday, they could have fudged the date to protect my mother's name.”

“It's possible.”

“But you don't think that's the answer.”

“I don't think it's enough. What kind of rapist follows his victims for more than thirty years, then one day decides to go out and kill his own offspring?”

“The Steeles, the Corys, my parents . . . We don't travel in the same circles, but the families are all well off. Are the Masterses?”

“Oil money going back generations. And if we include Nikki, we have another family in the same class.”

Callie considered the circumstances that might have brought one man into the lives of all the families whose files lay before her. “These weren't women he could have snatched off the street. He had to be part of their circles.”

“That's my take on it, yeah.”

“He knows us. That's how he's kept track all these years.”

“Possible. But none of your families are low profile, and since the advent of Google Alerts and other Internet technologies, it's become much easier to keep an eye on someone. So maybe he only started looking for you recently.”

“But the murders still don't make sense. They attracted attention, brought our genetic peculiarities to light.”

“Ed Steele's DNA went into the system after the first rape, close to seven years ago. His conviction, which publicly and irrevocably linked his name to that DNA, came down just over five years ago. Until then, our boy had nothing to worry about. Maybe he didn't kill the Masters women at all. But if he's been keeping tabs on his progeny, he's got to have realized the minute the cops ran Debbie and Diane, they'd find the connection to Steele.”

“And he panicked? Killed Robin Cory and Nikki? And then another woman to hide the fact that Nikki's death was tied to the others?”

“It's a theory.”

“But why?”

“Not a clue. But I have to ask why your father hid that picture, didn't want anyone to know he'd stayed at the Paradis. I wonder whether Ephraim Steele—under either of his names—vacationed with the Lewises. The computerized records only go back into the midnineties. That's what I looked at when you first showed up, and there was no record of your family. But there are older records, paper, in the file cabinets. Part of being a good hotelier is tracking your clients' tastes and preferences.”

“You think they go back that far? Thirty years?”

“Won't know until I get a look.”

“But you don't work there anymore.”

“Nope. But no one would think twice about me being on the grounds. It's not hard to bypass the gate on foot if you know where to go and don't mind a few nettles.”

“John would have a fit if he saw you.”

“I was hoping you'd give me a hand with that. Invite the guy to dinner. Tell him it's for the magazine, that you want to go to Le Tastevin or one of the other Grand Case restaurants so you can review it. Have a few glasses of wine; keep him off the property as long as possible. Hell, show him the picture. The killer knows you have it, so you're not tipping your hand even if Lewis is involved somehow, or lets slip to someone who is. Ask him if he ever remembers meeting your parents.”

He meant to break into the hotel? And make her an accessory? Somehow, she hadn't envisioned criminal activities when she set out to discover the truth behind the photograph
. Naïve, Callie. Very naïve.
“Why can't I just ask him to let me look at the files?”

“Because he might not agree, and then he'd be on guard, which would make it considerably more difficult to get a peek inside.”

“John was just a kid when the rest of us were conceived. You can't think he has anything to do with these murders.”

“He was a teenager. But no, I don't think he's the root of the problem. There's a distinct possibility the Paradis is involved, though, and the Lewis family fortune—John's fortune—is tied to the resort. His first instinct, for better or worse, will be to protect it.”

“Then why should I ask him about the picture?”

“I didn't say you had to believe what he told you. Just watch his reaction. Or don't.” Mac shrugged. “See where the conversation leads.”

“And you'll do the rest?”

“I know what to look for. And I know the property.” But he didn't meet her eyes. What was he planning to do while she kept John busy?

John had accepted Callie's invitation to dinner, though he'd evinced no small surprise at it. She'd had to bring up his offer of help and tell him she needed assistance only he could provide before the suspicion left his voice. Although she'd made it clear the dinner was about business and information, not romance, he insisted on picking her up, and they met in the lobby of the Princess Port de Plaisance at seven that night.

“I wish you'd come back to the Paradis,” John groused as they walked to his Fiat. “This place is so . . . touristy.”

Callie couldn't help laughing. “I am a tourist, John. You're the one who lives here.” She thought about the role the Paradis might have played in her past and sobered. “Besides, once you see the thing I want to talk to you about, you'll understand why I'm not comfortable at the Paradis.”

John drove fast, whipping the little car around curves Callie would never have dreamt of taking without brakes, though even he had to slow down going through the more populated areas. Like most islands—indeed, like most places with economies based on tourism, whether islands or not—the contrast between rich and poor areas was striking, but unlike some spots Callie had visited, there seemed little antagonism on either side. As they drove along the back side of the marina, kids on bikes wove in and out of traffic, popping wheelies and tossing objects back and forth between them. Adults hung out on the sidewalks, drinking and eating barbeque from miniscule storefront bars. Callie laughed aloud at the sign for one such spot, called Skanki Shampoo Bar and Restaurant. She made John stop the car so she could take a quick cell phone picture.

John took the same route she'd used to get to Calmos Café to get to Le Tastevin, but once there the similarities ended. Le Tastevin was anything but casual. The intimate restaurant faced out over the ocean, white tablecloths covered the tables, and flickering candles provided romantic ambiance. If Callie really had come to write an article, this was a spot she'd be reviewing, though she would rather be there on an actual date.

John waited until the waiter had taken their orders and brought them a bottle of white wine and a tiny amuse-bouche of cold carrot soup before asking the reason for her invitation.

She withdrew the photo from her purse and passed it across the table to him. “You recognize the spot?”

“Of course.” He studied the picture in the flickering candlelight, then flipped it over, read the inscription, and frowned. “I thought your birthday was in October?”

“That's what my birth certificate says, so you can understand why the photo made me curious. I found it among my father's things after he died, and made my reservation at the Paradis as soon as I figured out where it had been taken. Were you living at the hotel in those days?”

“During the summer, yes, but this says it was taken in September—I would have been in boarding school. Massachusetts. Both my father and Ava enjoyed the island lifestyle, but they didn't want their children educated here. I was eleven when they bought the Paradis, and I stayed in the States with my mother's sister until I could go to boarding school at the beginning of eighth grade. With Nicole, they went for tutors and homeschooling until she was thirteen, at which point she went to boarding school, too, but in France.”

“That must have been difficult for you.”

“Not really. My school friends were insanely jealous of my life here, and came to visit frequently during vacations. I went to Cornell for college, to the School of Hotel Administration, so it was actually more difficult to come home after that when my father was still in charge and refused to modernize or expand.”

“Do you remember any of the people who stayed here in those days?”

“Not really. A couple big-name tennis stars who impressed the hell out of me.” He smiled. “I was always a nerd, never had much coordination. I don't remember your mother, if that's what you mean.”

“No, I was thinking of a television preacher named Ephraim Steele.”

“Steele . . . The name sounds very familiar. Wait, didn't he go to prison for embezzlement or something in the late eighties?”

“He was about to, but he had a heart attack.”

“That's right. I don't think he ever stayed at the Paradis, but I could check for you. Does he have something to do with this?”

“Maybe,” she hedged. “My mother knew him.”

“What makes you think he stayed with us?”

“Nothing, really. But he was the most famous of all my parents' acquaintances, and back in the day the Paradis mostly hosted celebrities. I wondered how my parents ended up on your beach, and thought they might have been guests of the reverend's.” She'd practiced the lie while she dressed for dinner, and was proud of how smoothly it came out.

John laughed. “Yes, I am afraid my father was a bit of a name-dropper. He liked to surround himself with famous movie stars, politicians, athletes. It made him feel important. You should see all the photographs we have of him with this politician, that talk show host. I'll go through them—if Steele stayed at the Paradis, we'll have photos.”

“Steele's real name was Steinmetz. I doubt he'd have been using it, but if he wanted to remain anonymous, he might have.”

“I'll check them both,” John promised. “But tell me, why do you think your parents got you a false birth certificate? If, indeed, this is you in the picture.” He passed it back to her, and she slid it into the zippered compartment inside her bag.

“I don't know. I'm not sure I care, really.” Sweat popped out along her hairline, and she took a long sip of water before continuing. “It was all such a long time ago. I was curious, and I'm a travel writer, so coming to the Paradis made sense.”

“But staying at the hotel doesn't?”

“As I said, whatever my parents were doing here, it was thirty years ago. I'm hardly going to find traces of them now. And it's a little weird, staying there without knowing why. Port de Plaisance wasn't built back then; there aren't any ghosts hanging around.”

The waiter arrived with bowls of lobster bisque, and by unspoken agreement Callie and John kept the conversation light as they ate, steering clear of anything involving either his family or hers. Over cappuccino, however, John returned to the subject of the mysterious picture.

“If you'd like,” he offered, “we can go back to my place for a couple of hours and go through some of my father's scrapbooks. We hung the framed photos at the hotel, but Ava clipped every article written about either herself, my father, or the Paradis, and put them in big albums at my house, along with hundreds of photographs of parties and events we had at the Paradis through the years.”

Callie didn't have to fake the enthusiasm of her response. “What a wonderful invitation. But I always assumed you lived at the hotel. In retrospect, that seems silly.”

“Not silly at all. In fact, both my house and Nicole's are on property owned by the corporation set up to run the hotel, so technically I suppose we do live there. But we're down the road a little ways, not on the beach. From home to the hotel is about a ten-minute walk for me, so I am close enough to deal with emergencies, but not so close people assume I'm available for every little thing.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“It is. You'll see.”

***

Lewis's security had been pathetically easy to bypass. Mac had arranged for the new system's installation at the same time as he'd updated the ones at the resort and at the house he and Nikki shared, and John had never bothered to change the original code. Sloppy.

The original house had been built in the 1940s, the property annexed to the hotel by the Charbonnets in 1952. Mark and Ava Lewis had demolished most of the place, leaving only the large, farm-style kitchen. Nikki, who couldn't tell a bell pepper from a serrano, raved about the AGA stove and granite countertops and had imitated the look on a smaller scale for her own house. After the doctor's death his wife had taken a suite at the hotel and left the house, and its fabulous kitchen, to John.

Ava had traveled extensively, even more so after her husband's death, so the move made sense for her, but the first time Mac and Nikki had visited, he'd been shocked by the manner in which John lived. The place was enormous. Four bedrooms upstairs; living room, kitchen, dining room, office, and sunporch downstairs. It was a house for a family, not for a bachelor.

In the master bedroom closet, Mac brushed aside silk and linen shirts in search of a hidden wall safe or other compartment. He'd considered going through the home office first, but years as a cop had taught him that people tended to keep their valuables in their bedrooms. He always advised women to keep their jewelry in a stockpot in their kitchen cabinet, but to the best of his knowledge none of them did so.

The master bedroom revealed no secrets, and the other three second-floor rooms took only seconds each to search, as they were practically empty. Leaving the main floor for last, Mac headed for the basement. The moonlight had provided enough illumination for most of his search, but as Mac descended the stairs from the kitchen, he flipped on his flashlight. The bright LED beam revealed a setup similar to the one in Nikki's house.

To the left of the stairs, a large, glass-doored wine refrigerator hummed quietly. A beer guy, Mac had never paid much attention to the one in his own cellar, though Nikki had always kept the top half, where the temperature was set for white wine, well stocked. John Lewis, from the look of his unit, preferred reds. Beside the refrigerator sat a chest freezer. Mac had periodically filled theirs with mahi, tuna, and wahoo after fishing trips with Travis, but he couldn't imagine John doing the same, so he checked to be certain the freezer wasn't being used to store information rather than food. The beam bounced off the shiny, quilted-metal interior. The freezer was utterly bare, the air stale. At some point, John had unplugged it but left the lid closed. Rookie mistake—the man probably cooked no more often than his sister.

Stacks of boxes lined the back wall, neatly handwritten labels proclaiming them Ava Lewis's belongings. Nikki had kept her mother's jewelry, and her clothing had gone to charity, but a moving service had evidently packed her suite and removed the knickknacks and personal items to John's house. She must have been a collector as well as a traveler, Mac thought, running the light over the labels. “Art Glass—French.” “Art Glass—Czech.” “Switzerland.” “Spain.” “Italy.” The boxes might have been a good hiding place, but anything in them would be hard to access, and they didn't appear to have been opened and resealed at any time. A heavy layer of sandy dust coated them.

Mac climbed the stairs, scanned the kitchen briefly, then moved to the office. He'd just stepped inside when lights flashed through the window as a car pulled into the drive. He pushed the door almost closed, the same way he had found it, and crouched to the side of the window, watching as John's Fiat slowed to a stop and he and Callie stepped out.

What the hell was she doing?

The sidelights on either side of the front door opened directly onto the hall leading to the office, making it impossible for Mac to leave the room without being spotted, so he slipped into the office closet he knew from previous visits was used for coats. As the temperature hovered in the eighties even at night, John should have no reason to open the louvered door.

“That's odd,” Mac heard John say when the front door opened. “I could have sworn I set the alarm.”

“I do that all the time,” Callie replied.

For a moment John didn't speak and Mac held his breath, hoping he wouldn't insist on searching the house. Luckily, he seemed to shake off his suspicions. “I guess I'm not functioning at top performance these days. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Wine?”

“A glass of red wine would be lovely.”

“Fine. I've got a very nice pinot noir; let me just run downstairs and get it. Make yourself at home.”

John's departure for the basement gave Mac the perfect opportunity to escape, but he found himself reluctant to take it. Not only would he have to reveal his presence to Callie, but if he took off he would be leaving her alone in a place he instinctively considered enemy territory. And at some point, he'd accepted that whatever else she might be, Calliope Pearson wasn't his enemy.

So he resigned himself to staying and tried to find a comfortable position in the small closet. He'd been in tighter quarters more than once, but he didn't like not being able to see Callie and John. He was debating deserting the closet and taking a position behind the couch against the opposite wall when his quarry solved the problem for him.

“Most of the photographs are in the office,” he heard John say. “Let's take the wine in there and see what we can find.”

A minute later, Mac watched through the slatted door as John escorted Callie in, seated her on the couch, and set a glass of red wine on the coffee table in front of her. He stepped toward the closet and Mac tensed, heart speeding. But just before John touched the door, he turned aside and reached for something on one of the built-in bookshelves lining the wall next to the closet.

“She kept them by year,” he said, and Mac had the peculiar sensation that John was speaking directly to him there in the closet. “She was away a lot in the early eighties because of the problems she and my father were having, but she still kept track of what was going on with the hotel. She came back right after Nicole was born.”

John shifted back into Mac's view, carrying three heavy, leather-bound photo albums toward the couch. He laid them on the table and settled next to Callie. He lifted the top book and set it so it rested on Callie's lap, then shifted close to her so he could turn the pages. The move didn't appear to disturb Callie, but Mac found his hands clenching into fists. Lewis was too smooth by half.