Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (always you kirsty moseley .TXT) 📗

“Not impossible,” Iorio said. “But if this Max has any brains—and we think he does, because setting up a couple of people to die and then erasing your own involvement takes some smarts—he’d get out of town while no one knows who or where he is. Hanging around to take you out only puts him at risk. What if he’d been caught? That’s a giant risk to take.”

“Here’s what’s been bothering me,” Reich added. “Someone strangled Tom Klepper. That’s thug territory, right? But if—and I mean if—your sister and her boyfriend were killed on purpose, it was a kind of scarily smart plan. Not thuglike, I mean. Do you know how many people are harmed by accidental carbon monoxide poisoning in this country every year? Last year it was over twenty thousand. More than five hundred of them died. Picking it as a way of getting rid of people is kind of diabolically genius. It makes it seem like we’ve got two different perps here.”

“I get what you’re saying,” Desmond said. “But whoever planned the deaths in Pennsylvania had the luxury of time to plan. I’m a new problem they didn’t expect to deal with. That might have something to do with their methods.” He looked from one to the other. “What about the Brantov family? You go to see them yesterday?” He feigned ignorance.

“The local PD did. They said it was a depressing scene,” Iorio answered. “They talked to Max’s mother and sister. The house is like a shrine to Max. They have framed photos of him everywhere.”

“Plus every trophy and medal he ever won, plus his acceptance letter to Harvard,” Reich said. “That’s framed and up on the wall next to a Russian icon.”

“They said his mother, Galina, smelled like vodka,” Iorio said. “I told them vodka isn’t supposed to have a scent, but apparently if you’re pickled in it, you can’t hide it. Galina sang Max’s praises, how he was always such a good boy.”

“Which is rich when you look at his record and see he was picked up at sixteen for drug possession,” Reich said.

“Drug possession?” Desmond hadn’t expected that. The neighbors had spoken highly of Max; it was interesting that the boy had been arrested.

“Yeah, nice family,” Iorio said. “They said the sister seems to worship Max.”

“How old is the sister?” Desmond asked.

“Seventeen. Her name’s Polina. She was ten when Max went missing.”

“Any other relatives?”

“There’s a brother, Valery. He’s two years older than Max. Still lives at home, but he was at work when they stopped by.”

“It would be interesting to get his take,” Desmond said. “The older brother would probably know what Max was really into.”

A look passed between Iorio and her partner, and Desmond could feel them communicating silently, disdaining his thoughts.

“You’re obsessed with this Max character,” Iorio said. “The thing is, the nail they found in that house could’ve been there for ages. We get that it’s creepy as hell, having a missing child involved in this mess. But you’re getting obsessed about a kid who might’ve died several years ago.”

“Dominique told me about Max. She met him. She talked to him. He’s not some figment of my imagination.” Desmond looked from one to the other, realizing it was hopeless.

“We’re canvassing your sister’s neighborhood to see if we can find this guy who attacked you,” Reich said. “We’ll be in touch if we find something.”

“When we find something,” Iorio corrected her partner.

Desmond wasn’t fooled for a second. Reich had been speaking the truth. It was definitely if.

Chapter 46

It took some convincing of the doctors, but Desmond got out of the hospital after choking down a particularly bland grilled cheese sandwich and a rice pudding. It hadn’t been easy, but it was the only way they’d let him go. When he got to Zachary Amberson’s office building, the guard he’d met on Monday gave him an encouraging nod of acknowledgment. “Hey, the Iron Eagle’s back! You got an appointment today?”

“Believe it or not, I do.”

“No way, man.” The guard called upstairs. “Uh-huh. Sure. I’ll send him up.” He smiled at Desmond. “Your lucky day, I guess.”

The elevator opened to a wood-paneled atrium. An attractive Asian woman in a winter-white suit greeted him. “Mr. Edgars? Please come this way.”

She opened a heavy wooden door and led him through a long, broad corridor. There were oil paintings on the walls, and fine Chinese porcelain on spindle-legged antique tables. Finally she stopped, knocked at a door, and opened it for him.

“Excuse me, Marina. Mr. Edgars is here to see Mr. Amberson,” she said, speaking to a woman in her early sixties. Her skin was white as porcelain, and her hair was dyed a dark auburn. She was wearing a black suit with a gold pin on the lapel and a double row of pearls. The look she threw at Desmond made it clear she expected him to make a grab for her necklace.

“We’ll see,” she said. With her accent, it sounded like Veel see. She got up from her desk and walked to another wooden door, this one with a gilt nameplate that read zachary k. amberson.

“Yes, Marina? Ah, Mr. Edgars is here? Excellent. Please bring him in.”

Amberson was standing behind his desk when Marina led Desmond in. The room was expensively decked out, but what caught Desmond’s eye were the framed degrees. B.A. Princeton, J.D. Harvard, MBA Harvard. Interesting little triad. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” the lawyer said, proffering his hand. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

Marina muttered something and shut the door.

“Please, sit down,” Amberson said. “First, I owe you an apology for the other day. I was aware that Gary was dead, but I didn’t know about your sister. My deepest condolences to your family.” His blue eyes were working hard to look earnest. Desmond didn’t believe him for a minute.

“Thank you.”

“I suppose this is quite a shock for everyone.” Amberson steepled his fingers. “Yesterday, I