Sidney Sheldon & Tilly Bagshawe 3-Book Collection: After the Darkness, Mistress of the Game, Angel of the Dark. Tilly Bagshawe
thought back to the day Grace had called him. ‘I didn’t steal any money, Detective. I was framed and so was my husband.’ Was it possible?
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me this earlier?’ he shouted. But as soon as he’d said the words, he knew the answer: ‘You were going to sell the information, weren’t you? You greedy little shit.’
Davey Buccola was silent.
‘So you gave her this file?’
‘I had to! She had a gun …’
‘You have a copy, right? Tell me you have a copy.’
Less than three miles away, Grace lay in a bathtub, rereading Davey’s information for the hundredth time.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright. There it was, in black and white.
I know who killed Lenny.
At last, the hunt was on.
Andrew Preston walked down Wall Street with a familiar feeling of tightness in his chest. Maria was in the throes of a new affair. He knew the signs by now. The bedside drawer stuffed with receipts from La Perla. The Brazilian bikini wax she booked after their Hong Kong trip, not before. This morning, he’d even walked in on her singing La Traviata in the shower.
If only I didn’t love her so much. None of this would have happened.
It was five-thirty, and the street was already crowded with traders and secretarial staff on their way home. Since he’d started his new job in the M&A division at Lazard, Andrew often worked till nine or ten at night. But this was a Thursday: gym night. Andrew’s doctor had emphasized how vital it was for him to exercise regularly. ‘Nothing combats stress like a good game of racquetball. No point being a big swinging dick on Wall Street if your heart gives out at forty-five, you know what I’m saying?’
Andrew knew what his doctor was saying. Although he couldn’t help but question the judgment of anyone who perceived him, Andrew Preston, as a ‘big swinging dick.’ Maria certainly didn’t. Whatever he achieved, however much money he made, it was never enough. Andrew’s vintage Aston Martin DB5 was parked in an underground garage, four buildings down from his office. The rates were extortionate, but driving to work was one of the few small luxuries he allowed himself. Mindful of his heart, he took the stairs to P4 instead of the elevator, pressed the unlock button on his remote, and jumped into the driver’s seat.
‘Hello, Andrew.’
He was so shocked he almost screamed. Grace Brookstein was crouched low in the backseat. She was holding a gun and smiling.
‘Long time no see.’
Mitch Connors couldn’t believe his ears.
‘Sir, with all due respect, this is bullshit. We have to reopen the investigation into Leonard Brookstein’s death. If we don’t, and it came out later that we’d suppressed this evidence …’
When Mitch finally untrussed Davey Buccola, the red-faced PI had handed him a USB chip. The information it contained was so explosive, Mitch had printed it out and taken it straight to his boss.
‘No one’s suppressing anything.’ Lieutenant Dubray snapped the file shut. ‘Frankly, Mitch, I don’t understand why you’re so hot to start a new investigation when you’re making such a mess of the one you’re on now. Grace Brookstein’s made a fool of you. She’s made a fool of this entire department.’
‘I know, sir. But if her husband was murdered, and the inquest criminally mishandled, there’s been a major miscarriage of justice.’
Dubray scoffed. ‘Justice? Give me a break. Lenny Brookstein was an asshole, Mitch, okay? A rich, greedy asshole who took this city for a ride. If someone did whack the old man, they did the world a favor. Nobody cares, least of all me.’
Mitch was silent. Was Dubray for real? The whole investigation into Lenny Brookstein’s death had been a sham. The coroner ruled suicide, because America had already passed judgment on its once beloved son. Lenny Brookstein was a thief, a greedy liar who’d raped the poor and stolen from his own fund.
But what if America was wrong? About Lenny and Grace.
From the very beginning of the investigation, Mitch had had conflicting feelings about Grace Brookstein. The initial, knee-jerk hatred he shared with the rest of America had rapidly been replaced by a combination of pity and, he might as well admit it, respect. Grace was brave, determined and resourceful, qualities that Mitch had always viewed as predominantly male. Yet when he’d finally seen Grace Brookstein in the flesh, fleetingly, the day her subway train pulled away at Times Square, the face staring back at him was all woman: vulnerable, compassionate, kind. In other circumstances, another life, Mitch could picture himself falling for her. I could save her. We could save each other. He dragged himself back to reality.
‘Suppose Leonard Brookstein was innocent.’
Dubray’s eyes widened. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I said suppose he was innocent. Suppose someone else took that money.’
‘Like who? The tooth fairy?’
‘How about Andrew Preston? No disrespect, sir, but have you read Buccola’s file? Preston had been embezzling funds for years.’
Dubray waved a hand dismissively. ‘Petty cash. Besides, all the Quorum guys were interviewed up the wazoo at the time. I know the feds aren’t always the sharpest knives in the drawer, but do you really think Harry Bain wouldn’t have caught on by now if one of them had that cash? Your PI’s barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Maybe,’ Mitch conceded. ‘But shouldn’t we at least check out Buccola’s leads? The more I look at the Quorum case, the more it stinks.’
‘So stop looking at it. Do your job. Find Grace Brookstein and get her back in jail where she belongs.’
Back in his office, Mitch turned off his phone and closed the doors. Did Grace Brookstein belong in jail? He wasn’t so sure anymore. He tried to push the thought down, to strangle it. But it wouldn’t stop growing, forcing its way up into the sunlight of his consciousness like a weed.
It’s a put-up job. The inquest, the trial, whole thing. It’s all been staged, like a scripted reality show.
Dubray wasn’t interested in the truth. Neither were the Massachusetts cops who’d investigated Lenny Brookstein’s death, or the coroner, or the media, or even the FBI. The Quorum fraud was a movie and America had already cast its villains: Grace and Lenny Brookstein. No one wanted an alternative ending. Not when they’d paid so dearly for their seats, and were already halfway through their popcorn.
Dubray had told him to forget Buccola’s information: ‘Delete it, shred it, burn it, I don’t care. Lenny Brookstein’s dead and buried.’ But Mitch knew he couldn’t do that.
That information would lead him to the truth.
With a little luck, it would also lead him to Grace Brookstein.
Andrew Preston gritted his teeth. If he was going to die, he would try to do it with courage. ‘Everything I did, I did for Maria. You must believe that, Grace.’
Grace tightened the cord around his wrists. They’d driven out to New Jersey, to an abandoned barn off the 287 Freeway. Outside it was dark and a starting to rain. A cold drizzle dripped through the holes in the barn’s roof, soaking Andrew’s shirt. The post he was tied to pressed painfully into his back.
‘Don’t tell me what I must believe. Just answer my questions. How much did you