Karen Rose - Kill for Me

Susannah took the seat next to Luke. “Have you looked in Mr. Grant’s box?”

“Ed did,” Chase said, “to be sure nothing would explode, literally or figuratively.”

Ed’s expression was carefully blank, giving away nothing.

“What’s in the envelope?” Luke asked.

“It’s from Borenson,” Chase said. “He left instructions that if he died suspiciously or went missing, his safe-deposit box should be turned over to the authorities.”

“That was the key we found in Granville’s firebox,” Nancy said. “We think Grant sent Toby Granville to find the file, but Toby only found the key. It fits Borenson’s safe-deposit box in a Charleston bank. And it’s why Charles Grant tortured Borenson. He wanted to know where the papers were kept. They incriminate everyone.”

“Borenson’s attorney only learned of his disappearance this morning,” Chase said, “and dropped this off while we were all in Dutton. Borenson’s papers detail the ongoing rivalry between Arthur and Charles and throw in a few extras like the real death certificate for the body that was buried in Simon’s grave and proof of Charles Grant’s real identity, courtesy of Angie Delacroix. Looks like she had an ace up her sleeve, too.”

“It would have been nice if they’d come forward when it mattered,” Susannah said quietly. “Before dozens of people died. Did you arrest Angie?”

“We did,” Chloe said. “She participated in Charles Grant’s extortion, willingly or not.”

“And we convinced Paul Houston to tell us what he had on Leigh,” Pete said grimly.

Susannah’s stomach clenched at the mention of Paul Houston. “How?”

“How did we get him to tell?” Pete asked.

“Yes.”

Pete glanced at Chloe, who was looking up at the ceiling. “Paul might have tripped on the way to the car… once or twice. He was cryin’ so hard over Charles, you know. Couldn’t see where he was going.”

“It’s so sad when dirty cops have two left feet,” Chloe murmured.

“Ain’t it, though?” Pete said, still grimly. “About two years ago three little kids were killed when they were hit by a speeding vehicle. The kids were in a crosswalk, the car ran a light and didn’t stop. Paul Houston caught the case.”

Luke blew out a breath. “That was Leigh?”

“Yeah.” Pete shook his head. “ Houston found her pretty quickly, but told her he wouldn’t arrest her and strung her along until he needed her. That was this week.”

“We showed Houston ’s picture to Jeff Katowsky,” Chloe said, “the guy who tried to kill Captain Beardsley. He identified Houston as the cop who busted him. Same song as Leigh. Houston didn’t book him in exchange for future favors.”

“Did Houston keep a journal?” Susannah asked sarcastically.

Pete’s smile was wry. “No, but he’s willing to talk. He’s scared of Georgia jail.”

“And of New York jail,” Chloe added. “Al Landers plans to charge him with rape. Yours. You never got to confront Granville or Simon, but you can confront Houston.”

Talia leaned forward. “But only if you want to.”

Susannah felt every muscle in her body grow still. “Oh, yes. I want. Thank you.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment, then Chase pointed to the ivory box. “Open it.”

Her hands steady, Susannah pulled on the gloves Ed offered and took the lid off the box. Then looked up with a frown. “Chess pieces? That’s all?”

Ed shook his head. “There’s a spring mechanism under the queen. Push it.”

She opened it. “His dog tags.” She pulled them out, let them dangle. “Ray Kraemer.”

“And a slug,” Luke murmured. “Looks old. Maybe the one Ellis shot into his leg.”

“Maybe. A photo.” Susannah’s breath caught. “It’s Mr. Grant, younger, with an older Asian man in robes. Oh my God. Mr. Grant’s got the walking stick.” She turned the picture over. “ ‘Ray Kraemer and Pham Duc Quam, Saigon, 1975.’ ”

Nancy studied it. “That’s Grant’s handwriting. I’ve been reading his journals all day.”

“I got Ray Kraemer’s and Michael Ellis’s military records,” Chase said. “Kraemer was captured in ’67, Ellis in ’68. It was thought Ellis was captured by the Vietcong while trying to desert, but nobody was sure. He found an army camp after escaping the POW camp. He’d been lost in the jungle for three weeks. Because they couldn’t prove he’d deserted, he was honorably discharged. Kraemer was listed MIA. Until today.”

“Mr. Grant was still there in 1975, according to this photo,” Susannah said. “He came back the next year, became Paul’s tutor. What did he do in between? Who is this man?”

“They look like they’re friends,” Luke said, then passed the photo around.

“We found robes similar to these in Charles’s closet,” Pete said. “Recently worn.”

“Here’s the Asian man again,” Susannah said, unfolding a frail piece of paper. “But not in the same robes. It looks like an advertisement. It’s got his name, then thây bói .”

“I had it translated while you were in the ER,” Ed said. “Pham’s a fortune-teller.”

“Why would Mr. Grant keep this?” Susannah asked, frowning.

“Because in addition to extorting money for secrets, Grant told the fortunes of a number of the wealthy women in Dutton,” Nancy said. “He kept records of how much they paid him, what he’d told them. Sometimes he paid out money to third parties to make the fortunes come true. Susannah, your mother was one of his clients.”

“Makes sense. Arthur said my mother was afraid of Grant’s ‘Asian voo-doo.’ ”

“Arthur’s journal says Borenson provided a fake death certificate for Simon the day before you heard that Simon was dead,” Nancy said. “Grant’s journal says that he read for your mother the day before Simon’s ‘death,’ that great tragedy was coming.”

“Because Arthur was going to tell her Simon was dead. Borenson must have told Grant,” Susannah said, pulling out more folded paper. “These are almost like playbills.”

Ed took them from her gently. “This one says this Pham person is a healer. This one says he channels spirits. This says they’re charging admission to hear him speak.”

“A flim-flam man,” Pete said, casting an arched brow at Nancy.

Nancy groaned. “Flim-flam Pham? Geeze, Pete.”

Susannah’s mouth turned up, then sobered abruptly. “Another journal.” It was small, hardly bigger than her palm. “The writing is so small.” She squinted. “The first entry is December 1968. ‘Today I realized I would not die. But I never want to forget the rage I feel. The man gave me this journal, so I’ll write it all down and never forget. Someday I’ll have revenge, against the USA for abandoning me in that hell-hole and against Mike Ellis. He’ll wish he’d turned that gun on his own head instead of my leg. ’ ”

She skimmed. “Ray Kraemer dug the bullet out of his own leg after Ellis left him for dead. He crawled through the jungle till he passed out. When he woke up he was in a hut, burning up with fever, being cared for by a Vietnamese man. ‘I never thought I’d be grateful to one of them, but this guy has taken care of me. I still don’t know why.’ ”

She flipped ahead. “ ‘His name is Pham. He gives me food and shelter. After a year in one of their hell-holes, I’m finally full and dry. I thought Pham was a doctor, or maybe a teacher, or a priest. I realized today that Pham is a con artist. A chameleon. He has an uncanny ability to pick up on what people need him to be. He gives them something meaningless that makes them happy, then robs them blind. We ate well tonight.’ ”

“And so it began,” Chase said quietly, but Susannah was still reading.