A Deadly Game. Virginia Smith
house was empty and secure. Though personally he thought Detective Rollins’s warning a bit on the dramatic side. The police had no idea why Ingram had been killed. To assume his secretary was in danger was too big a leap to make sense, in Jack’s opinion. But the police had to be extracautious, he supposed.
Lord, keep her safe tonight, please. And help her to get some rest. She’s had a pretty awful day.
The quick prayer on Susanna’s behalf put that part of his mind to rest. He had done the only thing—the best thing—he could do for her.
The traffic light up ahead turned yellow, and Jack slowed to a stop as it changed to red, gingerly pumping the brakes in case the evening’s sleet had left icy patches. A right turn would take him to the affluent neighborhood where he had grown up. He hadn’t lived there since college and his first apartment off campus, where he’d encountered a peaceful existence he hadn’t dreamed possible in the years of living under R.H.’s critical eye. Cheri, his older sister, had escaped four years before him when she went to Cornell University. She had never returned to Kentucky. Jack visited her in New York as often as he could.
A couple of cars passed by in front of him heading in the direction of his family home, where R.H. no doubt was still hard at work in his office, though the clock on Jack’s dash read ten-fourteen. Their earlier phone call replayed itself in his mind, as conversations with R.H. were wont to do. There had been one moment when Jack thought he detected a trace of emotion in the astringent voice. When R.H. had learned of Ingram’s death, he’d said, “That’s terrible. Just terrible.” He’d sounded shocked, and a little bit…vulnerable?
No, Jack must have imagined that part. Vulnerability was something he’d never seen his father display. It was a weakness, and R.H. had no patience for weakness in any form. He’d excised it from his life many years ago, when Mom died. But it was natural to feel shock at the violent death of a friend. Ingram and R.H. shared a lot in common, after all. They were roughly the same age. Ran in the same social circles. They both headed up powerful corporations, though in different industries. R.H. must have identified with Ingram to some extent. The death had to come as a blow, perhaps even give him a glimpse of his own mortality.
The light changed from red to green. At the same moment Jack took his foot off the brake, he came to a decision. He turned on his blinker, checked the mirror and made a quick right turn. If R.H. was feeling Ingram’s death personally, even a little, then he shouldn’t be alone. His questions might turn toward spiritual matters, and if they did, Jack wanted to be there with the answers he had found himself. No doubt he would be slapped down yet again, but the man was his father. Beneath the ridicule and the harsh behavior, Jack knew R.H. loved him and Cheri as much as he could. As much as he was able.
He punched in the code to open the gate at the entrance to the exclusive neighborhood, and then steered the truck through the familiar streets. The homes here were a far different style than the ones he had just seen. The price tag for many of them ranged into seven-digit territory, and every lawn had the unmistakable look of hours of care by professional landscapers.
Three turns and Jack arrived at the cul-de-sac where he had grown up. He pulled into the driveway of the house and followed the graceful, rosebush-lined curve around to the back. But the windows he’d expected to see lit up, the ones to his father’s study, were dark. In fact, there were no lights on anywhere in the house. Jack checked the clock on the dashboard again. Not even ten-thirty, and R.H. was already in bed?
A niggling worry started in his mind, like an itch he couldn’t ignore. R.H. never went to bed before midnight. Was he sick? Had Ingram’s death affected him more than he let on?
Jack parked the truck and hopped out. He went to the back door, but hesitated before he put his key in the lock. It was possible his father had simply gone to bed earlier than usual. Even if he were upset by Ingram’s death, he wouldn’t appreciate Jack’s interference. In fact, any concern Jack was bold enough to voice would no doubt be met with scorn, and probably another angry tirade.
The window in the back door was covered with custom-fitted blinds, and Jack could see nothing through it. After a moment of indecision, he turned toward his truck. Tomorrow at the office he’d mention that he stopped by to give him an update on the Corvette, but left when he realized R.H. had turned in early. Maybe he’d learn something from the reaction he received.
He followed the cobbled walkway toward his pickup and passed the garage window. The blinds stood open and he glanced inside. He skidded to a stop. It was probably just the darkness, but from this distance it looked as if the garage bay nearest the window was empty. Curious, he stepped over the knee-high shrubs to take a closer look. His shoes scuffed in the winter mulch of the flower bed as he approached the window.
The three-car garage normally housed two vehicles. One bay had remained empty for as long as Jack could remember. R.H.’s main car was a BMW, and that was parked in its regular place, the bay closest to the door leading into the house. But he also had another car, a Lexus SUV, which he used on the rare occasions when he drove out in the country to the hunting lodge, or when the city roads were icy. The SUV was missing.
R.H. was not at home.
When Jack called earlier he had dialed the house phone, so he knew his father had been at home ninety minutes ago. Where would he go this late at night?
Though weariness dragged at Susanna’s body, sleep refused to come. The novel on her bedside table failed to either hold her attention or coax her to sleep. She gave up on the book, turned off the light and closed her eyes. But all she could see was the image of the body sprawled on the floor. Her eyes flew open. Maybe a hot cup of herbal tea would help her relax. Resigned, she got out of bed, slid her feet into her slippers and went to the kitchen.
A few minutes later, she carried a steaming mug to the soft comfort of the living-room sofa. Her purse lay on the cushion where she’d tossed it, the packet of papers she’d received from the auction inside. The last errand she would ever perform for her boss. She dropped onto the couch and sipped from her tea. There had been something else in the plastic envelope with the papers and keys, but she’d been too busy trying to find a company to transport the car tonight to pay much attention to it. And since then, she’d been…well, occupied.
She set the mug on the table, fished out the envelope and upended it onto the cushion beside her. Out tumbled the owner’s manual, registration, car title signed by the previous owner and a set of keys on a metal ring along with a key tag bearing the Corvette emblem. The bulk of the contents was a thick stack of papers held together with a large rubber band documenting the car’s maintenance history, which was apparently important to the value of a classic automobile. The auctioneer had made a big deal out of mentioning it.
Susanna fanned through the papers. They were in date order going all the way back to 1980, the year the car was manufactured. Oil changes, brake pad replacements, a receipt for new tires. Something dropped out of the bundle and landed on the cushion beside the owner’s manual—a small canvas pouch with a drawstring opening cinched shut. Curious, she opened it and emptied the contents into the palm of her hand: a silver coin, about the size and weight of a half dollar. One side was embossed with a single word—nine. She flipped it over. The other side contained the digit—9.
A comment from the car’s previous owner, whom she had met briefly while sitting at the auction desk signing papers, came back to her. He’d smiled as he shook her hand and said, “Congratulations. You got number nine.” She had assumed the man was a dealer or something, and the Corvette was the ninth car he’d sold today.
She weighed the token in the palm of her hand. How odd. Why would he put numbered coins in with each of the cars he sold? Maybe it had something to do with Corvettes, like a numbered painting or something. Or maybe it had something to do with the auction. Sort of like a proof of purchase, perhaps? She held the token up to the light and inspected it carefully for any other markings. Nothing. No Corvette emblems, nor the auction house’s logo. She’d have to remember to ask Mr. Ingram about—
Reality slapped at her, cutting off the thought unfinished. She’d never be able to ask Mr. Ingram anything, ever again.
In