Now a tear spilled from her eye and trailed slowly down her cheek. ‘‘He told me to call you and not the police. He said you would know what to do. He told me to leave him lying there just like he was and to hurry back to town. I wasn’t to talk to anyone until you arrived. Then I was supposed to ask you all those questions. He said you’d understand why.’’
Mark sat back in his chair. His old friend had been wrong as hell about that.
‘‘What about the killer?’’ Annabelle asked. ‘‘Did Rocky give you a name?’’
‘‘No! I asked, but he never answered that.’’
Annabelle glanced at Mark. ‘‘This doesn’t make sense to me. If the shooter were one of us, why not say his name? If he wasn’t one of us, why bother with those questions?’’
Mark shook his head. He didn’t have a clue.
Annabelle thought for a moment longer before asking, ‘‘Then what happened, Ms. Mercer?’’
The art dealer closed her eyes. Swallowed hard. ‘‘He died. My Rocky just lay there and died.’’
Mark couldn’t hold his tongue
and
sit still, so he shoved to his feet and paced the small office. Annabelle waited a respectful moment, then said, ‘‘Rocky Stanhope deserved better, Brooke. His killer needs to be brought to justice. With your help, Mark and I will make sure that happens.’’
‘‘I know you will try, but . . .’’ She shrugged.
‘‘We don’t fail,’’ Mark said. ‘‘We
won’t
fail.’’
Annabelle nodded her agreement, then continued. ‘‘So, what did you do next?’’
The art dealer laced her fingers atop the desk, clasping them so hard that her knuckles turned white. ‘‘I covered him with a blanket. I know he said not to touch anything, but I couldn’t just leave him that way. I couldn’t! Then I ran to the car and drove home. I had blood all over me and I needed to get it off.’’
‘‘Of course you did,’’ Annabelle said in a soothing tone.
Brooke Mercer shuddered. ‘‘I was so frightened. I didn’t know what to do, whether to call you like he’d asked or to call the police. I worried that the killer had seen me and would come after me. I sat in my house all night thinking about it, trying to decide what to do.’’ Tears swam in the eyes she lifted toward them. ‘‘Last night was the worst night of my life.’’
‘‘It’s terrible you had to go through that.’’ Annabelle gave the woman’s hands a comforting pat. ‘‘But you know what? The worst is behind you now. Mark and I will take care of everything.’’
‘‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’’ She blew out a heavy breath. ‘‘I should have called you from the cabin. I’m sorry I hesitated. At first I couldn’t think. Then all I did was think and I got confused.’’
Mark cleared his throat. ‘‘I would have done the same thing.’’
‘‘Now,’’ Annabelle said, her voice brisk and businesslike, ‘‘I’d like to ask you a few questions. First, let’s talk about the killer. Was he inside the car when you saw him, or outside?’’
For the next ten minutes, Annabelle took the woman through her story in a thorough, yet gentle, interrogation. Mark admired her effort. His ex-wife had a deft touch in this respect. She knew just when to be tough and when to cajole. She pulled much more out of Brooke Mercer than he would have managed.
As a detailed picture of events began to emerge, Mark’s spirits lightened. They had a place to start— Stanhope’s computer. The document he’d printed and left in his hidden safe at the cabin. His phone records. And Ms. Mercer herself.
Annabelle reached into her tote and withdrew the envelope filled with photographs that Mark had requested before leaving Philadelphia. Mark braced himself as she handed the art dealer the stack of photos that had been waiting for them along with the rental car. ‘‘Could one of these men be the man you saw outside of Rocky’s cabin?’’
Brooke Mercer worked her way through the pictures that included the other nine Fixers, Colonel Warren, Boris Radovanovic, and a half dozen random, unrelated faces. ‘‘I don’t think so, no.’’
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. While Ms. Mercer had not ruled out the possibility that someone in the unit had turned on his former teammates, she hadn’t confirmed it, either. And despite the fact that he had included Rad’s photo, he never really expected her to finger that bastard. Radovanovic would have sent goons to do his dirty work.
Annabelle glanced at Mark. ‘‘Do you have anything to add?’’
He gazed out into the gallery toward Stanhope’s paintings. ‘‘Do you have a clue why he wanted you to contact me instead of the police? Is there anything up at the cabin I’ll need to . . . sanitize . . . before we call in the authorities?’’
‘‘You mean . . . anything illegal?’’ Mercer asked. ‘‘No. However, in his studio you’ll find one stack of paintings that might concern you. They are graphic, and I recognized some of the faces you just showed me from that stack of paintings.’’ She paused and added, ‘‘Actually, I recognized you both from the paintings.’’
Mark arched a questioning brow, but she shook her head. ‘‘They are something you will have to see. I can’t really describe them.’’
With that, she pulled a piece of paper from the desk drawer and rose to her feet. ‘‘You had best be going if you want to make it up the mountain and back down by dark. Here are directions, and the combination to the safe I told you about. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding the cabin.’’
‘‘You’re not going with us?’’ Annabelle asked. ‘‘The police will need to interview you. They won’t like it that you called us instead of them.’’
She nervously smoothed her slacks. ‘‘I realize that, but this is a small town. They know me and they know where to find me. They’ll understand that I was hysterical yesterday and can’t bear to go back up there today.’’
‘‘Can’t say that I blame you,’’ Mark said, taking the map and giving it a quick once-over. ‘‘Thank you for your help.’’
‘‘Just find the person who did this.’’ A lone tear spilled down her cheek and she impatiently wiped it away. ‘‘I don’t want Rocky to have died in vain.’’
‘‘Neither do we,’’ Annabelle assured her.
They shook hands, then departed the gallery. Mark heard the door lock behind them. He and Annabelle didn’t speak as they returned to the rental SUV. Once they were inside, he slipped the key into the ignition, glanced at her, and asked, ‘‘Well, what do you think?’’
‘‘What do I think?’’ Annabelle repeated, her tone dripping with scorn. ‘‘I don’t think. I know. That woman was lying like a rug.’’
Chapter Six
Annabelle expected him to scoff. After all, Brooke Mercer was a beautiful woman, and Annabelle hadn’t missed the flash of male appreciation in her ex-husband’s eyes when he first met the gallery owner. She waited for him to dismiss her suspicions out of hand, especially since instincts alone had led her to her conclusion. Instead, Mark surprised her.
‘‘She did go from hysteria to calm pretty damned fast,’’ he observed after he’d started the car and pulled back onto the main street.
‘‘Too fast.’’ Annabelle wordlessly declined the mint he offered. ‘‘That woman did not have a loved one die in her arms yesterday. I don’t care how pretty you are—that shows up on your face.’’
‘‘So what are you saying? She didn’t love Stanhope or she is making the whole thing up?’’ Mark popped a peppermint in his mouth.
Annabelle idly wondered when he’d gotten himself hooked on hard candy. ‘‘Her story rang true. Her tears and sorrowful expressions appeared genuine. Still, I didn’t pick up vibes of grief. If anything, I thought a time or two that she was coming on to you. Her body language raised my hackles.’’
Mark opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it. Annabelle realized she’d fed him a straight line, and that he’d been smart enough not to take advantage of it.
They drove for a time, each of them lost in thought until Mark observed, ‘‘Stanhope liked the ladies, but she wasn’t his type.’’
‘‘He liked the girl-next-door,’’ Annabelle agreed. ‘‘Friendly and outgoing. Brooke Mercer is beautiful, but she’s a little too . . . upscale. I picture him doing business with her, but dating the lady who runs the saltwater-taffy shop.’’
Mark slowed the vehicle in order to turn off the main highway, then handed her Brooke Mercer’s hand-drawn map so she could continue her navigator’s job. ‘‘It was probably just sex.’’
‘‘That’s what I think,’’ Annabelle agreed. ‘‘But I can see how the role of tragic lover left behind would appeal to that woman.’’
Mark arched a brow. ‘‘Didn’t care for her much, did you?’’
‘‘She wasn’t mourning my friend.’’
With that, Annabelle turned her attention to the surroundings. Their path had taken them out of the box canyon that nestled the town of Telluride and up a twisting, turning narrow mountain road that provided stunning views.
Annabelle gazed at the craggy, snowcapped peaks and realized she’d missed these mountains. During her childhood, her best friend had invited Annabelle along on her family vacations to Colorado. She’d looked forward to that one summer week for the entire fifty-one others. She’d often thought that it was the trips to the Rockies that had instilled within her the need to see and do and experience. That need had eventually pulled Annabelle away from the family farm and small-town life and steered her into the military.
Now as her ears popped with their ascent, she found herself wanting to share the thoughts with Mark. She couldn’t do it, however, because that would mean cracking open a door she’d intended to leave shut for good.
Of course, when she’d formed her intentions, she didn’t anticipate traveling with him alone in the middle of nowhere on their way to face the body of a man they had once considered a good friend.
Maybe under these circumstances, I could relax a little,
she thought as she guided him through a series of turns that took them down one hill and up the next. What would hurt? A little conversation might make this trip easier to bear.
Besides, opening her mouth differed from opening her heart. That wasn’t in danger of happening.
Neither would she open her bedroom door. She wasn’t stupid. Anxious, yes. Maybe even a little nervous. Not stupid. Never stupid.
God, she hoped she wasn’t stupid.
She cleared her throat and attempted to distract herself from her thoughts by observing, ‘‘The word ‘remote’ doesn’t do Rocky’s place justice.’’
‘‘I’d hate to have to take this road in the dark.’’
Annabelle caught a glimpse of a sapphire blue lake below them. ‘‘I had a chance to buy a house on a hill above Honolulu, but the hairpin curves changed my mind. So much of the work I do is at night.’’
He nodded and pursed his lips. A moment later he asked, ‘‘Why Hawaii?’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘Why did you pick Honolulu as the place to build your business? Last time you and I talked about it, I thought you were thinking about Dallas or Denver or Oklahoma City—somewhere closer to your family. Picking Hawaii, you might as well have kept Europe as your home base.’’
Great. She should have kept her mouth shut instead of taking a stab at conversation. Right away, he jumped in a direction she didn’t want to go. ‘‘I decided to take up surfing. So, who do you pick to win the World Series this year?’’
He slanted her a look that said he knew she was dodging the question, but thankfully didn’t pursue it. Instead, they talked baseball, then eased into college football until she spied a national-forest sign. ‘‘Okay, that’s it. We’re entering the little stretch of private land. The turnoff to Rocky’s place will be on the left. It’s marked by a—’’
Mark laughed. ‘‘Bullwinkle. Damn, I’m going to miss that man.’’
Annabelle glanced up to see an eight-foot-tall plastic cartoon character standing beside a narrow dirt road. ‘‘Okay, that makes me want to cry.’’
Mark turned onto the path that snaked through the forest of conifers and aspen. The tall trees all but blocked the sun, casting shadows that swallowed the car and turned the atmosphere eerie. Almost ominous. Annabelle peered into the trees, looking for elk or deer or Bigfoot. Maybe zombies or some creature created by Stephen King.
The map indicated they were getting close. Dread sat in her stomach like a fried pie. She had encountered her share of bodies over the years, but never that of an old friend who had died violently and aged for a day in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.
The SUV clattered over a small wooden bridge that stretched across a bubbling mountain stream into a clearing about a half acre in size. A two-story wooden cabin nestled against the side of a mountain. ‘‘Fishing in his front yard,’’ Mark observed. ‘‘Bet Rocky was happy as a clam up here.’’
Mark stopped the SUV just beyond the bridge, avoiding the two sets of tire tracks leading to and from the cabin. He didn’t need to tell Annabelle that he did it to avoid further contaminating the crime scene.
‘‘At least it didn’t rain last night or this morning. The locals will be unhappy enough as it is.’’ He gave Annabelle a sidelong glance. ‘‘You ready for this?’’
‘‘Not really. Are you?’’
‘‘Hell, no.’’
With that, they both started forward.
The stench of death hit her before they ever reached the door. She spied what must have been Brooke Mercer’s bloody shoe prints along with some sort of animal tracks on the wooden porch in front of the door, and Annabelle sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the woman had shut the door behind her. This would be hard enough as it was. If animals had gotten to Rocky . . . she shuddered. She simply didn’t want to think about it.
Mark opened the door and they stepped into the cabin, where a red and blue plaid blanket covered the body on the floor. Annabelle instinctively wanted to hold her breath, but training taught her to breathe naturally, since the stench would numb her sense of smell after a few minutes.
She started to follow Mark toward the body, but he held up a hand. ‘‘Why don’t you take the safe.’’
‘‘Chivalry in action, Callahan?’’