Doubt (Caroline Auden Book 1) (13 page)

Caroline remembered the guards they’d passed. Franklin had taken security seriously. Far more seriously than most research scientists. Not that it had helped him in the end.

“What about lab techs?” Caroline asked. “How did they share research with Dr. Heller?”

“They shared links.”

Caroline pivoted around to make eye contact with Yvonne. “Would those links contain data used in the article?”

“Yes. They’re over here,” Yvonne said, pointing to a folder on the monitor.

Caroline quickly navigated to the list of links. Her fingers tingled with the possibility of retrieving some part of the lost article. Even without the article itself, perhaps the data would allow her to show a direct connection between SuperSoy and kidney failure . . .

She opened the first link.

A message flashed onto the screen:
Error 404—page not found. The page you are trying to reach does not exist.

“Damn it,” she muttered, opening the next link and getting another 404 error.

By the third link, Caroline knew she’d find nothing.

“These links are all dead,” she said, turning back to Yvonne. “Someone took them down.”

In response, Yvonne just shook her head.

Caroline sat back in the chair and let out a long breath. Her eyes wandered across the objects on Franklin’s desk. A hardbound copy of the
Physicians’ Desk Reference
lay on one corner. A bust of Winston Churchill sat next to it. On the other side of the desk were two framed pictures covered in a thin coating of dust. Untouched. Undisturbed. Just like the rest of the room.

The office had given up its secrets, the article, without a fight. But why? How?

Leaning forward, Caroline lifted a framed picture of Franklin standing with a small woman in a lab coat. The woman was birdlike, with jet-black hair, crescent eyes, and refined, tiny features. Franklin had close-cropped hair, graying at the temples. The woman only came up to Franklin’s chest, giving her an almost childlike scale.

Caroline looked over at Yvonne with a question in her eyes.

“Dr. Wong,” Yvonne said. “She worked with my husband for the last ten years.”

“Was your husband tall?” Caroline asked.

“Yes, but Annie’s small. Just a wisp of a thing. But a heck of a scientist. That’s what Franklin always said about her.”

“Would she have a copy of the article?” Caroline asked.

“Maybe. But I haven’t seen her since Franklin died. She didn’t even come to the funeral.”

Caroline could hear the chagrin tingeing Yvonne’s voice.

“Annie’s boyfriend came, but not her,” Yvonne added, wrinkling her nose slightly as if she’d smelled something unpleasant. Caroline got the impression the elegant socialite didn’t like Dr. Wong’s boyfriend very much.

“Maybe Dr. Wong got scared when Dr. Heller died,” Caroline offered. She paused. “Maybe she . . . ran.”

Yvonne met and held Caroline’s eyes. In Yvonne’s gaze, Caroline saw a reflection of the maelstrom of unspoken worries in her own.

“Wherever she is, I hope she’s okay,” Yvonne said. Her brow knit with concern. “Annie doesn’t have a lot of family to lean on . . .”

Caroline recalled her frosty conversation with Annie’s father and the evident rift between the elder and younger Dr. Wongs.

Replacing the picture, Caroline cast a final glance back at the faces of the people who’d written the missing article. Two people who knew what SuperSoy did. Both were gone now. One to the grave. The other to Lord knew where . . .

Caroline studied the only other picture on the desk. In the image, Franklin wore compression shorts, a tank top, and a racing bib with his runner number printed on it in big block numbers. He had draped a long arm around Yvonne, who squinted into the sun. Behind them, an archway of balloons anchored between two palm trees announced the finish line for a race.

Something familiar on the runner’s bib caught Caroline’s eye.

“What does
BABC
stand for?” she asked, pointing at the cursive letters printed above Franklin’s runner number. It was the same string of letters that appeared at the beginning of Franklin’s final text message.

“Bon Air Beach Club,” said Yvonne. “That picture was taken at the end of the club’s annual charity run.”

Caroline had heard of the Bon Air Beach Club. Restricted to the wealthiest, most well-connected souls in the city, it rarely admitted new members, preferring to fill its membership rolls with the scions of prior generations.

“Are you members?” Caroline asked. The subject was delicate. Many of the clubs that dotted the shores of Los Angeles still had restrictive policies against admitting people of color. If not in their official bylaws, then in their admission practices they’d maintained the same level of homogeneity for over a century.

“Yes,” Yvonne said. “Franklin’s father was Terrence Heller. The congressman. He was the club’s first African-American member. The club still hasn’t come around on admitting gay members, but it was far ahead of the curve on race. Bon Air was always a part of Franklin’s life, and so it became a part of mine after we married.”

Caroline considered the location of Franklin’s death, just a mile or so south of the Bon Air Beach Club.

“Do you think that BABC in Franklin’s text message refers to the club? The letters are the same,” Caroline pointed out, even though it was obvious.

“I hadn’t noticed that,” Yvonne said, breaking eye contact.

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. Could it really have been an oversight?

“Maybe Franklin hid a copy of his article somewhere at the club?” Caroline suggested. She watched Yvonne carefully for her reaction.

Yvonne shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Can you get me into the club?” Caroline asked.

Yvonne sighed. “I suppose, but I’d need to make special arrangements. Some of our celebrity members have had some trouble with the paparazzi. I might need to get board approval to allow a nonmember to wander around the facility.”

Caroline held her eyes.

“I guess I could see what I could do,” Yvonne said in a flat tone.

Yvonne’s lukewarm commitment gave Caroline no confidence.

“The sooner the better,” Caroline said, even as her mind raced for other ways to locate the missing article in case Yvonne’s efforts to arrange for her to search the club were as anemic as her enthusiasm for the idea.

“What about Annie Wong’s boyfriend?” Caroline asked. “Perhaps he knows where Annie went. Do you have a number for him?”

“I don’t know it, but I could probably find his address. We’ve gone to art shows at his loft from time to time. I’m sure I have his address around somewhere.”

“Please,” Caroline implored.

“I’ll find it for you. But I should warn you. Henrik can be a bit . . . much.”

Caroline cocked her head at the vague warning.

“Let’s put it this way,” Yvonne said. “He’s not the most refined soul.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

That’s how Henrik Stengaard had answered the door when Caroline knocked.

Shouting to be heard through the rusted metal door, she’d explained her business. When the door had creaked, groaned, and grated its way open, one word had come to Caroline’s mind:
Viking
. Thick as a standing stone at Stonehenge and as blond as a poster child for the Aryan Youth, Henrik exuded a physical presence that Caroline could equate only to Nordic marauders. Or football players. Swallowing a thick lump of trepidation, Caroline had entered the loft.

Now she stood in the center of the live/work space, surrounded by canvases mounted on easels. Some shimmered, still wet in the afternoon sun. Unlike the behemoth who had created them, the images were soft and subtle, plays on light and shadow exhibiting a sensitivity incongruent with the artist’s brute appearance. Admiring Henrik’s abstract canvases, Caroline reflected that Henrik’s art was not the sort of thing that Louis would ever collect. No, her boss’s taste tended toward only the most expensive old masters.

“My life’s a goddamn disaster,” Henrik said, pacing his home like a neurotic leopard in a too-small zoo enclosure. “I’ve got a gallery show starting downtown in a week. I need to finish these canvases.”

The artist’s big hands gestured around the space, sweeping the accumulated chaos within their reach. “But I can’t focus. Ever since Annie disappeared—” He ran a hand through his shaggy mane of blond hair. “Look, I get why you’re here, but I’m not sure there’s anything I can tell you that’ll help you find her.”

Caroline watched him pacing back and forth across the vaulted workspace, from the cluttered kitchen area that reeked of old food to the sleeping area demarked by a spray-painted shoji screen. The artist looked like he walked a razor’s edge. She feared what would happen if he fell off. But she’d come for a reason. She had to ask her questions. Even if they pushed him off the edge.

“Did Annie leave any hint where she went?” she asked.

Henrik stopped pacing and just shook his head no. He swallowed heavily, as if jamming his emotions, his words back down his throat.

Caroline looked with sympathy at the artist. He looked like he didn’t get out much. She wondered if he had any friends to whom he’d been able to vent his pent-up emotions.

“That must be hard,” she offered.

“Hard?” Henrik put his paint-spattered hands on his hips and glared at Caroline. “This whole thing’s totally fucked. One second Annie’s saying she wants us to move slowly—she doesn’t want to move in with me too fast. Fine, I get it. She loves her house in Santa Monica. But then the next second, she’s moving in. She’s sold her place. Great. We’re moving ahead as a couple. Just like I wanted. But then, a half a second after that, she’s leaving town. It’s a fucking smorgasbord of mixed messages.”

“How was she doing before she left? Was she . . . preoccupied or anything?” Caroline asked. She sensed that with the slightest prodding, the sluice gates would open . . . and hopefully bring a flood of information, not rage.

“If by preoccupied you mean, was she totally shutting down on me, then yes, she was preoccupied,” Henrik said. “I tried to find out what the hell was going on with her, but she wouldn’t say anything.”

“That must have been frustrating.”

“Frustrating? It was fucking terrifying.” Henrik glowered.

The artist took a breath and tried to compose himself. “You got to understand, Annie doesn’t trust people easily. But she trusts me. Or she used to,” Henrik said, his voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to be there for her. God, I tried to be. Even after she left town, I kept on trying. I called her a dozen times. I told her I’d go wherever she was. Screw my gallery show.”

“But she wouldn’t tell you where she was?”

“Worse. She left me a fucking video message breaking up with me.” The artist’s voice rose, his anger covering his pain.

“She broke up with you?” Caroline’s eyebrows shot up her forehead.

“Yeah.” Henrik’s square jaw tightened, jutting slightly. “She didn’t even give me the courtesy of calling me. She just sent a damn video message.”

“Can I see it?” Caroline asked. She knew the message could be an upsetting, intensely personal reminder of love and loss for the artist, but it could also hold some clue about Annie’s whereabouts. She had to see it. If Annie Wong could be found, perhaps the article could be, too.

In answer, Henrik reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. He tilted it toward Caroline, his large hand dwarfing the device.

“This was from about a week after she left,” he said, hitting “Play.”

The screen ignited with a shaky video of a woman with long black hair. Although Annie’s hair was pulled back, loose wisps caught the wind and whipped across her face. The lighting was dim and the angle was close up—the camera held only arm’s length away. Caroline couldn’t make out anything in the background.

“I’m sorry, Henrik,” Annie began, “but you’ve got to stop calling me. I don’t blame you for not understanding. I barely do myself.” The words were spoken quickly, as if she’d been afraid to stop her momentum. But then she paused. “Even if it doesn’t seem like it right now, please know that I really do love you.” Her eyes softened. “I hope you can move on.” Behind her, a passing light flashed by, like a car driving on a road in the distance, and then the video message ended.

When Caroline looked back at Henrik, his eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

“That’s it,” he choked out, pocketing the phone. “That’s all she fucking said. Over a year together, and that’s how she ends it.” He opened and closed his hands in impotent frustration.

“Can you send that to me?” Caroline asked, her compassion coloring her voice. “Maybe something in it will give me some clue where she went.”

Henrik didn’t answer. Caroline waited. She knew intense people needed to find their own level. Saying anything to them in the midst of a rant was like stepping into the firing line. She had the bullet holes to prove it.

“On one condition,” Henrik finally said, his mouth tense as he pulled out the phone again. “If you find her, you tell her I’d really like to talk to her. I need some closure.”

“Of course,” Caroline agreed and then gave him her e-mail address.