Behind Closed Doors (The Mccloud Series Book 1) Read online

  Chapter 3

  “Sir? Excuse me, but there’s a Mr. Crowe on the line, requesting permission to come to the island.”

  Victor did not turn his gaze away from the waves that lapped against the pebbled beach below the patio. He took a sip of his whiskey and savored the complex, smoky flavor. “What does he want?”

  The young female attendant cleared her throat delicately. “He says it’s regarding the, ah…heart of darkness.”

  A smile of satisfaction curved Victor’s mouth. The perfect ending for a stimulating day. Whoever would have thought that Crowe had a poetic side? Heart of darkness, indeed. “Tell him to proceed,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.” The young woman retreated silently through the French doors into the house.

  Victor sipped his Scotch, letting his eyes rest upon the dim silhouette of the windswept pines that adorned Stone Island. It was his favorite residence, despite the inconvenience of the eighty-minute boat ride through Puget Sound, and woe betide the person so stupid or unfortunate as to approach it uninvited. Here, in splendid privacy, he could gaze out at the Sound and contemplate the panorama of nature in all its beauty and savagery. Bald eagles and ospreys and great blue herons, dolphins and killer whales. Spectacular.

  The wind was cold, daylight long gone, but he savored the pleasant burn of the fine liquor as it trickled down his throat, unwilling to go inside. He was absurdly pleased with himself. He liked the game he was playing and the element of chance that he had factored into it. His needs were changing as he aged, the need for power and control giving way to his hunger for diversion and stimulation. He must be aging backwards. Soon he would start having problems with impulse control. He raised his glass, toasting the ridiculous thought.

  He looked forward to finally resolving his security problem. His patience was wearing extremely thin. Seth Mackey and his consulting firm had better be good. Rumor certainly suggested that they were. Ever since he had begun to make discreet inquiries, the name of Mackey Security Systems Design had continually cropped up. The firm was frequently used by foreign governments, government agencies, national P.I. firms, defense contractors, diplomats and famous corporate executives, and was quietly famous for its cutting edge surveillance equipment and custom designed software, as well as for demonstrated prowess at protective technical surveillance countermeasures. Best of all was Mackey’s reputation for discretion, vital for Victor’s purposes; as he certainly could not report the recent rash of slick, professional burglaries that had been plaguing his warehouses to the police.

  The thefts themselves represented no serious economic damage to him. His profitable company could absorb a hundred times the blow without blinking. What disturbed him was the thieves’ timing, precision and choice of loot; they unerringly plundered the shipments destined for his most secret and demanding clients.

  It had begun some years back as a quiet import sideline, developed for the sole purpose of entertaining himself, smuggled art and antiquities and suchlike. His latest diversion was the traffic in famous murder weapons from high-profile trials, a hobby he’d fallen into almost by accident. People were willing to pay ridiculous sums for a stolen piece of violent, grisly social history. Perverse, yes, but he had always reaped big profits by taking advantage of perversity. Just another of those comforting constants in life.

  One of his most recent deals had been for the hunting knife used by Anton Laarsen, the Cincinnati Slasher, on his ten-city, five-state rampage. Victor had auctioned off the blade for five times what the theft had cost him in planning and manpower. It had gone to the CEO of a local pharmaceuticals firm with whom Victor often golfed, a mild-mannered, genial fellow with a sizable paunch and a passel of grandkids. Victor wondered if the man’s wife was aware of the true depth of her husband’s interest in deadly violence. It would be best for her if she never knew, no doubt.

  Procuring such items gave him a delicious sense of having gotten away with something, a frisson of danger that kept the gray, empty feeling at bay for a little while. It was childish, perhaps, but he had reached a time in his life when he could afford to indulge himself. Or so he had thought.

  In each case, he and he alone had made the arrangements for these acquisitions. Which indicated that whoever had planned and executed the extremely professional raids had access to information that could only have been obtained by electronic eavesdropping devices.

  Seth Mackey’s damage control plan was going to cost him. His fees were outrageous, but Victor could easily afford them. The man himself was intriguing. He was sharp, cunning and surprisingly unreadable, but Victor was a grand master at ferreting out a person’s weak points. Mackey had made his glaringly obvious that morning.

  Victor laughed out loud and took another sip of whiskey. Enter Lorraine Cameron, stage left. Formerly little Katya Lazar of the white-blond braids. His long-lost niece. The timing was exquisite.

  The girl had surprised him. Alix, her mother, had grabbed her and run like the contemptible coward that she was after Peter’s death. She’d gone to ridiculous lengths to cover their tracks, but she need not have bothered; she was no match for Victor’s informational network.

  Victor had no further interest in Alix, but he had followed his niece’s progress with great interest. She showed potential, but had suffered from crippling shyness for much of her girlhood; and he had long ago dismissed her as an attractive but insignificant piece of fluff, content to drift from place to place, committing to nothing, achieving nothing. The fact that she had the audacity to apply for a job at Lazar Import & Export with a falsified résumé intrigued him. There might be something strong and vibrant simmering beneath that facade of clumsy naiveté.

  He wondered if Peter really was the girl’s father. Given Alix’s wide-ranging sexual appetites, the probability was not high, though the girl did resemble her paternal grandmother. Although now that he thought about it…he calculated for a moment…yes, it was quite possible. The girl could very well be his own daughter. Entertaining. Not that it mattered, at this point. He had sacrificed such sentimental considerations upon the altar of expediency long ago. Besides, if she were his, he would have expected more of her by now.

  In any case, he would not make the same mistake with her as he had with Peter. No coddling, no spoiling. No mercy of any kind. He would temper her, bring out the proud Lazar core of her. The job had been his first test, to see if she had any stamina, and she was holding up well. She was strong in languages, a good writer, thought fast on her feet, was charming and well-spoken, and had adapted to a work schedule specifically designed to weed out the unworthy. Still, she was a nervous, cowering rabbit. Alix’s doing. It would be interesting to see if he could turn her into a real woman of steel and twisting fire.

  His new security consultant was certainly eager to do his part in that regard. What a piece of luck that the girl was beautiful. At least her intemperate, profligate bitch of a mother had been useful for that much. Alix had been a stunning woman in her day, and the girl surpassed her. Or would, if someone taught her how to dress.

  And to think that he had actually offered her to Mackey as one of the perks of the job after the meeting this morning. Obliquely, of course, but the hungry flash of comprehension in the younger man’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. He chuckled, feeling impish. Victor knew he was being a diabolical, manipulative bastard, but a man did what he must to keep things interesting; and besides, he was doing the girl a favor. Mackey was sure to prove a more inspiring sexual partner for her than the worthless specimens she had chosen so far for herself. She seemed to have inherited her father’s abysmal taste in lovers. Poor Peter.

  Tomorrow he would leave them to their own devices, and trust to lust. There was no way to predict or control what would happen. Thank God for the element of chance. Without it he would have slit his wrists from boredom long ago.

  He would have liked to film the seduction, but it would be more logistically complicated than it was worth, in addition to being
in somewhat poor taste. The girl was his niece, after all. He would concede her a measure of privacy. At least for now.

  The situation was fortuitous, even aside from pure entertainment value. He needed leverage with the mysterious Mackey before moving forward with such a sensitive project, particularly after the unfortunate events ten months ago that had culminated in the death of the undercover FBI agent Jesse Cahill. He had barely managed to salvage the situation, though not in time to avoid considerable embarrassment in certain business circles. Victor loathed embarrassment.

  Kurt Novak, in particular, was still nursing a grudge—but the “heart of darkness” that Crowe was bringing to him right now would change all that in the blink of an eye. It was the final detail of the plan that would put Novak right back where Victor wanted him. He smiled dreamily at the thought, looking up at the ragged clouds that scudded across the moonlit sky.

  The French doors clicked open, and the attendant cleared her throat. “Mr. Crowe is here,” she murmured respectfully.

  The wind was picking up. Gusts of wind sent dead leaves and pine needles leaping and swirling across the flagstones like a display of naughty poltergeists, the perfect note for the transaction that was about to take place. “Send him out,” Victor ordered.

  Moments later, a shadow materialized behind his chair. Crowe was not his real name. Victor didn’t even know his real name, nor was he acquainted with anyone who did. He was the kind of man one contacted when one wished to arrange something complicated, discreet, and extremely illegal, such as the theft of a notorious murder weapon. He was the most reliable agent Victor had ever used—and the most expensive.

  He was clad in a long, olive drab raincoat, his face shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat and mirrored sunglasses, even at dusk. What little that could be seen of his face was cold and angular. He placed a steel carrying case by Victor’s chair, straightened up, and waited. There was no need to check the authenticity of the item he was delivering. His reputation was enough.

  The pieces on the game board in Victor’s mind shifted, taking on an aggressive new formation. “The money will be transferred into the usual account tonight,” he said calmly, hiding his excitement.

  Crowe’s shadow silently withdrew. Victor reached for the case and put it on his lap. The Corazon. The heart of darkness. He could literally feel the thing pulsing between his hands, as if he were Aladdin holding an imprisoned genie. An enlightened Aladdin, who understood power, desire and violence. And Kurt Novak was his genie.

  He snapped it open. The Walther PPK was still in the tagged plastic bag into which it had been placed for the crime lab, still soiled with fingerprinting dust. Its value could not be expressed in dollars, since its price involved calling in a lifetime’s worth of threats and favors.

  Past, present and future were as one for an object. The famous face of the luckless Belinda Corazon floated in his mind’s eye. The cold lump of steel on his lap was locked forever in an endless moment of life-stopping violence. It took a person like him, tormented by lucid dreams, sensitive to the dynamics of power, to read the gun’s signature.

  It was burdensome to be one of two people in the world who knew the true identity of Belinda Corazon’s killer. He felt a warning flash of melancholy, and snapped the case closed, determined to forestall it. He had no reason to feel guilty, he reminded himself. La Corazon had been an acquaintance, not a friend. Like many other public figures, she had attended Victor’s lavish and popular parties.

  One year ago he and Novak had concluded an immensely profitable business deal, and in the subsequent flush of mutual goodwill, Novak had persuaded him to arrange a private introduction to Belinda. That was the extent of his guilt. The sum total of his responsibility.

  Somehow, Novak had actually managed to seize the frivolous girl’s interest. Maybe it was his gift of a triple strand of black South Sea pearls, maybe it was Novak’s own poisonous magnetism. Women’s preferences were unfathomable. In any case, his charm had eventually palled upon her, and La Corazon had thought she could dismiss her swain as easily as she had all the others. She had paid with her life for her error.

  Victor took a cigarette out of his antique silver holder and made a languid gesture with his hand. The doors opened and the attendant hastened to his side. She lit his cigarette with some difficulty in the blustery wind, and stood quietly, awaiting dismissal or further orders.

  His practiced eye roamed over the young woman’s face and body with leisurely thoroughness. He varied them often, to stave off boredom, and this one was quite new. He studied the girl’s high, full breasts, her slender, athletic figure. She was a brunette with long, straight chestnut hair and tilted hazel eyes. Enticing. The cold had caused the girl’s nipples to harden. They were dark and taut, clearly visible against her clinging shirt. The wind whipped her hair, tangling it across her lovely face. He gazed at the girl’s full red lips, halfway tempted to—no.

  Not tonight. It was rare for him to feel this wide-awake, humming awareness. He had not felt so vibrant and alive since Peter’s death. It was a moment to be savored in solitude.

  He smiled pleasantly at the young woman, and struggled for a moment to remember her name. “Thank you, Mara. That will be all.”

  She gave him a dazzling smile and withdrew. She was lovely, really. Perhaps tomorrow he would indulge. For now, he would simply float upon the grace of this euphoria, contemplating the new pieces on his game board and how best to move them.

  The game was complex, and long in the making. He knew so many intimate details about city and state officials, businesspeople and politicians that he was virtually immune to the law. And his generous donations, gifts, endowments and campaign contributions did smooth things over nicely. Victor Lazar, pillar of the community, twinkling-eyed philanthropist and thrower of fabulous parties. The faint, unsavory taint to the Lazar name just made the invitations to his parties that much more sought after. People loved to feel naughty. Yet another of life’s comforting constants. The fête that would take place at Stone Island on Saturday night could prove more entertaining than ever, with these unpredictable new game pieces in play.

  Yes, he had badly needed a challenge, and so did the lovely, untried Raine. She was an unknown, even to herself. It was high time she leaned the full scope of her new duties.

  Seth Mackey. So that was his name. Raine mouthed it silently to herself for the hundredth time as she let herself into the house. The office had buzzed with gossip all day, and she had sucked it up like a sponge. Whenever Harriet’s ramrod back was turned, the secretaries had carried on about Seth Mackey; his looks, his style, his smoldering eyes. Evidently he was a hotshot security consultant who was going to revolutionize the inventory system with radio frequency ID technology. She’d stayed an extra hour at work trying to figure out how to fit the promotional info on the new security feature into the recently updated website pages.

  She unbuttoned her coat, and noticed an envelope in the mail slot. It was from the Severin Bay Coroner’s Office. Her heart leaped into her throat. The first thing she had done when she arrived in Seattle was to write and request a copy of her father’s autopsy. She opened it with hands that trembled.

  It was just as she had been told; a ruling of accidental death by drowning. She scanned the pages, trying to stay calm and detached. Organs and tissue samples, chemical and toxicological analysis, aspirated fluids from the stomach, thorax, bladder, vitreous fluid, and more. She stared down at the sheaf of paper, feeling cold and flat and very alone. The report revealed nothing, suggested nothing. The MD who had signed it was Serena Fischer. She made a mental note of the name.

  The phone rang, and she winced. None of her friends had this number. It could only be her mother. She reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Well. At last I catch you at home.”

  The hurt, petulant tone in her mother’s voice made her stomach clench. “Hello, Alix.”

  “I’ve been calling and calling, honey, and you’re never home! I’ve le
ft more messages than I can count, but of course you don’t call back. What on earth are you doing all day, every day?”

  Raine dropped her purse on the floor with a quiet sigh. After a fourteen-hour day in the Lazar Import & Export salt mines, the last thing she wanted was a conversation with her mother. She shrugged off her coat and hung it, thinking of excuses and explanations. “Oh, all kinds of things. I, ah, went on a boat trip the other day. It rained, of course, but it was beautiful. I’ve done some shopping. Job interviews. And I’ve made some nice new friends.”

  “Any nice new gentleman friends?”

  The hot caress of Seth Mackey’s breath against her throat rose up in her memory, intensely clear. She swallowed back a giggle. Seth Mackey might be many things, but she bet that “gentleman” was not one of them. Which was fine. If she got a chance with him, she didn’t intend to act like a lady. “Um, no gentlemen friends,” she mumbled.

  “Ah.” Her mother sounded disappointed, but unsurprised. “Well, I don’t suppose you’re trying very hard. God knows you never do.”

  There was an expectant pause, as her mother waited for Raine’s stock response, the signal to touch off a tedious and all too familiar argument. Raine was stubbornly silent, too tired to play the game.

  Alix Cameron let out an impatient sigh. “I cannot fathom why you chose Seattle,” she complained. “So backwards. Always gray and damp.”

  “London is gray and damp, too,” Raine pointed out. “And you haven’t been here in decades, Mother. Seattle is very hip.”

  The older woman gave a doubtful harrumph. “Please don’t call me that, Raine. You know it makes me feel old.”

  Raine bit her lip at the familiar reproof. It had been a never-ending challenge to remember her mother’s changing names over the years. She’d been grateful when Alix had decided to risk going back to her original name. Much simpler than getting used to a new one every couple of months.