David Baldacci - Stone Cold

Roger Simpson was tall, nearly six-five and fit, with blondish hair that had white infringing all over, and the calm, aloof air of a man used to having his personal boundaries respected and his commands followed.

The elevator door down the hall opened and a tall blonde woman stepped out. When he saw her Simpson smiled and stepped forward, giving her a quick embrace. She in turn favored him with a peck on the cheek that to Finn’s eye was all show and no substance. This was Mrs. Simpson, a former Miss Alabama, with an MBA from an Ivy League school. It was an unusual résumé for a potential First Lady.

Finn noted the two men next to Simpson. They had earpieces and were armed, maybe Secret Service. Simpson had no doubt taken extra precautions, particularly since the three former Triple Sixes and Carter Gray had died. Finn’s plan did not involve a direct attack on Simpson. The only problematic piece might be the picture of Rayfield Solomon. Simpson needed to know why his life was ending. Yet Finn would think of a way; he always did.

He quietly left the building.

STONE ROSE EARLY but Annabelle was already downstairs having hot tea in front of the fireplace. He nodded to her as he came into the room, and then looked for others about.

“We’re it,” she said bluntly. “You want some breakfast?”

They ate in a chilly room off the small kitchen. Annabelle barely looked at her food while Stone chewed his eggs and toast and shot her glances.

“Did you hear back from Milton and Reuben after they called you?” she asked. “Did they find out anything else?”

“Not yet but I’m sure they’ll let us know.”

As soon as he finished his cup of coffee she rose. “You ready?”

“Are we going to see the house?”

“We can’t. They knocked it down and put up a monster in its place. But we can still check out the area.”

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked unfocused. Stone wondered if she was ill.

As though in answer to his thoughts she said, “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep much.”

A half hour later they were standing in front of the plot of land where Annabelle’s mother had been murdered.

Annabelle said, “That’s it. Or at least where it was. My mom’s place was just a little cottage.”

The current house wasn’t a little anything. It was a ten-thousand-square-foot shingled and turreted Architectural Digest cover home wannabe right on the ocean.

“How long ago was the cottage knocked down?” Stone asked.

“Six years. Not too long after she was killed. Ocean views trump brutal murder every time.”

“Okay, how do you want to do this?” he asked.

“I suggest we’re a father and daughter, no offense, looking for someplace for you to retire. We grab a local Realtor and start asking questions.”

Later that afternoon Annabelle and Stone followed a short dark-haired woman built like a keg of beer around the exterior of a large house for sale. It was four lots down from where Annabelle’s mother had gotten a bullet fired into her brain courtesy of Jerry Bagger.

“It’s adorable, Dad,” Annabelle cooed as they surveyed the tumbledown place. “I can’t understand why no one has snatched it up.”

“First of all, it’s not little. And second, it obviously needs some work,” Stone said firmly.

“Come on, Dad,” Annabelle said. “It’s oceanfront. You’ve been looking a long time and never found anything worth writing home about. Can’t you see yourself retiring here? Just look at those views.”

He turned to the Realtor. “The place at the end of the street on the right is a real beaut and in great condition. Know whether they’re interested in selling?”

“The MacIntoshes? No, I don’t think they want to sell.”

Annabelle said, “MacIntoshes? That doesn’t sound familiar. But I did know some folks that used to live up here. Well, I didn’t really know them, friend of a friend thing. Visited them once; that’s why we’re up here looking, actually. I remember it being so pretty.”

“I’ve been here a long time, do you remember their names?”

Annabelle pretended to think. “Connor, or Conway. No, Conroy, that’s right, Conroy.”

“Not Tammy Conroy?” the Realtor said sharply.

“I think so, yes. Now I remember. A tall, thin woman with red hair.”

The Realtor looked flustered. “Tammy Conroy, oh dear. You’re sure?”

“Why, is something wrong?” Annabelle said.

“How well did you know her?”

“Like I said, friend of a friend. Why?”

“Well, I guess you’ll find out sooner or later. Some years ago Tammy Conroy was killed in a little cottage that used to be on the site of the MacIntosh house.”

“Killed!” Annabelle clutched Stone’s arm.

Stone said, “When you say killed, do you mean by accident?”

“Actually no, she was, well, she was murdered.” The woman added quickly, “But we’ve never had another murder since. This is really a very safe place.”

“Did they catch whoever did it?” Annabelle asked.

The Realtor looked even more uncomfortable. “Actually, no, they never caught the person.”

Stone said, “Hell, he could still be out there waiting to kill again. Maybe he has a fixation on this neighborhood. Stranger things have happened.”

“I don’t think that was the case,” the Realtor said. “Before the woman who was killed owned it, an elderly widow lived there. She died of old age and her son sold the place to Mrs. Conroy. In fact, I represented the seller in the transaction.”

“Maybe her husband did it,” Annabelle suggested. “I mean, if she was married. So many murders are domestic in nature. It’s awful!”

“There was a husband, can’t recall his name offhand. But he was gone by the time she was killed, I believe. Leastways, the police never named him a suspect. I always thought some stranger did it. Tammy kept to herself. I don’t even think she had any children. But that was years ago, and, like I said, this is actually a very safe area. Now, would you like to see the inside of this house?”

After a quick tour of the house they took the woman’s card and said they would get back to her.

As they drove off Annabelle pulled out a brown scarf from her pocket and rubbed it gently.

“What’s that?”

“A scarf my mother gave to me. It was for my birthday. It’s the last thing she ever had a chance to give me.”

“I’m sorry, Annabelle.”

She sat back against the car seat and closed her eyes. “I couldn’t even attend the funeral. I’d heard rumors in the con world that Bagger was involved and that my father had gotten off scot-free as usual. I knew Bagger would be watching. I’ve never even been to her grave.”

“And you think your father is dead?”

“Let’s put it this way, if my dream came true he is.”

As they were driving down the street, the light changed and Stone stopped. Annabelle idly glanced at a tall, thin man coming out of a bar and her face froze.

Stone noted her look and said, “What is it?”

“The man coming out of that bar across the street,” she whispered as she stared.

Stone glanced over. “What about him?”

“He’s my father, Paddy Conroy.”

“PULL OVER, OLIVER,” Annabelle barked.

“What are you going to do?”

“Right now, I’m trying hard not to throw up.” She rested her chin on the dashboard, but kept her gaze on her father. “God, it’s like I’m seeing a damn ghost.”

She slowly sat back up and wiped clammy sweat from her forehead.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know. My mind pretty much just shut down on me.”