Where Truth Lies (2 page)
F
or a moment, Grace was incapable of a reaction. Dropping onto the couch, she just sat there, numbed by the news. When she found her voice again, it was barely audible. “Dead? Steven? How?”
“He was murdered. Shot at point-blank range in his gallery.”
Grace’s head was spinning.
Murdered. Shot.
Those weren’t words she could easily associate with Steven, who had always been a peaceful, happy-go-lucky kind of guy. What could he possibly have done to arouse such wrath?
The answer came to her in the next second. “Was a woman involved?” she asked.
“A
married
woman,” Sarah replied. “Her name is Denise Baxter. Apparently, her husband found out about the affair, went to look for Steven and shot him in the heart.”
Grace covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, God, Sarah, how awful. How truly awful. I’m so sorry.”
“I warned him that someday his antics would bring him more trouble than he’d be able to handle. He didn’t listen. He never listened.”
“When did this happen?”
“A week ago.”
Grace’s back went rigid. “And you didn’t let me know?”
“Why would I? You and Steven broke up more than ten years ago.”
“But we remained friends, and we kept in touch. In fact, I talked to him less than a month ago.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” Sarah said stiffly.
“Why are you telling me now?”
“Because of the will.”
The surprises just kept on coming. “I’m mentioned in Steven’s will?”
“He left you the gallery.”
This time Grace fell back against the cushions, too stunned to say anything.
Sarah reached into her black alligator bag, extracted a sheaf of paper, folded in three, and handed it to her. “This is a copy of the will. You may want to look at page four.”
Grace took the will from Sarah’s hand, flipped to the fourth page and read. It was just as Sarah had said, written in legalese but quite clear. Steven had left her the Hatfield Gallery in New Hope, Pennsylvania. After she read the paragraph again, she shook her head. “I can’t accept it.”
“He thought you’d say that. Please read on.”
Grace read the next paragraph. “In the event that Grace McKenzie turns down my bequest, I ask that she spend one week at the gallery before making her final decision. If, after that time, her position remains unchanged, the gallery shall go to my mother, Sarah Hatfield.”
“Have you seen the gallery?” Sarah asked as Grace slowly refolded the document.
“No. Steven had invited me to the grand opening, but the museum was preparing for an important exhibition at the time and I couldn’t get away.” Actually, she hadn’t wanted to run into Sarah. “I had made plans to drive down the following year, but didn’t.”
“A pity. You would like it.”
“I’m sure of it. Steven was very proud of it.” She handed the will back, but Sarah made no move to take it. “I wish you had called,” Grace said. “I would have saved you a trip.”
“It’s clear that Steven thought very highly of you, as a person and as an art expert.”
She almost sounded sincere. “I have a job, Sarah. A job I love.”
“But isn’t the Griff closed for renovations until after Thanksgiving?”
She had done her homework. “My father is expecting me. I have airplane tickets. I’m practically packed.” Why was she giving so many explanations when a simple no was enough?
“From what I could see, in the couple of days that I was there,” Sarah continued, “New Hope is a peaceful, closely-knit community that thrives on art and tourism. Naturally, Steven’s murder has left the residents shaken. The only other incident that caused as much emotion happened more than twenty years ago, when a local girl disappeared and was never found.”
“Sarah—”
“Just one week, Grace, that’s all he’s asking. You said the two of you had remained friends. If that’s true, won’t you grant a friend his last wish?”
“Please don’t do that.”
But Sarah was relentless. “I’m sure your father would understand.”
Grace felt herself weakening. Damn that woman. She was right about one thing, though—Grace’s father would understand. And she would still have three whole weeks with him. “I might be able to arrange it.”
“Splendid,” Sarah said, her voice more confident now. “You have carte blanche to reopen the gallery for business and run it any way you wish. Some paintings are there permanently, others are on consignment. The majority are from local artists, and selling quite well, I must add.
“And in case you’re skittish, I hired a cleaning crew to scrub the place from top to bottom. You wouldn’t know a murder was committed.” She spoke fast and earnestly, sounding almost like a real estate agent anxious to make a sale. “The police impounded Steven’s Porsche before releasing it. I had a driver take it back to Philadelphia. They also took his cell phone and laptop. I understand that’s standard procedure in a murder case.”
It was much more than Grace wanted to know, but she didn’t interrupt her. People dealt with their grief differently, and if this was Sarah’s way to deal with hers, who was she to question it?
“The only item I brought back,” Sarah continued, “is his Rolex, because it’s quite valuable. I left his clothes in his cottage for the time being. I may give them to a local charity later. All pertinent paperwork—client contracts, show schedules, commercial invoices, etc.—can be found in the desk at the gallery. Oh, and you’ll need the code for the burglar alarm. I didn’t write it down, for safety reasons, but you shouldn’t have any difficulty remembering it.”
“I’m terrible with figures.”
“Not this one. The code is your birthday, month and year, and the password, should the alarm go off accidentally, is Madame Bovary. I don’t get it, but perhaps you will.”
She did.
Madame Bovary
was Grace’s favorite book. She had read it a number of times and had insisted that Steven read it, too. After much protest, he had agreed to give the book a try, and had hated it. “You realize that my decision won’t change. I won’t accept the inheritance.”
“I understand that.”
Grace looked at the will again. It was difficult to be mad at Steven for putting her in such a situation. He had always been an impulsive person, and often drove her crazy with his last-minute decisions. Nor could she be upset with Sarah for wanting to make sure that her son’s wishes were respected. She may have been angry with him, but her love had remained just as strong.
“Are you all right with Steven’s decision to leave me the gallery?” she asked. “I’m sure you weren’t expecting that.”
“I never doubted your talents as an art expert, Grace.”
That didn’t exactly answer her question, but Grace didn’t push it. “All right. I’ll go to New Hope, for one week. Not a minute more.”
“Those are the terms.” She reached into her handbag again. This time she retrieved a thick envelope. “In here you’ll find everything you’ll need—the address of the gallery, as well as Steven’s cottage, where you’ll be staying, the keys to both, a notarized letter from Steven’s attorney in Philadelphia, in case anyone questions your presence.”
“You think someone will?”
“I doubt it. While I was in New Hope, making arrangements to have Steven’s body sent home, I spoke with Josh Nader, the chief of police there. He was very accommodating. I told him about the will, although I did not mention the special stipulation should you turn the inheritance down. As far as he and everyone else in town is concerned, you are the new owner of Hatfield Gallery. Chief Nader said to call on him if you need anything.”
“Were you that sure that I would agree to go?”
Sarah didn’t answer the question, but pointed at the envelope in Grace’s hands. “I also included five thousand dollars to cover your expenses—”
“I won’t take it.” Before Sarah could protest, Grace opened the envelope, took out the money and handed it to the older woman, whose mouth opened in surprise.
“But why not? You will be incurring expenses.”
“Please put your money away before I change my mind.”
“Is your airplane ticket refundable?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Put your money away.”
Unaccustomed to taking orders, Sarah’s defiant gaze held hers for a while. When Grace didn’t flinch, Sarah let out a soft laugh. “I should have taken time to know you better, Grace. I might have liked you.”
Innsbruck, Austria
October 9
F
BI Special Agent Matt Baxter stopped to catch his breath and turned to check on his two buddies, Austrian police officers Stefan Birsner and Ernst Verlag. Both were in superb shape, but at this altitude, the steep climb up the Hintertux glacier was a challenge for even the most experienced climbers.
The lift had dropped them off at the Gefrorene Wand Summit and they’d had to walk the rest of the way to the cabin, where, hopefully, the yearlong chase would end. Stefan raised his hand in acknowledgment, and Matt nodded before resuming his walk. They were lucky, first to have found someone who would operate the lift, and second, that at this early morning hour, the trails were empty. The last thing they needed, should the plan backfire, was an audience.
Matt looked up. The cabin wasn’t much farther. It looked desolate, surrounded by all that snow, and unoccupied, which concerned him. The last report he’d received from the Vienna office was that Basim Rashad, one of the most wanted terrorists in the world, had rented the cabin for the week.
Based on the information, Matt had enlisted the help of the Austrian police, and had mapped out their route. He had turned down an offer to use a police helicopter. The sound of a chopper would alert Rashad, and who knew what that maniac was capable of if he found himself cornered? Matt had no intention of returning to Vienna with the ashes of another martyr who had died for his cause. His mission was to bring the Iranian back alive so he could face trial for masterminding a deadly bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Indonesia.
Matt stopped and surveyed the cabin, hoping that Rashad was still in bed and not watching the mountain through his window. But why would he? So far, his plans had gone off without a hitch. After playing cat and mouse with the FBI for the last year, Rashad had vanished into thin air somewhere between Bangkok and Rangoon.
Alerted that the terrorist might have sneaked into Austria—more precisely, the Mayrhofen Resort in the Ziller Valley—Matt had immediately reserved a room at the luxurious Innertalerhof Hotel in nearby Gerlos, where he had waited to hear from the Vienna office.
That was a week ago. Rashad had to be feeling pretty invincible by now.
Matt took a pair of binoculars from his backpack and focused on the cabin. It remained dark, with no sign of life, not even a trail of smoke coming from the chimney.
Either Rashad was fond of subzero temperatures, or someone had tipped him off and he was long gone.
He heard a low whistle and turned around. Stefan was pointing at the side door where a pair of skis was propped against a utility fence.
Relieved, Matt gestured for the two men to cover the back of the house. He would take the front.
He hadn’t taken the first step when all hell broke loose.
The front door slammed open and a fully-dressed man, on skis, jumped out and started down the slope.
“Shit!”
Matt made a “let’s go” gesture and took off after him.
The “Tux” as the locals called it, was a skier’s dream. Due to the height and freezing temperatures of the glacier, the Tux was open for skiing all year round and had guaranteed powder as early as October. Matt had skied the glacier’s many trails often, always for pleasure, but at this moment, his mind was only on two things—catching the bastard and staying alive.
As the slope got steeper, an almost-vertical drop from the top, Matt realized that Rashad, a risk-taker, was as skilled on skis as he was behind the wheel of an all-terrain vehicle or a twin-engine plane. Catching him wouldn’t be easy.
Matt now had a pretty good idea of where the Iranian was going—the car park eleven kilometers down. Always prepared, Rashad had probably left a car in the parking lot in order to facilitate his escape, should that become necessary.
“Sorry, Rashad,” Matt muttered. “Not this time.”
As Rashad raced downhill, he glanced over his shoulder, grinned and raised his left pole in a salute.
“You little shit.” In response, Matt let off the brakes. Leaning forward, knees bent, his poles tucked under his arms, he tore down the mountain like a speed demon. Behind him, one of the Austrians yelled a warning. Matt ignored him.
He passed the fleeing man at high speed, waiting until he was well ahead before snapping into a smart stop.
Rashad tried to veer off to the right, but Ernst had already moved into position, while Stefan kept to the left. Trapped, Basim kept on skiing, coming straight at Matt.
What the hell was that fool doing?
Matt braced himself for a collision, then at the last possible moment, Rashad stopped, sending a plume of powder up in the air.
Matt was on him in an instant.
“You have great courage, Agent Baxter.” Rashad spoke with a thick middle-eastern accent. “I admire that in a man.”
“Save it, Basim,” Matt said, calling him by his first name as was the Arab custom. “It’s all over for you.”
“It doesn’t have to be. You let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You think I want your blood money, Basim?”
“Money is money. Just think of all it can buy you. Retirement, perhaps? Wouldn’t you like that? Or would you rather die from an assassin’s bullet? Because that’s what’s waiting for you, my friend. You put me away and you sign your death sentence.”
The threat didn’t faze Matt. He’d heard worse. “You’re the only one with a death sentence in his future, Basim.”
The two Austrians, young, tall and blond, moved forward. A pair of handcuffs dangled from Stefan’s hand as he approached the Iranian.
As Rashad was being cuffed, Matt called his superior at the Sacher Hotel in Vienna. “We got him,” he said, watching Basim shoot him a murderous look. “Is that chopper on the way? I’ve seen enough snow to last me for a lifetime.”
“It should arrive any moment,” Roger Fairfax replied. “And by the way, that was good work, Matt. I’ll buy you a beer when you get back in town.”
In the distance, the sound of a helicopter engine grew closer. “They’re here,” Matt said. “See you soon, Roger.”
The helicopter was just overhead now. As the pilot started to lower the cable that would lift Basim into the chopper, Matt’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” He covered his other ear with his hand to shield off the noise of the hovering aircraft. “Lucy? Is that you?”
“Yes. What’s that racket?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” she shouted back. “You need to come home right away, Matt.”
Matt felt his stomach tighten. “Why? What happened?”
“Dad’s been arrested for murder.”
