Darkwater Lies Page 17

  “Do you know why we brought you to the police station?” Beau asked, then waited for the translator to repeat the question in German.

  Luca shook his head. “Nein.”

  “Do you know Jackson Larder?”

  Again Luca shook his head. “Nein.”

  Really? Beau held the big man’s stare. “Your fingerprints were found where we found Jackson Larder’s murdered body.”

  Luca’s eyes widened before the translator finished speaking. The small woman the embassy had sent leaned over and whispered something to him in their native tongue. Luca shook his head and replied.

  “How are your fingerprints at the scene where Jackson Larder was murdered?” Marcel asked.

  The woman put her hand on Luca’s forearm, but he ignored her, speaking so fast the translator had to rush to keep up.

  “‘I did not know him, no, but he killed Rubin. He shot Rubin. He deserved to die.’”

  Not quite a confession. “Did you kill Jackson Larder?”

  The woman tightened her hold on Luca’s arm, earning a glance from him. She spoke to him, shaking her head while he spoke back rapidly.

  Beau looked at the translator, who began translating. “‘If you admit to murdering him, you are confessing to a crime. The country cannot help you if you do this.’”

  Luca shrugged off her hand. “Ja.” He nodded. “Yes.”

  Luca met Beau’s stare. “Ja, ich habe ihn getötet.”

  The translator sat straight in her chair. “‘Yes, I killed him.’”

  There was the confession. Beau took out his notebook and opened it. “Why did you kill him?”

  Luca sighed before he spoke, triggering the translator. “‘I already told you. He killed Rubin, so he deserved to die.’”

  Revenge. Pretty cut and dry. On the surface. “Did you talk to Jackson Larder before you came to the United States?” Larder’s phone records had not reflected he’d talked to anyone other than Hassler, but Vogt could have used Hassler’s phone.

  “Nein.”

  “Did you know about the plan to rob the hotel and steal the princess’s tiara?”

  “Nein.”

  “Did you speak to Jackson Larder prior to going to his house with the intent to kill him?”

  “Nein.”

  “How did you get to his house?” Marcel asked.

  “I took a . . . trolley.”

  “How did you know which of the streetcars to get on and the schedule and where to get off?” Marcel pushed.

  “The map and schedule were in the hotel room.”

  The room went silent save the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall.

  Beau stared at his handwritten notes. “How did you know he killed Rubin?”

  Suddenly, the big man clammed up and sat like a stone.

  Marcel looked at the translator. “Did he not understand the question?”

  She spoke to him again in his native tongue. He nodded but didn’t speak.

  The small woman spoke, and Beau looked at the translator.

  “If you understand the question, why are you not answering? You have already confessed to a premeditated murder, so telling them how you knew he killed your friend will not get you in any more trouble.”

  He shook his head.

  Marcel stood and began his series of pacing, which often loosened up witnesses. Intimidation or just familiarity, Beau didn’t know, but it often worked. “I hear you. Somebody shoots my friend Beau here, and I find out about it? I’m going to even the score.”

  Luca nodded as he watched Marcel pace.

  “I mean,” Marcel continued, “you don’t just shoot my friend, right?”

  Luca nodded as both the translator and woman waited.

  “Somebody tells me who shot my friend, and I’m ready to make sure they pay. Am I right?” Again Luca nodded.

  Marcel stopped pacing and placed his palms on the table across from Luca and leaned almost into the big man’s personal space. “I understand you, Luca. I get it. Who told you Jackson killed Rubin?”

  The man sat silent, his gaze to the corner, avoiding Marcel’s eye.

  The small woman looked at Beau. “I am sorry. He is not going to answer this question.”

  Beau looked at his notes. He hated to think this was possible, but considering Luca’s personality and how he acted, it was the only thing that made sense to Beau. It was a long shot, but they had nothing else.

  He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “How did Princess Katerina know Jackson Larder killed Rubin?”

  22

  Addy

  Addy shifted against the wall, her legs growing numb against the cold floor. When the sun had set, so had the warmth. Here in the warehouse with no electricity, the wind pushed the chill in between the boards of wood. She shivered. Relaxing her neck muscles, she tried to relieve the tension in her body. With any luck, she’d be back home soon. If only she knew why she’d been abducted.

  Her captor hadn’t returned after taking away the water. While his presence was frightening, at least she hadn’t been alone.

  Goodness, that made her sound really pitiful.

  A scratching sound to her right stiffened every muscle in her body in an instant. What was that?

  Trying to twist around despite the confines, she fought against the restraints holding her arms behind her back.

  Rustling sounded to her left. Was that something moving across the floor? A snake? A mouse? She shuddered as fearful, horrible images formed in her mind. She didn’t do reptiles, nor rodents. Panic rose like a tidal wave as she heard the noise again.

  Arching her back, she tested the tightness of the ropes. Maybe one was loose enough that she’d be able to work her hands or feet loose. Rocking herself on the hard, cold floor, she pushed and pulled. No such luck. The ropes were tighter now than they were before.

  Relaxing her body, she emitted an exhausted sigh. Desperation circled her like a buzzard over roadkill.

  She needed to focus. Where was her cell phone? If it was still on, Beau could track her GPS and find her. If someone reported her missing and if her cell phone was still on and here at the warehouse. For all she knew, her captor could have destroyed the phone.

  Her car. That would be a little harder to get rid of. She moved around. Her keys were still in her pocket! She had OnStar, so if Beau needed to find her car, he could.

  But someone needed to know she was missing to know to call Beau.

  Friday night. She didn’t have anything special scheduled. As usual, she’d planned to work, then go up to her suite, have a light supper, then take a long, hot bath. Maybe finish the latest murder mystery she’d been reading, or maybe just sit on the balcony and look over the city.

  Wow, she’d never realized how isolated she’d become. She was around people all day and had a standing supper date with her dad every Thursday night, and she and Tracey tried to get together at least once every two weeks, but she hadn’t had a date since . . . Okay, it’d been far too long since she couldn’t remember. Not a real date.

  She’d come to terms with the sexual assault that had happened to her in college, and knowing that Kevin Muller aka Brayden Colton was dead and would never be able to hurt another woman again made acceptance easier. But she hadn’t really done much in changing her lifestyle. That needed to change. She needed to change. She needed to get back to doing things that had brought her peace and happiness.

  Like keeping a journal. She’d always kept a personal journal, ever since she was a teenager. She’d stopped when she felt like she couldn’t risk actually giving words to the emotions she was feeling. But then she’d picked up a blank notebook when she’d been in Europe and started writing through what she was feeling. It’d been exhilarating to have a pen back in her hand.

  And sketching. She’d never been good at it, not even close, but she’d loved drawing flowers and such. Her journals had always been decorated with little doodles along the sides. She hadn’t done that in a long time.

  Years
ago, she’d written poetry. Not just written it, but recited her original poems as live performances. She’d loved expressing herself that way. Once Brayden had . . .

  Well, she’d stopped performing because she didn’t want to bring attention to herself.

  She shouldn’t have. She shouldn’t have stopped any of these things. It was letting Brayden win. Well, no more. It was past time for her to step into her own skin again.

  She wanted to live life fully again.

  She paused in her thinking, her mind jumping back to earlier this week when she’d pulled her old Bible from her desk drawer. For the first time in a very long time, she’d seen it, touched it, opened it without any of the anger and resentment that had filled her anytime she thought of God. Of faith. Perhaps there was something else she needed to reintroduce to her life. Perhaps it was time . . .

  Hey, God. It’s me again. If You’re still listening, I could really use Your help.

  No bolt of lightning came down. No rolling thunder. Just her in some old warehouse of Claude Pampalon’s. But maybe He heard.

  Addy let out a slow breath. She refused to give in to fear. She had a life to live. She willed her breathing to regulate. She needed to be smart . . . to think. She needed a plan. Did anybody know she was missing? Beau? Dimitri? Hopefully she’d been on their minds today. After all, she’d finally told both men that she was ready to date. And she was. Ready to date . . . ready to start getting back to enjoying life . . . ready to become who she was always meant to be.

  If she survived this.

  Dimitri

  “Hey, Dimitri.” Elise hollered out to him as he stormed into his father’s home.

  He paused. “What are you doing here?” It took him a moment to realize that he’d been so furious with his father that he hadn’t registered their housekeeper’s Mustang was parked in the circular drive.

  “Aunt Tilda wanted to bring over the king cake she baked for Mr. Claude. Something told me I should come with her.”

  He knew she was referring to the spirits and voodoo, but he didn’t have time to delve into the nonsense at the moment. “It’s nice seeing you, Elise, but I need to see my father. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She replied, but he didn’t hear her because he was already heading toward the kitchen.

  Tilda was alone, shutting the refrigerator. “Mr. Dimitri. I was just—”

  “I know, bringing Father a king cake. Do you know where he is?”

  “He was in the study a moment ago.”

  Without another word, Dimitri headed to his father’s study. He didn’t knock, just barged in.

  “What are you doing, Dimitri?” Claude sat in his oversized and overstuffed leather recliner, his feet up, the daily newspaper in his hand, and a crystal tumbler with a drink on the table at his side. “Have you lost your senses, barging in here like some thug?”

  “We need to talk, Father.” Dimitri stood behind the high-back chair that faced his father’s recliner.

  Glaring, Claude folded the paper and set it in his lap, folding his hands neatly over it. “By all means, let us talk.”

  Dimitri gripped the brocade fabric of the back of the chair. “I know about the Van Gogh.”

  His father’s façade slipped, but only for a moment before his expression went back to his normal sternness. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Yet there was a little hitch in his voice.

  “Yes, Father, you do. I’m talking about the painting titled Poppy Flowers, the Van Gogh that was stolen twice in Egypt: once in the late nineties, recovered ten years later in Kuwait, then stolen again in 2010.”

  His father didn’t respond, just scowled at him.

  But Dimitri wouldn’t be intimidated by his father this time. Not today. He tightened his grip on the chair and stared down his father. “You know, the one that was stolen from the safe when Jackson stole the tiara and the cash. I’m assuming he took the painting as well. The one you were going to sell to Edmond Jansen, who is now furious that you don’t have it and he might have to cancel his precious auction.”

  Claude’s eyes widened and his brows lifted.

  “Yes, I know all about it. I also know that you hired someone to follow the private investigator I hired in hopes that you could recover the painting before the police find it.” Dimitri found his body surging with an energy he’d never felt before, and he couldn’t stop. “I bet it made you a thousand kinds of nervous when they recovered the princess’s tiara and the cash. They probably would have recovered the painting, too, had they known to look for it.”

  Claude sat as silent as a statue.

  “Did you ever think that perhaps Edmond was behind the theft? That he arranged it, using their guard Rubin Hassler as the contact person with Jackson? Or did you arrange the theft yourself? Steal the crown so you could have it, but also provide a very convenient excuse for not having the painting anymore. Did you want to have your own private auction? Cut Edmond out of the deal?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I knew nothing of the theft or a plan thereof until we were robbed.”

  “So maybe it was Edmond who orchestrated the whole thing.”

  “I doubt that. His father wouldn’t allow it.”

  Dimitri fisted his hands. “Maybe he finally had enough of his father’s control. I can certainly understand that sentiment.”

  “Son, you don’t understand. You—”

  Dimitri shook his head. “No, don’t ‘Son’ me. All this time, Adelaide was right. You had the painting in that black pouch. She saw it. Knew it was there. Knew it’d been stolen. But you couldn’t claim it. Couldn’t tell anyone, could you? Because it’s stolen.” He swiped the top of the chair. “Where did you get it, Father? There’s still an open reward for it.”

  Claude sat up, setting the folded newspaper on the coffee table. “I acquired it from a friend of a friend. And yes, I thought about turning it in for the reward.”

  “Why didn’t you?” He wanted so desperately to see something— anything good and noble—in his father, but Claude continued to disappoint.

  “You can’t possibly understand the nuances of the business dealings I have to conduct. I have built our fortune from nothing. Nothing, Dimitri.” Claude shot to his feet. “I owe you no explanations. I have given you everything you’ve ever needed. Wanted. I provided you with a stable home, the best education, the best things money could buy. I exposed you to a lifestyle most people only dream about.”

  “That has nothing to do with a stolen painting.”

  “But it does, Dimitri. Everything is because of something else. All of the things I’ve provided for you haven’t come cheap. I started with nothing and built my empire into what it is today because I wasn’t afraid to cross a line or two.”

  “It can’t be just about the money. You don’t need more money, Father.”

  “One can never have enough money, Dimitri, but it isn’t just about the money. It’s about paying back a favor to someone who helped me at one time. It’s about conducting a business transaction not because it is in your best interest but because you owe a debt of favor to someone. And I know Edmond wasn’t involved in the theft because it’s his father I was doing the favor for.”

  Claude moved to the wet bar and poured himself a shot of whiskey from the decanter. He downed it in one gulp, then set the tumbler back on the Cherrywood. “There are things over the years that I’ve had to do to maintain our lifestyle.” He turned and faced Dimitri. “I do them for you. To keep my estate plentiful for you . . . for your future children.”

  Dimitri shook his head. “No. That’s not why you do anything, Father. You do things for your own wants and needs, not mine. It’s never been about me.”

  “I—”

  Dimitri held up his hands. “No, I can’t listen to this anymore.”

  “Then why are you still here?”

  “I want to know why you had a meeting with Adelaide tonight.

  Were you scared she was on to you? What di
d you say to her?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Father, don’t try to deny it. I went to your office to ask you about the painting, and I saw your appointment calendar. You had noted a meeting today with Adelaide. At six.”

  Claude’s face went slack, and he slowly shook his head. “Dimitri, I can assure you that I did not have a meeting planned with Ms. Fountaine. I didn’t have one scheduled at six, or any other time today, nor have I spoken to her this afternoon.”

  Dimitri’s chest tightened. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying to you, son. There was no appointment with Ms. Fountaine on my calendar when I left.”

  His father had just admitted to owning and almost selling a stolen Van Gogh. Why would he lie about an appointment?

  So where was Adelaide?

  Dimitri pulled his phone from his pocket and tried her again. His call went straight to voice mail. He ended the call and pointed at his father. “You’d better not be lying to me.” He didn’t wait for a response before turning and rushing toward the front door.

  “Dimitri! Dimitri!” He’d never heard that concerned tone from his father, but now wasn’t the time. Something was wrong with Adelaide. He knew it. He could feel it.

  “How can I help?” Elise met him in the entryway.

  “It’s Adelaide Fountaine. She isn’t answering her phone—my calls are going straight to voice mail. I’m going to go back to the Darkwater Inn and check her apartment.”

  Elise nodded. “I know her friend, Tracey. I’ll call her.”

  “Thanks.” Dimitri paused. “If you hear anything, learn anything, whatever, please call me.”

  “I will.”

  He rushed out the door and into his car.

  Please, Lord, keep Adelaide safe. Wherever she is and whatever is happening, please keep her in Your protective hand.

  23

  Addy

  Stuck in a room with only darkness as a companion, Addy lost track of time. Was it still Friday night? Surely, but she couldn’t be sure. Maybe it had segued into Saturday already.