The Deepest Water (25 page)

“I know,” he said, almost soothingly. “From all sides what I’ve heard is how close you and your father were, what a special relationship you had. Some might even say it verged on hero worship. But sometimes, Mrs. Connors, you can be too close to see clearly what someone with a more objective viewpoint might glimpse. That’s all I’m saying.”

She stood up. “If I find anything like that I’ll give it to you. Do you want more coffee?” He kept regarding her with his thoughtful scrutiny; she stared back, thinking, this was his game. Lead you on, let you think he was behind you, supportive, believed what you said, and then spring out like a tiger from a tree. He wanted Jud’s private papers; that’s what he had come for, nothing to do with San Francisco or a hit man or the theory Brice had talked about—the blond man and an accomplice.

He had strung Brice along at least two times, first the insane idea that Willa had driven up the mountain and back, when he knew by then that no one had done that. And now the blond man. Whose theory had that been, his or Brice’s?

Abruptly she turned away and walked across the kitchen for the carafe. He wouldn’t have told Brice what he was thinking. No one could know what he was thinking. All traps, meandering paths to the thicket where he would pounce. What had he been after from Brice? Why had he played his game with Brice?

“No more for me,” Caldwell said when she reached for the coffee. “I’ll be on my way. You really going back to the lake tomorrow?”

She returned to the table; he was putting his jacket on. “Yes. I have a lot of reading to do.”

“Aren’t you a little uneasy, the idea of being up there alone?”

“I’ll have Spook, and I feel safer at the cabin than anywhere else.” Whether she meant personally, or safety for her father’s secret, she couldn’t have said.

For an eyeblink he looked surprised, then his expression was back to neutral, friendly even. He reached in his pocket and brought out a card and a pen, wrote on the back of the card, then handed it to her. “If anything interesting turns up, give me a call. Don’t bother with the office number, just call the cell phone number I put on the back. Any time, day or night. Okay?”

“Yes,” she said.

On the way to the front door he asked, “By the way, do you know a Robert Langdon?”

“No. Why? Who is he?”

He shrugged. “His name just came up.”

After she let him out and returned to the kitchen, she sat at the table trying to think what his visit had really been about. Jud’s private papers, certainly, but what else? Brice must have told him some important papers might exist, and evidently had told him she was going to the cabin the next day.

For all Brice knew the only papers she had were the printouts Jud had made; she had not told him about the laptop computer, about installing all of Jud’s work on it, how she had found the missing sections. He must assume that she had found only paper copies. She backed up a step. Brice had no idea of the extent of her knowledge of computers, how much she had learned from Jud over the years; she had never talked about those years after it had become apparent to her that he had no wish to go into that part of her life. He could have looked into her desktop computer and he would have found nothing of Jud’s there; he would have assumed that the papers were all she had, and that among them she had found something that had taken her to San Francisco. She nodded to herself. The theory about the blond man had been Brice’s, she felt certain, and he had pointed Caldwell in her direction to find something to confirm it. Lieutenant Caldwell never told you a thing he didn’t want you to know, she added silently, but he let you ramble; he had let Brice ramble… Why had he wanted her to know the name Robert Langdon?

She was thinking of various things the lieutenant had said: how most people knew the programs they used and little else; how would anyone erase or conceal data; how had Jud deleted his notes.

How had he? She had found nothing on his hard drive to correspond to the very personal notes he had written and printed out, the graphic omniscient record of his life. She narrowed her eyes, visualizing the notes, fanfold papers separated, clipped together, and suddenly she was seeing his loft again, his office, with many discarded, unused computers still taking up space, and remembering: “Honey, I have something to show you, a new toy.” He had bought a new computer and a new laser printer when he started the last novel, not quite two years ago, and he had made no notes on it. She thought he never made notes once he got into a novel. But that meant the older computer might still have them, everything up to that time. She felt almost feverish with anxiety then. If Caldwell thought of that… They could still go to the cabin, the crime scene; they could still investigate a new development there even if they couldn’t get a search warrant for this house.

She frowned, bringing back what Caldwell had said. He just wanted her help. Did she know a Robert Langdon? They couldn’t get a search warrant without cause and she had an alibi. Slowly she stood up and started to walk toward the stairs. He couldn’t get a search warrant without cause and she had an alibi, she repeated. Then she said, “And so does Brice.”

At the door to Brice’s room, she pointed to the floor and said, “Spook, watch.” The shaggy dog lay down in the hallway, her ears twitching, accounting for every sound now; if anyone came to the house, came onto the property, she would give warning. Abby went inside the room and sat down at Brice’s computer, where the screen saver was displaying silent aircraft in an endless loop.

The first two programs she opened required a password; for the bank account and household accounts, he had used Abby’s maiden name. Then, for his Buick account he had switched to his social security number, against all advice, she thought when it opened for her. That number also opened a financial file with stock market reports. She wasn’t interested in any of these, but was testing only, finding his method for passwords. His office accounts did not yield to either of the earlier ones. She leaned back in the chair thinking. His mother’s maiden name was probably it. Brice was methodical, everything on record, all the tax records, utilities, car, everything neat and orderly, and uncomplicated. He would have used something easily remembered and would not have made a note about it. Had she ever heard his mother’s maiden name? She couldn’t remember.

She got up and walked down the stairs, thinking. The phone was ringing and she stopped to listen; when Brice’s voice came through asking her to please answer, she continued to the foyer, picked up the FedEx, and went back upstairs. She opened the package in her own room and spread out the contract copies on her desk, then went back to his computer.

She was recalling their wedding, his relatives who had attended, an aunt and uncle, his mother’s brother from Idaho. Roger… “Call me Uncle Rog,” he had said jovially. “Welcome to the family.” Someone had introduced him and his wife—Wanda, that was her name—to Jonelle. Brice had introduced them. “Jonelle, this is my Aunt Wanda and Uncle Roger Laurelton.”

Laurelton. Too long. She tried Laurel and the program opened the office accounts file. She blinked at the screen, the file had opened to a list of names, clients, she assumed, scrolling until she came to the name Robert Langdon. She clicked on that one and knew she would not be able to make sense of what she was seeing: Shares In, Shares Out, Capital Gains ST, Capital Gains LT… She couldn’t, but others could, she thought then, and hurriedly got up and went to her room to get the laptop from the closet, where it was inconspicuous among several other suitcases stored there. She took it back with her and found Jud’s continuous save program, made a copy, and installed it on Brice’s computer, under a file she thought of as
Failsafe
and coded beyond recognition; anything deleted or any changes made would automatically go to that file, and it would be hidden from anyone who didn’t know how to look for it.

Then she studied the information on the screen. Apparently the Langdon account had started in January, this year, with a deposit of five thousand dollars. Shares had been bought in a company with a ticker tape name that meant nothing to her. She compared this account to those preceding it, and a few following, and they all looked alike to her eyes. Some with more activity than others, but with the same type of activity. The Langdon account had grown very large over the next months, then had plunged steeply in July.

Meaningless, she decided. So why had Caldwell wanted her to know that name? Who was Robert Langdon? There had to be something else, she decided, and exited the program.

But the fact that Caldwell had brought up the name and she had found it on Brice’s computer had to mean something, she told herself, even if she didn’t know what that something was.

She was scanning his directory when Spook made a low growly noise. Abby exited the program, and went into her own room and a minute later when Brice yelled up the stairs, she said, “I’m here.”

Brice tapped on her door, then opened it enough to put his head in. “I called and no one answered. Have you been out yet?”

“No,” she said, not turning around to see him. “Caldwell came and stayed a long time, and the contract came. I decided to look it over before I signed it. I’ll have to buy an envelope, I guess, but I’ll make a label.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“Of course not.” She glanced at him. “Oh, Caldwell asked if I know someone called Langdon, Robert, I think. Robert Langdon. Do you know him?”

Brice frowned, gazed past her a moment, then shook his head. “Never heard of him. Who’s he?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at the contracts again and saw that her hands were shaking. Quickly she began to gather the copies together.

“I’ve got a couple of things to check out, then I’ll take off,” Brice said. “You have that loan application?”

She nodded and he backed out and closed the door.

Waiting for him to leave the house, she made a label, and wrote a note to Christina, put the contracts back in the envelope they had come in, and then simply sat with her eyes closed. Whatever he was doing took over half an hour, something an expert like her could have finished in five minutes, she thought savagely, but he did finish at last, and returned to her door.

“Honey, I have a client coming in about ten minutes, so I have to dash back to the office, but I won’t stay long. You should be back about the same time I get home, and let’s spend the afternoon and evening together. Let’s plan a vacation for next summer. Someplace really dreamy.”

“I have a dozen more things to get done today,” she said sharply. “I have a headache, and I’m feeling mean and irritable. You get something to eat when you’re ready; I’ll get something before I come home. I’m not in the mood for vacation planning.”

“That bastard Caldwell,” he muttered. “Did he give you a hard time?”

“Yes,” she said. “He did. He gave me a hard time. Now leave me alone.”

She watched from the upstairs window again until his car was out of sight, then she hurried to his computer and brought up his office accounts file. The client list now went from Lanier to Laughton. No Langdon.

The rest would have to wait until he was asleep, she decided uneasily. He could shake off a client and return any time. She went to the bedroom and packed the few things she would need at the lake, not willing to do it later when he probably would be there watching, talking, trying to get to her one way or another. As an afterthought she got out a larger suitcase, put the laptop in first, then her clothes on top of it. She carried it out to the van and put it in the back with her groceries. And finally, taking Spook with her, she left the house, with no intention of returning until after eight, maybe even nine. No more talk, no more explaining, cajoling. No more anything now.

Down the hill, driving toward town on Willamette, she saw his Buick coming her way. He had gotten rid of his client in record time, she thought, and pretended she didn’t see his wave as they passed each other.

Well, he would have all afternoon without interruption to hide whatever he needed to hide on his computer; later, she would have most of the night to find it again.

20

She did her errands: the bank, post office, a long walk with Spook along the river front, the library for an hour, then to Felicia’s to collect her backpack.

“I can’t stay,” she said to Felicia. “Too much to do. Thanks for holding this for me.”

“Abby, what’s wrong?” Felicia asked, peering at her closely. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I just feel… Too much to do, I guess. I really have to go. I’ll be in touch next week sometime.” She nearly ran from the condominium. She couldn’t talk to Felicia right now, and she knew she couldn’t have faced Willa when she came. She would know in an instant that something was very wrong. They had planned to spend time together, the three of them discussing the novel, putting real names on the fictional characters. How could she stand being around anyone now, what could she say? Oh, by the way, this character Buster, actually he’s my husband, an embezzler, a thief, and a liar, pass the butter, please. Better to leave them both wondering, she thought unhappily, starting the van once more. Then, driving, she didn’t know where to go next, how to kill three more hours.

In the condominium Felicia was pacing, thinking, pacing, worrying until she finally went to the phone to call Willa.

It was nearly nine when Abby pulled into her own driveway, more exhausted from her aimless wandering in the mall for hours than she could have been from doing any work she could think of.

When she entered the house, Brice was in the foyer waiting for her. He reached out with both hands and she backed away.

“I’m tired, and I’m near the point where I might start screaming and throwing things,” she said, hanging up her jacket. She could hear the truth in her words, in her voice, and when he stopped moving toward her, she thought he probably could, too. She faced him. “I need, I really need to be left alone for now.

I’m having a hard time accepting that my husband is an embezzler, on top of losing my father. Maybe after a few days of solitude at the lake, I’ll be able to deal with things better, but not right now. I’m going to take a bath and go to bed. If I wake up very early, I’ll just take off.”