‘‘Me, either. But Annabelle’s instincts are good. I think we might be on to something here.’’
Amy rose from her seat. ‘‘Should I go wake Mom?’’
‘‘No, let her sleep,’’ Annabelle decided after a moment’s thought. ‘‘They said Adam met the photographer. Let’s call him instead.’’
Adam Monroe drove a utility cart from his place up to the farmhouse, arriving just as the fax of Ron Kurtz’s image began to emerge from the machine in his father’s office. Mark clasped the paper the moment it was free and studied it. ‘‘Okay, yeah. Now I remember him.’’
He handed the page to Adam, and Annabelle held her breath.
Her brother frowned, then slowly nodded. ‘‘Yes, that’s the photographer. He’s the one who did this?’’
Annabelle’s eyes gleamed with fierce exultation. ‘‘Yes, he’s the one who did this.’’
‘‘Why?’’ Amy asked. ‘‘What does he have against you?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’ Annabelle pursed her lips and considered it, then glanced up at Mark. ‘‘I also don’t know how he is connected to the impostor at the gallery.’’
‘‘I intend to find out,’’ Mark replied, his voice hard and determined. ‘‘Before anyone else gets killed.’’
Ron Kurtz couldn’t understand why all these old geezers liked to collect seashells. The way he saw it, somebody who had the cash to retire to a place like this should collect something cool like classic cars or guns.
Gun collecting would be fine. That’s what he would collect if he had the money. Antique firearms. Colt revolvers and Elgin cutlass pistols. A Remington Creedmoor rolling-block action rifle.
Hell, he got hard just thinking about it.
Instead, these old farts strolled along the sand looking for pieces of old dead animals.
If you could call what they did strolling. More like tottering or weaving. He was glad the Kincannons had been the active type. Otherwise, Noah Kincannon might have considered his parents a burden and would have been glad to see them gone. That would have ruined everything.
Kurtz lifted the baseball cap from his head and rubbed a hand over his hair, wiping away the sweat. He didn’t like wearing hats. Always made his head hot. But once he’d heard Noah’s most recent phone message and realized he had a few more hours to kill, he’d decided to get out of the house and the cap was part of his disguise.
Not that he figured any of these geezers would pay a bit of attention to him. Their gazes were all locked on the beach, looking for their treasures.
Hell, he should have stayed at the house. He’d walked down here hoping to spy some eye-candy pussy sunning in string bikinis. Instead, all he’d found were wrinkled-up prunes spoiling the scenery.
Goddamned Land of the Retirees, Florida. Why hadn’t Noah sent his parents to a California beach?
Whistling the Beach Boys’ ‘‘California Girls’’ beneath his breath, Kurtz turned and started back toward the Kincannon house, a short five-minute walk from the beach. He’d turn on the television and see who Oprah had on her show. Maybe he’d bake some cookies. While rummaging for breakfast in the pantry this morning, he’d noticed the old lady had the makings for chocolate-chip cookies. Bet old Noah would appreciate being met with the scent of fresh-baked cookies on the air when he walked through the front door.
Besides, it would make his own wait more pleasant, since it would help cover up the stench of blood.
Happy at the thought, Kurtz hitched his canvas supply bag over his shoulder and walked the short block to the white house with its pink plantation shutters. He wondered how Noah had liked his folks having pink shutters on their house.
‘‘Pretty damned gay if you ask me,’’ he murmured. He’d be embarrassed if it were his folks’ place.
Just looking at the house pissed him off. Property like that had to be worth over a million. Probably a million five. Back in the day, Noah Kincannon didn’t come from money. None of the Fixers did. Well, technically the a-hole Callahan did, but nobody knew it at the time. It was their stint in the unit that made everyone rich, gave them the skills and experience and contacts they used to rack up the big bucks once they left the service. Made it possible for Kincannon to set his parents up in highfalutin digs like these.
That’s what Callahan had taken away from him when he kicked him off the team. Taken away his future. Taken away his prosperity. He’d had to work his ass off all these years while they sat around and got rich. The bastard said he didn’t have what it took. Said he lacked discipline and the mental intensity to make it.
Then that fucker Dennis Nelson had the balls to show up at his workplace and accuse him of turning on his country. Accuse him of being a goddamned traitor! Of all the nerve.
It still chapped Kurtz’s ass that Nelson died before he could get to him.
‘‘Well, I’m teaching the rest of them, though, aren’t I?’’ Kurtz smiled, then burst into a laugh. ‘‘I’m teaching all of them.’’
Access to the Kincannon house was a piece of cake, with the lush vegetation shielding the view of any potentially nosy neighbors. When he’d arrived last night shortly before the Kincannons themselves returned home from a last-minute trip to Orlando—and why did old folks want to go to Disney, anyway?—he had picked the lock and waltzed inside slick as snot.
The first thing he’d done after determining that no one was at home was to note the blinking light on the answering machine. Listening to the increasingly worried messages from the old geezers’ son had made him smile. In fact, he’d been so pleased by the stir he’d created that he took pity on Mom and Dad and waited until they came home and went to sleep before he shot them.
Offing the old folks hadn’t given him quite the charge as doing Stanhope’s girlfriend in front of him. It paled in comparison with thinking about his little surprise for the Monroes.
‘‘Annabelle Monroe,’’ he murmured. ‘‘That bitch.’’ He chuckled at the idea of what she must be feeling right about now. He wondered how many of her family members died. With any luck, every last one of ’em. Maybe after he finished up here, he would stop by the local library or an Internet café and see what the Kansas papers had to say. Unfortunately, the Internet was down on the Kincannons’ computer. ‘‘That must needle Noah, too.’’
Kurtz startled as the phone began to ring. He waited it out until the answering machine clicked on. ‘‘Mom? Dad? You there?’’
Noah. Kurtz’s eyes widened and he grinned with delight.
‘‘Hello! Mom? Dad? Pick up the phone! Mrs. Wilson next door said you came home last night, so I know you’re there. I’ve been trying to track you down for a day and a half.’’
Kurtz followed the sound to the room that served as a study for the old geezer, and the telephone sitting on the whitewashed desk. He was tempted . . . oh, so tempted . . . to answer and have a little conversation with dear old Noah.
He heard mumbled curses coming from the machine, then a heavy sigh. ‘‘Mom, Dad, we need to make some changes. I know how much you two enjoy your impromptu trips, but you need to let somebody know where you are going and how you can be reached.’’
‘‘Not gonna be a problem any longer, Noah,’’ Kurtz said into the empty room.
From the machine, Kincannon’s voice continued. ‘‘I’m on my way there. It’s been one travel delay after another, but the weather finally lifted in Atlanta, so I’ll arrive by lunchtime. Anyway, I need you to do a favor for me and stay home until I get there. I’ve sent someone over to keep an eye on things until then, so don’t be nervous when you see him sitting outside.’’
‘‘They won’t be nervous,’’ Kurtz told the phone. ‘‘They were dead before the pitiful excuse of a security guard you hired arrived. Really, Noah, I know the pickings are slim around here where muscle is concerned, but you could have done better.’’
‘‘Mom? Dad?’’ Noah Kincannon let out another heavy sigh. ‘‘Good-bye. See you soon.’’
‘‘Yep. Yes, you will.’’ And Ron Kurtz chortled.
He returned to the kitchen, where he set out ingredients for cookies and imagined Kincannon’s arrival. God, this was fun. So much more fun to drag it out, to make them suffer before he killed them, than to off them outright.
While he creamed shortening, sugar, and eggs in a stand mixer, he pictured Noah Kincannon wailing and gnashing his teeth. He’d measured out a cup of flour when an unexpected sound caught his attention. The doorbell. Someone was at the door.
Quietly, Kurtz moved to a window that allowed him to see the front porch. A woman. Mid-thirties, attractive, classy. She dressed well in a tailored jacket and slacks. Definitely not Florida-casual attire. She could be a neighbor woman on her way to work. More likely, she could be another security person. Maybe even a cop. That jacket was unnecessary for the temperate weather this morning. It could be concealing her weapon.
The bell rang again. Kurtz debated whether to invite her in or wait her out and see if she went away. He decided it was better to speak to her. He could deal with one person easily. If she yanked out a cell phone and called in a squad of cops, he’d be up shit creek.
He turned the mixer on low, grabbed a tea towel to wipe his hands, then walked to the front door. ‘‘Hello, can I help you?’’
The woman smiled. ‘‘May I speak with Mr. or Mrs. Kincannon, please? I’m an old friend of their son’s.’’
Kurtz flipped the towel over his shoulder and smiled broadly. This wasn’t a cop. He opened the screen door, saying, ‘‘Sure, come on in. I’m Jack Watson with Comfort Keepers Elder Care. I hope you weren’t standing here long. I’m in the kitchen baking cookies. Mr. K. sure does have a sweet tooth.’’
The woman stepped inside and glanced around with polite curiosity. ‘‘Are the Kincannons in the kitchen, too?’’
‘‘No, they’re at their morning water-aerobics class.’’ He made a show of glancing at the clock. ‘‘They’ll be home in another twenty minutes. Would you like to wait in the kitchen with me? I just made a fresh pot of coffee.’’
‘‘That will be lovely. Thank you.’’
Kurtz led her toward the kitchen, saying, ‘‘So, you are a friend of Noah’s? I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.’’
She offered a friendly smile and said, ‘‘I’m Annabelle. Annabelle Monroe.’’
A warm rush of excitement washed through Ron Kurtz’s blood, the predator on the scent of prey. This woman wasn’t Annabelle Monroe. How interesting that she would claim otherwise. Who, then, could this person be? What did she want with Noah’s parents?
In the kitchen, Kurtz motioned for her to take a seat at the table. He removed an ironstone cup from a cabinet and poured her a cup of coffee. ‘‘Cream or sugar, Annabelle?’’
‘‘Neither, thank you.’’
‘‘Let me get these cookies in the oven—then we’ll chat,’’ he told her as he set her cup on the table and returned to the mixer. With the motor turned to low, he quickly and efficiently added the dry ingredients to the bowl and then the chocolate chips. When his cookie dough was ready, he removed the bowl from the mixer and carried it to the table. ‘‘Would you like a spoonful of dough? I have to admit it’s my favorite part.’’
‘‘No, thank you.’’ Again, she gave a polite smile, then added, ‘‘The coffee is delicious.’’
‘‘Thanks. I’m afraid I am a coffee snob. The first thing I did when I went to work for the Kincannons was to dig out their coffee grinder from the depths of the pantry. At least they kept beans in the freezer.’’
Kurtz filled a cookie sheet with little balls of dough, then slipped the pan into the preheated oven. He set the timer, washed his hands, and carried the cookie jar over to the table. He smiled warmly at ‘‘Annabelle’’ as he reached into the glazed pottery jar with his right hand.
He pulled out his gun. Took aim at her head.
As her eyes widened in alarm, he dipped the index finger of his left hand into the mixing bowl. His mouth made a popping sound as he sucked chocolate-chip-cookie dough from his finger. ‘‘Now, Ms. Whoever-You-Are. It’s time for you to come clean. I need to know who you are and what your connection is to the Fixers. I suggest you be truthful and talk fast and convincingly.’’
He chambered a round and added, ‘‘You see, when my timer goes off, I’ll decide whether you live or die.’’
The stress caught up with Annabelle. She had an awful time getting to sleep, but once she finally drifted off, she didn’t awake until midmorning. ‘‘Oh, great,’’ she muttered when she caught sight of the time. She’d catch grief from the sibs for this. She couldn’t believe nobody woke her.
Rolling out of one of two twin beds in the bedroom she’d shared with Amy while growing up, she quickly showered and dressed, all the while wondering what she would find downstairs.
Maybe the reason no one woke her was that everyone was busy with their normal daily activities. Although her sisters did not intend to reopen their bakery until Dad was released from the hospital, Amy had mentioned something before she went home last night about bookkeeping issues that needed tending. Lissa had planned to spend the morning at the hospital and Adam had a million things to do here at the farm. That left Mom, who was probably chomping at the bit for Annabelle to get downstairs and take her into town to visit Dad.
And she couldn’t forget Mark. Knowing that man, she would bet he’d rolled out of bed by six a.m. and started working the phones before his first cup of coffee—never mind that he’d worked late into the night and had less sleep than she over the past few days.
She wondered how long he and Tag had continued to work after she’d thrown in the towel and gone to bed last night. While Tag had been outlining a surveillance plan to the leader of the Texas team who Mark had brought in, her ex had been cursing her dad’s computer equipment while he attempted to hack into databases in search of Ron Kurtz.
Downstairs, all was quiet. She peeked into her father’s office first and found it empty and the computer turned off. Her mother was not in the ruins of the kitchen or in the master bedroom or bath. She did, however, find a note to her from her mother lying on the dining room table.