Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

She looked at him incredulously. “Yeah, I bet. But no one’s going to pop someone because they got fined for an overdue book.”

“Let me show you something,” Stone said. “It’s up in the attic.”

When they arrived there, Stone said, “That telescope is pointed toward the house next door.”

Reuben added, “Yeah, it was looking into the owner’s bed—”

Stone cut in. “I’ll explain, Reuben, if you don’t mind.” He raised his eyebrows and glanced at Annabelle.

Reuben said, “Oh, right. Yeah, go ahead and explain, Oliv — I mean, it was Frank, right? Or Steve?”

“Thank you, Reuben !” Stone snapped. “As I said, the telescope is pointed at the house next door. It’s owned by the head of Paradigm Technologies, one of the largest defense contractors in the country. The man’s name is Cornelius Behan.”

“He likes to be called CB,” Caleb added.

“Okay,” Annabelle said slowly.

Stone looked through the telescope, sweeping his gaze along the side of Behan’s house, which stood across a sliver of grass from DeHaven’s. “I thought so.” He motioned for Annabelle to take his place. She focused the telescope’s eyepiece on the spot where he’d been looking.

“It’s an office or a study,” she reported.

“That’s right.”

“You think Jonathan was spying on this guy?”

“Perhaps. Or he might have inadvertently seen something that led to his death.”

“So this Cornelius Behan killed Jonathan?”

“We have no proof. But strange things have been happening.”

“Like what?”

Stone hesitated. He had no intention of telling her about his being kidnapped. “Let’s just say that there’re enough questions here to make us look further. I think Jonathan DeHaven deserves that.”

Annabelle studied him for a moment and then took another look through the telescope. “Tell me about this CB guy.”

Stone briefly gave her a sketch of Behan and his company. Next he mentioned the murder of the Speaker of the House, Bob Bradley.

Annabelle again looked skeptical. “You don’t think that’s connected to Jonathan? I thought terrorists had claimed responsibility.”

Stone told her about the military contracts that Behan had won under the old regime. “Bradley’s predecessor as Speaker had been convicted of unethical practices, so it’s not a stretch to speculate that he might have been in Behan’s pocket. And then Bradley comes along as Mr. Clean, and Behan might not have wanted certain things to be investigated. So Bradley had to die.”

“And you’re thinking that Jonathan stumbled on this conspiracy, and they had to kill him before he could tell anyone?” She still sounded unconvinced, but not as much.

“What we have are two unsolved deaths of government people with Cornelius Behan as a common denominator and a neighbor of one of the dead men.”

Caleb added, “Behan was at the funeral today.”

Annabelle said sharply, “Which one was he?”

“Little redheaded guy—”

Annabelle finished for him, “Who thinks way too much of himself and had the tall bottle-blond wife who despises him.”

Stone looked impressed. “You sum people up quickly.”

“I’ve always seen an advantage in it. Okay, what’s our next move?”

Stone looked startled. “ Our next move?”

“Yeah, once you give me a crash course on the info you’re obviously holding back, maybe we can make some real headway.”

“Miss Farmer,” Stone began.

“Just call me Susan.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to be in town long.”

“Change of plan.”

“Can I ask why?”

“You can ask. Can we meet tomorrow morning?”

“Absolutely,” Reuben said. “And if you need a place to bunk—”

“I don’t,” she said.

“We can meet at my house,” Stone suggested.

“Where’s that?” she asked.

“At a cemetery,” Milton said helpfully.

Annabelle didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

Stone wrote down the address and directions. When she went to take it from him, she stumbled and fell against him, grabbing on to his jacket to keep from falling.

“Sorry,” she said as her hand closed around the photo in his pocket. A second later she was pulling it out. And then something happened that had never happened before. Stone’s hand closed around her wrist.

He said in a low voice so only she could hear, “All you had to do was ask for it.” He released his grip, and she smoothly slid the photo into her pocket, her startled gaze on Stone’s grim features. She regained her composure and faced the others. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Reuben took her hand, gently kissing it in the style of the centuries-ago French gentleman. “I want you to know what a true pleasure it’s been making your acquaintance, Susan. ”

She smirked. “Thanks, Reuben. Oh, there’s a nice view of what I’m assuming is Behan’s bedroom from up here. He’s getting it on with some hot chick right now. You might want to check it out.”

Reuben whipped around. “Oliver, you didn’t tell me that.”

Annabelle looked back at an exasperated Stone. “That’s okay, Oliver, Susan’s not my real name either. What a shock, huh?”

A minute later they heard the front door open and close. Reuben quickly took up post at the telescope, but just as quickly moaned, “Damn, they must have already finished.” He turned to Stone and said reverently, “God, what a woman.”

Yes, thought Stone, what a woman indeed.

Annabelle climbed into her car, started it and then pulled out the photo, rubbing her wrist where Stone had grabbed it. The guy named Oliver had actually caught her picking his pocket. Even as a kid assigned by her father to fleece tourists in L.A., she’d never been caught in the act. Tomorrow might prove to be very interesting.

Her attention turned to the photo. It was amazing how one picture could bring back so many memories. That year of her life was the only truly normal one she ever had. Some might have thought it boring, or at least uneventful. She had considered it wonderful. She’d stumbled across a man who’d fallen in love with her. No ulterior motive, no hidden agenda, no leveraging for a bigger con down the road. He’d fallen in love with just her. A bookman and a con girl. All odds were against them making it, and as she well knew, only a fool bet against the odds.

And yet a gentle man who collected books had somehow captured her heart, toughened and scarred as it was. Early on in their relationship Jonathan had asked her if she collected anything. Annabelle had told him no, yet maybe that wasn’t true, she thought now. Perhaps she did collect something. Perhaps she collected lost chances.

She stared up at the big old house. In another life she and Jonathan might have lived there, with a passel of children, who knew? It was probably a good thing it hadn’t turned out that way. She would’ve likely made a terrible mother.

Her thoughts turned to the obvious issue. Jerry Bagger would be erupting in two days. The smart move would be to leave the country now, despite what she’d told the men about meeting tomorrow. It didn’t take her long to decide. She was staying and seeing it through. Maybe she owed it to Jonathan. Perhaps she owed it to herself. Because right now seemed a good time to end her collection of lost chances.

Annabelle and the Camel Club gathered at Stone’s cottage at seven o’clock the next morning.

“Nice digs,” she said, gazing around the small interior. “And you have such quiet neighbors,” she added, motioning out the window to the tombstones.

“There are some dead people whose company I would prefer over that of certain of my living acquaintances,” Stone replied tersely.