Secret Sisters (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“For the record,” Madeline said. “You didn't screw up.”

He had been drifting, happily lethargic and more relaxed than he had been in what seemed like forever, but her words startled him into a crack of laughter.

He opened his eyes partway and watched her stretch. The action made him think of a cat. Everything about her was sleek and feline.

Her hair was tangled and tumbled on the pillow. At some point in the proceedings he had managed to get rid of the prim cotton nightgown. She had pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts, but he could see her bare shoulders. They were elegant and gracefully curved. He could not recall ever being so fascinated by that part of a woman's anatomy. But then, everything about Madeline fascinated him.

“Good to know I didn't screw up,” he said. “Because toward the end there I lost track of events. In fact, it's all a blur. A very nice blur, but there's no getting around the fact that it's a blur. We should probably do it again, and soon, so that I can make sure I get a clear understanding of exactly what happened.”

She had been smiling, a lazy, sultry, rather smug and deeply feminine smile, but without warning she turned serious. She rolled toward him onto her side, levered herself up on one elbow, and watched him with a pensive expression.

“It was a very nice blur for me, too,” she said. “And that's the first time that's happened.”

He tried to decipher the meaning of the comment for a few seconds and finally abandoned the effort.

“Is that good news or bad news?” he asked.

She smiled again and his world shifted on its axis.

“It's good news, at least for me,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I've always had a few issues in this department.”

He tensed. “Are we back to the issues thing?”

“I freak out if I'm not on top. I usually go straight into a panic attack.”

He tried to grasp the enormity of her issue. And failed.

Instead he shrugged. “Given what happened to you all those years ago, it's understandable that you'd have a problem with being pinned down. Seems logical to me. Wouldn't call it an issue.”

Her brows snapped together. “Of course it's an issue. I've had full-blown panic attacks at some very awkward moments in my life. My
issue
has ruined more than one relationship.”

“Yeah?”

“I've learned the hard way that a lot of men start out thinking that the position is sexy, but sooner or later one of two things happens. Either it turns out they're looking for a dominatrix, in which case I lose interest, or they decide I'm way too controlling, in which case they lose interest.”

He wanted to tell her that her so-called issues were nothing
compared to his own, but that would require an explanation, and any explanation would mean asking her to carry another heavy secret. He had no right to do that to her.

“You don't have an issue, sweetheart,” he said instead. “What you've got is a preference.”

Her brows rose. “A preference?”

He smiled, pleased with his uncharacteristically smooth diplomacy.

“Everyone is entitled to preferences when it comes to sex,” he said. “Or anything else, for that matter.”

“That is . . . very understanding of you. But what about your preferences?”

He reached out and pulled her to him so that she sprawled across his chest.

“At the moment, my preference is to do whatever it takes to make things a blur for you,” he said.

Her smile was a little misty. “That is very generous of you.”

“That's me,” he said. “Generous to a fault.”

She laughed. The sound was light and feminine and real. It warmed all the empty places inside him. For a time he could make believe that he didn't have a few issues of his own.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Daphne was pretty sure that Gillian Burns had once been slim and sexy, and her surgically enhanced breasts had probably looked great in a tight-fitting, low-cut top. But she was closing in on seventy now. Her figure had been transformed into a gaunt, unnaturally proportioned caricature of a Hollywood starlet. The too-short, too-snug dress, the high heels, and her strawlike blond hair added to the overall sense of wrongness.

The smoking certainly hadn't helped, Daphne thought. Gillian's face had a hollow cast and an unhealthy color that no amount of cosmetic surgery could conceal.

“Sure, I remember Carl Seavers,” Gillian said. She snorted. “He was the office star. A young hotshot. The other brokers hated his guts because he always picked the winners. Made everyone else look bad, y'know? But he died a long time ago. Murdered along with a woman who worked in the office. Sharon something. Why are you two interested in him?”

Daphne looked at Abe and waited for him to take the lead. They had agreed on their cover story before arriving at the restaurant to
interview Gillian. She had been cautious during the introductions, but once they had been seated at a table, curiosity and a martini had overcome her initial wariness.

Daphne thought there might be another factor at work, as well. Gillian bore all the earmarks of a woman who had lived hard and fast in her younger days and had no doubt had a lot of male friends. She was the kind of woman who had probably once viewed other women as rivals.

But now the men were gone, and because Gillian had not bothered to form close friendships with any of her female acquaintances along the way, she found herself alone. A conversation with strangers probably went a long way toward filling an otherwise empty afternoon.

“A family member has asked us to look into the circumstances of Carl Seavers's death,” Abe said. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “Some patent issues have come up. That, in turn, impacts the inheritance.”

“Huh.” Gillian shrugged. “Didn't know Carl had any family. He never mentioned his relatives.”

“You know how it is when there's money involved,” Daphne said. “Turns out there is always family, however distant.”

“You got that right.” Gillian munched the olive that had graced the martini. “If you've got money, there will be plenty of people around at your bedside when it's your time, and each and every one of them will be only too happy to pull the plug. Die broke and you don't even get a phone call at the end.”

Daphne exchanged glances with Abe. Neither of them spoke.

Gillian grunted. “Well, I can't tell you much. I was the receptionist at the brokerage firm where Carl and Sharon worked until they were killed. I lost my job when the company was bought up by one of the big national chains. That was my last halfway decent job. Do you know how hard it is to get a good-paying job after you turn forty-five or fifty?”

“The murder of the brokerage firm's star stock picker must have come as a shock to you and your colleagues,” Abe said.

“Oh, yeah.” Gillian gulped some more of her martini. “The rest of the brokers pretended to be horrified by the news, but if you ask me, none of them cared about him. In fact, I think they were all happy that he was gone. He was their competition, you see.”

“What about Sharon Richards?” Daphne said.

Gillian made a face. “She was one of the brokers. Good-looking, young, and sexy as hell. She knew how to work it, too. She'd sleep with anyone who could do her a favor. She and Carl were an item. Guess she figured that if she gave him what he wanted in bed he'd share some of his stock picks with her. But if that was the plan, it sure as hell didn't work out well.”

“No,” Abe said. He made a note on his computer. “You and your colleagues must have had some theory about the murders.”

“Most people figured it was a drug thing,” Gillian said. “Pretty sure the police thought so, too. It was no secret that a lot of brokers used—cocaine mostly in those days.”

“Do you think that Carl Seavers was using drugs?” Abe asked.

“That's the weird part.” Gillian pursed her hard mouth and shook her head. “I would have sworn that he was the one guy in the office who was clean. Didn't even drink much. He was obsessed with his computer, though. When he wasn't working on it, he carried it around like it was made of solid gold.”

Daphne knew without looking at him that Abe had gone on high alert. But when he spoke his voice was calm and professional—just a busy investigator trying to cover a lot of ground.

“Was Seavers a gamer?” he asked. “Did he get obsessed with computer games?”

“No, at least I don't think so,” Gillian said. “I teased him sometimes. Asked him if he was using his computer to watch Internet porn
because he was always so intense when he was on the damned thing. He said no. Told me that what he was doing was a lot more fun because it was going to make him rich.”

Daphne folded her arms on the table. “Any idea what he was doing on the computer?”

Gillian shrugged and waved one heavily veined hand in a vague gesture. “Computer stuff. Symbols. Weird words. You know what I mean. There's a name for it.”

“Do you think,” Abe said carefully, “that Carl Seavers might have been writing code?”

“Yeah, that's it, code. See, I don't think he was a gamer, but I figured he might be trying to invent one or maybe a program or something. I hear there's plenty of money in that business.”

“You've been very helpful, Gillian.” Abe turned a page in his notebook and contemplated a name as though it were unfamiliar to him. “Just a couple more questions. There was another man working in the office at the time that Carl Seavers and Sharon Richards were murdered. Egan Webster.”

“That prick?” Gillian rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, I remember him. The son of a bitch was married with a couple of kids, but he'd sleep with anything that wore high heels and a skirt. He came on to me a few times, but I always told him to get lost.”

There was bitter pride in her voice.

“Did you refuse him because he was married and had a couple of kids?” Daphne asked.

Gillian snorted again. “I suppose I could lie and tell you that was the reason. But the truth is, there was something about the guy—something real cold and a little scary. Never could put my finger on it. He was good-looking, I'll give him that. And he had a vibe that brought in the business. You should have seen his client list. It was filled with old people who turned over their life savings to him to invest.
Amazing. Heard he moved to Washington State and set up his own hedge fund. Made a damned fortune. Which, between you and me, is very hard to believe.”

“Why do you find it hard to believe that Webster was so successful?” Abe asked.

“Never saw all that moneymaking brilliance on display when I knew him,” Gillian said. “I'd say he was just average when it came to picking stocks. As often as not, he sold whatever Carl was pitching. Hell, everyone in the office tried to sell whatever Carl was pitching. But I guess Webster must have had some hidden talent. Of all the guys in the office, he was the only one who went on to the big time.”

“Thank you very much, Gillian,” Abe said. He took out his wallet and removed some large bills. “This should cover your tab at the bar today.”

Gillian looked at the money on the table. Her tattooed brows rose. “Hell, that'll cover my tab for the whole damn month. Thanks.”

Abe gathered up his notes and his computer and got to his feet. Daphne followed him out of the booth.

Gillian looked out the window at the view of the La Jolla street scene.

“Got to tell you, this is damn strange,” she said.

“What is?” Daphne asked.

“Haven't thought much about Webster and Seavers for a couple of decades. Then, out of the blue, I get people coming around wanting to talk about the past.”

Daphne held her breath. She did not dare to look at Abe.

“Someone else inquired about the Seavers murder?” he asked.

“Yeah. A young woman came around a few months ago. Pretty. Real sweet. Bought me drinks, just like you. Said she was a journalist doing background research on Egan Webster on account of his son was getting set to run for office in Washington State. Forget the name of the son.”

“Travis Webster?” Abe asked in the same disinterested manner.

Gillian's head jerked in a quick, pleased nod. “That's it. You know how reporters like to dig up dirt on politicians. Not that the pols don't deserve it, if you ask me. Anyhow, this gal wanted to know all about Egan.”

Abe set his computer back down on the table, opened it, and brought up the photo of Ramona Owens that Tom Lomax had taken. Without a word he turned the screen so that Gillian could see it. She squinted.

“Yeah, that's her,” Gillian said. “Can't remember her name.”

Daphne cleared her throat. “What did you tell her?”

“Pretty much the same thing I told you.” Gillian downed the last of her cocktail. “Like I said, sort of strange that I'd get so many people coming around asking about Webster after all these years. But I guess that's how it goes when someone runs for office.”