The detective broke into a wide smile. “Comes off like a bad movie. College kids probably painted all kinds of things down there. At least once a week we’re in those tunnels trying to coax them out after they busted through a grate or something. Nothing down there but pipes, we tell them, but it’s the mystique that pulls them in.”
Victor knew it was more than mystique that pulled Colda into those tunnels, but he didn’t share his thoughts. “Have you found him? Professor Colda?”
The detective’s face grew sober. “Possibly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we found his car.”
Brooke sat bolt upright. “Really? Where?”
“Underwater.”
Her eyes rounded in horror. “Is he… Did he drown?”
“Haven’t got a body yet. Car was at the bottom of the bay, windows open.”
Victor kept his voice low. “Accident?”
The detective slid his glance from Victor to Brooke. “Maybe.”
“So why did you call us here, Detective?” Victor said.
“Trouble trail.”
“What?”
“I’ve been at this business since the dawn of time and when someone has this trail of trouble that seems to follow them, it means something is up.”
“You sound like Mr. Tuney.”
“No doubt. He was a San Francisco cop for years before he got the boot.”
Victor could not hide his surprise. “Really? Why was he let go?”
Paulson folded his arms. “His story to tell, not mine. Anyway…” His gaze shifted to Brooke and he took a sip from the orange-juice container on his desk. “You come to town, a woman gets murdered, a woman who was following you. You come to Bayside in search of Professor Colda, a friend of your father’s, and now it appears Colda may have killed himself.”
Brooke gasped, hands clenched. “Oh, no. That’s horrible.”
“He mailed us a letter that we received today. Reads as follows.” The detective consulted a photocopy. “‘I can’t take the guilt anymore from what I did four years ago. I ruined a good man who had nothing to do with the museum robbery. I’m sorry, Donald. I hope this will clear your name, friend. L. Colda.’”
She felt tears crowd her eyes. “You see? He didn’t do it. My father is innocent, just like I said. He had nothing to do with the theft or Jennifer’s death.” She looked at Victor with utter joy suffusing her face.
How he wished it was true, but a glance at Paulson told him the other shoe hadn’t yet dropped.
“We’re not quite there yet,” Paulson said. “As a matter of fact, a couple of things make us question the suicide theory and here’s one of them.” He flipped an eight-by-ten glossy photo on the desk so Victor and Brooke could examine it.
Brooke gasped and sat up, electrified. “It’s a pencil sketch. One of the works that was stolen from the museum.”
Victor leaned forward, peering at the photo of a small framed picture. He’d never actually seen photos of the stolen items. “This was in Colda’s car?”
“Nope.”
“Where, then?” Brooke said, a wary tone creeping into her voice.
“In a box stored at the group home where your brother, Tad, stays.”
Brooke’s face drained of color. “No. No, that’s not possible. My brother has Fragile X Syndrome. Surely you don’t think…”
Paulson waved a hand. “Of course not, but someone stored the thing there and it wasn’t Colda. According to both Donald and Denise, he hadn’t met Tad, and the group home confirms he’d never even visited there.”
“Oh, no. You think my father was hiding it there? For what reason would he do that?”
Paulson stared at her without a hint of a smile. “He probably sold the other two and waited to find a buyer for this one. He stashed it there, or had someone else do it.”
“Me?” Brooke said, her voice an anguished cry.
“Or Denise. Or maybe even Jeffrey Lock—he visited Tad one time and brought some artwork for the inmates, so to speak.”
“My brother is not an inmate,” she hissed.
“My apologies. Slip of the tongue.”
Victor felt the wall of bitterness wash over him, as he pictured Donald using his disabled son to hide the stolen goods. Brooke’s father engineered the robbery that killed Jennifer. He was responsible, as surely as if he’d driven the car that smashed into theirs.
“You’re wrong,” Brooke mumbled, as if speaking to him. “It wasn’t me or my father, or my aunt. I don’t know how the sketch got there unless Dean Lock put it there himself.”
“And we’ll talk to him about that, you can believe it.” Detective Paulson gave her a look that was not without pity. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ramsey. I know this is hard to hear. I wanted to apprise you of the situation and let you know that we’re reopening the investigation into the theft four years ago.”
She let out a choked sob. “But my father is…he’s mentally failing. You can’t interrogate him, please.”
Paulson held up a calming hand. “We’ve spoken to his doctor and confirmed that. We’ll continue to check into the details as best we can. We’ve already contacted Denise Ramsey and she’s been very cooperative. We’ll reinterview Dean Lock, the security guards and any of Colda’s contacts that we can find, though he wasn’t much of a social butterfly.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “We will get to the truth, with or without your father’s help.”
Victor fixed the detective with a stare. “What do you think happened to Colda?”
“My theory?”
Victor nodded.
Paulson drained the orange juice and slam-dunked the container into the trash can. “I think someone killed him, faked the suicide note and made it look like he drove himself into the bay.”
“Can you prove it?”
“As I said. Just a theory at this point.”
“But what about the Tarkenton my father sent to Bayside?” Brooke said, her voice desperate.
Paulson’s eyes were cold. “As far as that goes, there’s no proof that such a painting ever existed. Only painting we’ve got here is the one in Colda’s apartment.”
“I saw the original, my father saw it, Aunt Denise saw it. We all did.”
“Three people who all have reason to want Donald’s name cleared. You could have made the whole story up.”
“But why would we do that? What purpose would it serve?”
He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know, Ms. Ramsey. Maybe you could tell me.”
Brooke didn’t utter a sound.
Paulson showed them out to the waiting area and left.
* * *
Victor did not trust himself to speak. They stood there in an unexpectedly sunny afternoon, but he felt no joy in it. Her father was behind the plot that killed Jennifer. And here he was, wrapped up in an investigation because he thought he could ferret out what happened four years before. The situation had grown more complicated. The painful truth was, he felt something for Brooke, some strange attraction that pulled him into her orbit.
The guilt welled up inside. He’d helped her, assisting her to find yet another treasure for her father.
Brooke finally spoke. “It isn’t true.” Her eyes searched his and he knew she was desperate to see some kindness there, a flicker of trust.
“That’s not how it looks,” was the gentlest thing he could say.
“You know I didn’t hide that sketch at Tad’s group home. I would never…” A sob choked off her words. “I would never use my brother.”
His throat felt a little thick, too. “I know you wouldn’t, and I know you didn’t have anything to do with what your father did.”
She pressed her lips together and blinked back the tears. “He didn’t do it. You need to believe me. I know the truth.”
“You can’t see the truth,” he said, jaw tight. “You love your father too much.”
“Just as much as you loved your wife,” she said, turning and walking back to the car.
* * *
She willed herself not to cry. The nightmare was taking over her life again after so many years of grief. It could not be happening.
Father, help me,
she prayed silently.
The wall that had sprung up between her and Victor was acutely painful, though she was not sure why. He’d never believed her father’s innocence. It should be no surprise that he greeted her with only cold suspicion now.
She would go home. Book the next flight out. Pay Victor whatever his time was worth and rush to her father’s side.
As soon as Victor parked the car, Brooke hurried to the courtyard, a quiet spot where she could make a call back home. No answer. Frustration almost overcame her. She felt like hurling the phone onto the paving stones just to see it smash.
Do not give in to despair,
she told herself.
Chin up.
She walked into the dorm room to pack her things. She found Victor and Stephanie deep in discussion. They broke off when she entered. “I’m going back to San Diego. I’ll pay you for your time,” she said stiffly.
Victor didn’t move, just stared at her, his face an unreadable mask.
A knock on the door startled them all and Brooke’s mouth fell open as Denise walked in. She could not say a word, only threw herself into her aunt’s arms and cried. Denise squeezed her back and whispered something comforting that Brooke could not make out. Finally she pulled away.
“Dad. Is he okay?”
Denise squeezed Brooke’s hand, her grip strong in spite of her sixty-two years. “Perfectly fine. I’ve hired a nurse to care for him until I get back—Mrs. Jones, you know her—and an attorney to make sure he doesn’t incriminate himself in any way. He’s not lucid right now, so the police have agreed to give us a little time.” She tucked her auburn bob behind her ear and turned to the Gages. “Your secretary told me I would find you here, Mr. Gage.”
Brooke wiped her eyes. “You should stay with Dad. They’re reopening the case.”
She pursed her lips for a moment. “I’ve been told all about that and that’s why I’m here. You and I both know your father didn’t steal anything, nor did he have anything to do with Colda’s disappearance or suicide or whatever it was. Your dad sent that painting here and if there’s the smallest chance we can find it, and prove that he wasn’t working with Colda now or back then when the museum sketches were snatched, then I’m here to help you do that.”
Brooke hugged her again, profoundly relieved to have someone in her corner, someone who knew the truth about her father. Denise gave her a pat and turned to the others. “You’ve heard the whole story from the police?”
Victor nodded and introduced his sister. He brushed a hand through his hair. “Ms. Ramsey, I think you should know that there is a minuscule chance that there is anything of value in those tunnels. They’re dangerous and filthy and…”
She cut him off. “And you think Donald has already stolen the painting from Colda and killed him, made it look like a suicide.”
The abrupt remark made Victor blink. “Possibly,” he said simply.
Denise smiled. “I can see where you might think that, but I have the advantage of knowing you are wrong about Donald, so there’s every chance you’re wrong about the tunnels. I came to help. A few days, and if we find nothing, then Brooke and I fly home. I know the theft all those years ago cost you your wife and I’m very sorry about that. I understand why you don’t want to help any longer, Mr. Gage. Thank you for keeping Brooke safe.”
Victor’s jaw tightened and Brooke could see the hardness in his face. “I didn’t take this case just to find your painting. I took it because I thought there might be a connection to what happened four years ago.”
“And it seems there is, but the guilt is on Colda’s shoulders now,” Denise said calmly.
“And Donald’s.”
Denise shook her head, a hint of impatience creeping in. “Colda confessed in his letter and if anyone was working with Colda on the museum theft, it wasn’t Donald.”
“Then who was it?” Victor asked, voice low.
Denise shook her head. “The only other person it could be.”
Victor raised an eyebrow. “Dean Lock?”
Her lips thinned. “I know him better than any of you.” She sucked in a breath. “Things being how they are, I understand that you won’t want to work with us anymore on this.”
Victor stood still for a moment, then nodded slowly. “We’ll leave you two alone now.”
Brooke watched through the window as Victor left, the urge to run to him rippling through her body. In a moment, he would be gone, out of her life permanently, swallowed up into the world and she would never see him again.
Victor, don’t go. You’re wrong about my father, wrong about everything.
But she didn’t say a word as he walked out of the dorm and out of her life.
Aunt Denise put a hand on her shoulder. “He’s a handsome man.”
“Yes,” she said faintly.
“Let’s start making some plans, Brooke.”
Pushing down the strange tearing sensation in her chest, she turned and followed her aunt to the table.
FOURTEEN
V
ictor packed mechanically, precisely, the way he did everything else in his life. The police would handle things now, ferret out the connection between Colda and Donald. They’d make the case and convict him, if he was fit enough to stand trial.
So why didn’t Victor feel the surge of satisfaction he’d been coveting for four years? He was a treasure seeker who had found no treasure, that must be it. Professional disappointment, a waste of time and resources for the agency.
Stephanie flopped on the bed, staring at him. “So we’re walking away?”
“Why wouldn’t we? There’s no treasure here. I got what I came for.”
“You don’t look very happy about it.”
He added his flashlight to the pack. “I was after more than the Tarkenton.”
“I know,” she said softly. “And the police finding those stolen sketches at the group home pins it neatly on Brooke’s father. You got what you came for.”
“Donald may have been the mastermind, but he wasn’t the driver who crashed into us. And none of this brings Jennifer back.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Stephanie rolled onto her back and put her hands behind her head. “And we don’t even have the pleasure of finding a treasure for our trouble.” She paused. “There’s also the matter of the pawn.”
“The one left on Brooke’s bed?”
“Yep. If Colda’s the bad guy and he’s floating in the bay after killing himself, then who put it there?”