Джозеф Файндер - House on Fire

“Not all the threats are from outside the firm.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why are you here?” he said.

“Never been to Anguilla before.”

“And why is Sukie here?”

“Ask her.”

“I’m asking you. And how long did you think you’d get away with the fake name? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

So the flight attendant must have told him about my US passport, the different names. “I’m sure you’re excellent at what you do,” I said.

“Quite a legend you put together.”

He meant my alias, Nick Brown. “I always keep a few workable legends around in case I need them.”

“And why did you need it?”

“Sukie thought the family would be uncomfortable if they knew she was dating her security guy.”

“Is that what you are, a private security guy?”

I evaded his question. “With all the anti-Kimball stuff going on out there, it’s not safe to be a Kimball. You know that as well as anyone. And I doubt she’s the only family member who’s hiring their own security.”

“I didn’t know you did private security, Mr. Heller. I had the sense you were more in the private spy trade.”

“If you’ve done your homework on me, you know my background.”

“Okay.” Meaning he’d done his homework.

“So when a client has a security need, I can provide it.”

“You’re a little overqualified to be a security guard.”

“No such thing as overqualified. Not when you’re a Kimball and you can afford to hire the best.” I smiled.

“I guess women fall in love with their bodyguards fairly often, huh? Dating the client?”

“Look, I know it’s a big no-no in our line of work,” I said. “But screw it. We fell for each other, okay? Believe me, I’m the last person who wanted this to happen. Because I know what everyone’s going to think.”

“What’s that?”

“That I’m some kind of gold digger, of course. But this is real. We’re in love. Not that I expect anyone to believe that.” I was confessing to a lie, of course. It made me look bad, which made it all the more plausible. “Anyway, you wanted to see me?”

Of course, Fritz had wanted to ask me about my real identity, and I’d dealt with the issue head-on. He had nothing more to say to me except to apologize for bringing up the matter.

By the time I got back to the room, Sukie was asleep. We hadn’t made love since that time in New York. In the morning we had a room service breakfast.

I had an omelet and a lot of coffee, and she had French toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice.

I told her I needed to get back to Boston as soon as possible. “Can you order up the jet?” I said. “I have a lot to do before the family meeting.”

I had what I needed on Conrad Kimball: I had evidence indicating the guy had ordered a hit on an Estonian scientist. But I still needed to get the damned Tallinn file.

Maggie knew about the file. She had been killed to keep it secret. And if it remained secret, Maggie would have died in vain.

I just handed you the baton, sergeant, she’d said. Your only job is to run like hell and bring it home .

I wanted to run the baton home. For Maggie’s sake.

“Are you listening to me, Nick?” Sukie said. “I wanted to tell you last night, but I fell asleep. I just got big-footed by my sister.”

“Big-footed how?”

“She just made a move on me. She’s announced she’s taking the jet this afternoon.”

“You mean you’re going to have to fly commercial?”

“You don’t get it, Nick. She’s up to something. And it’s nothing good.”

“So can we fly with her?”

“If you want.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“Listen, I broke my shoe. Broke the heel on my sandal.”

“Okay,” I said. “Didn’t you pack other shoes?”

“Just the sandals. I’m not exactly a fashion model, in case you haven’t figured that out. I have, I think, maybe ten pairs of shoes. So this morning I need to leave the resort and buy a new pair.”

She told me the hotel’s shop didn’t have much selection, so the concierge had recommended a boutique on the cliffside road at South Hill, one of the districts of Anguilla.

“Then I’m going with you. You’re not going by yourself.”

“That would be nice,” she said.

My mobile phone rang. Detective Goldman. I took the call on the balcony.

“I’m sending you a couple of video files. From the CCTV in the foyer on the night of Conrad Kimball’s birthday.”

“Images of the guests,” I said. “The family.”

“Yeah. Take a close look.”

“Will do,” I said.

An hour later we were picked up in front of the hotel by a black Suburban. The driver appeared to be a local, a hotel employee, but I always assumed the worst. That he was paid a little extra by Fritz to keep his ears open, report what he heard.

So on the way we didn’t talk much. It was about a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel, along Route 1, the major thoroughfare on the island.

Periodically I looked at the road behind us. I was fairly sure the Audi following us had been doing so since the resort. The car had pulled up right behind us as soon as we left the gates of the hotel. It had the Anguillan light blue license plate, and it ended with an R, meaning the car was rented.

Now our driver signaled for a right-hand turn. I looked around. As we turned into the driveway for the boutique, the Audi passed us. I felt a moment of relief. I’d been overly suspicious. I got out and walked with Sukie into the shop, which smelled of leather and coconut.

The store manager, a large woman in a muumuu, had clearly been alerted to Sukie’s visit — a quick heads-up call from the concierge at the hotel, I bet — and fell all over herself trying to be helpful. There was no one else in the shop.

Looking at the rows of shoes on display on their shelves, I suddenly had a thought. I called Goldman back, and he picked right up.

“Do me a favor,” I said. “Can you find me a specific shot from the security cameras in the foyer from that night?”

“What shot?”

“I want to see their feet. Their footwear.”

“Their footwear.”

“What they were wearing that night. Does the camera angle pick that up?”

“I’ll take a look. Send you what we got.”

A video clip arrived on my phone seven minutes later. It wasn’t easy to see details on the small screen, but I pinched-to-zoom and swiped and double-tapped and managed to move in close enough to confirm a theory of mine.

I stepped over to the front window of the shop to call Goldman back and explain.

As I peered out through the slats in the blinds that hung down in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, I saw the same Audi, with the Anguilla plates, coming from the opposite direction, pull into the boutique’s narrow parking lot.

So now it was obvious he was following us, but the question was, who was he working for? Certainly Fritz Heston distrusted me, no matter how polite he was about it. What was I doing with Sukie, what was Sukie up to? It wouldn’t surprise me if the Audi driver was one of Heston’s employees.

I returned to the women’s shoe department, where the manager was saying to Sukie, “Madame, I have the cutest pair of Jimmy Choo sandals with fascinator bows.”

“Bows?” Sukie said. “No thanks, not for me. Just something simple in white.”

The front door opened, and a bing sounded, and a man entered.

The florid-faced man I’d seen at the hotel earlier. The man driving the Audi. Would he be a Kimball employee brought down to the island for security? I didn’t think so. He was too unprepossessing physically. He was chunky. Maybe, instead, he was a local working for Kimball. That made sense.