Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

When he’d finished reading the letter, Stan stood up and walked several feet away from his wife toward the ocean. The beating of his heart threatened to drown out the roar of the surf. He stood, hands in his pockets, numb enough now that the chill of the fog failed to touch him. Finally, his breathing under control, he turned and walked back to where Sarah sat. “What does he hope to get out of this? Why would anybody go?”

“If you don’t go, you might look like you didn’t care.”

This brought a smirk of dark mirth. “Sarah, this just in: I don’t care. All of this happened more than ten years ago. The guilty person got convicted, sentenced, and executed. Now Olsen wants everybody who was there the night Chris went missing to show up and do what exactly? Mourn the loss of Rosemary? I don’t think so.”

“You think it’s really about Jon?”

“What else could it be? He’s still whipping himself for thinking he made such a huge mistake. Which, by the way, he didn’t.”

“Tony never says any of that.”

“That’s because if he did, his motive for this memorial or whatever he calls it would be clear even to the people he invited who aren’t connected to Jon. In any event, I don’t think it’s going to make any real difference.”

“Why not?”

“Because who’s going to go?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Who would go?”

“Everybody. You all would have to.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’d look… I don’t know. Maybe guilty?”

“Of what? There’s no unsolved crime out there, darling. Unless Tony’s taking this whole thing to the press…”

“Which he’d do in a heartbeat.”

Stan held up a hand. “Even so, so what? I’m a busy guy. So are at least half the people who were there the night of the murder. We can’t make the memorial. We’ll send flowers. End of story, such story as there is. Which is slim and none anyway.”

“So you’re not going?”

“No chance.”

“And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I pushed Jon when he wasn’t sure. It was… my fault.”

“No. That made you a good wife to a cop, that’s all. Not an accomplice.”

“But I still feel guilty about it.” Sarah stood up and put her hands on her husband’s arms, looking him in the eye. “They executed her, Stan. And say whatever else you will about him, we both know Jon isn’t stupid. He must have come to believe she didn’t do it for a real reason.”

“Okay, I’ll concede that’s what he came to believe. But that doesn’t mean he’s right. I think the rule is that evidence talks and bullshit walks, Sarah. And high up there under bullshit is wishful thinking and second-guessing. You want my opinion, I’ll tell you that Jon got caught up in a little of both.”

Peter Heusen livedfull-time on a seventy-two-foot cabin cruiser named Désirée that he moored just off the St. Francis Yacht Club. On this Thursday morning, he had sent his first mate, Roger, over in the dinghy at a little after eleven o’clock to pick up Stan Ballard. The dark pall of the persistent June gloom hugged the headlands at the Golden Gate, but here on the back deck where they’d set out the lunch table, the sun shone unobstructed in a light breeze. It was warm enough for shirtsleeves for Peter, and even Ballard had been persuaded to remove his suit coat.

The two men were neither exact contemporaries nor close friends, but they had something of a financial and personal history, and as they took their seats and let Roger pour the wine, small talk flowed as effortlessly as the pinot grigio.

But when the mate disappeared back into the hold, Heusen put his wineglass down and leveled his gaze across the white linen, the silver, the crystal. “So, this invitation. I’m afraid I don’t see the urgency around it that you do, Stan. The whole idea strikes me as somewhat eccentric, granted, but Tony’s always had that side of him. Look at how he essentially became Nunn’s protector and savior after Nunn essentially put the noose around Rosemary’s neck. Can you say ‘conflict of interest’? But that kind of inconsistency never seemed to bother him. He was glad enough that somebody had killed Chris, I’m sure. He truly hated the guy. But on the other hand, he didn’t want Chris’s killer to have been Rosemary. Or didn’t want her punished for it anyway.” Peter shrugged. “The guy’s a junkie for drama, that’s all. And maybe things have been slow for him on that score lately.”

Stan sat back from the table far enough that he could cross one leg over the other in a relaxed posture. He held his wineglass by its slender stem and slowly turned it, hoping to convey a casualness that couldn’t have been more at odds with his actual state of mental turmoil. “So, you don’t see Nunn’s involvement here?”

The question seemed to surprise Heusen. “No sign of it. What does he have to do with this? He’d be pretty out of place at this memorial, wouldn’t you think? Having been the one who pretty much made sure Rosemary got convicted.”

Heusen sipped some wine. “I think I’d put Jon Nunn out of your mind. Of course, for you, being married to Sarah, that might be a little more difficult.”

In spite of Stan’s worries, this comment brought a small smile. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he said, then added, “She’s pretty convinced it’s all about him, wanting to get it right this time.”

“He got it right last time.” Heusen shook his head dismissively.

“That’s what I told Sarah.”

“But she doesn’t believe that?”

Stan took a beat. “She thinks there are still some questions.”

“After a trial and appeals and…?” Peter gulped his wine and poured himself another glass. His forehead was dotted with perspiration.

“It was still the fastest execution in the state in forty years.”

Heusen held up a hand, his mouth twisted in distaste. “Please. I remember, all right. But I’ve got to believe that even if they appealed for another twenty years, it still would have turned out the same way. And you know why? Because my dear departed sister was in fact her husband’s killer-it was proved.” Peter drank the second glass of wine and slammed the glass down.

The talk came to a halt while Roger appeared again, refilled their glasses, and laid their plates in front of them-sand dabs, coleslaw, baby carrots. When the mate had finished and gone back belowdecks, Stan asked, “So you’ll be at the memorial?”

“Well, she was my sister. I couldn’t very well not attend, could I?”

“You don’t feel that, in view of our investments and…?”

Heusen waved away the objection. “Our investments are immaterial. I don’t see what you’re implying. I was the estate’s executor. You were my adviser. All we’ve done is make money. It’s benefited the children and it’s benefited us too. No one could find any fault with that.”

“No.” Ballard took a breath, treading softly. He sipped his wine. “But we also made a nice profit for ourselves, didn’t we? I mean, with both Chris and Rosemary gone, all the Heusen money came to-”

“I know where it came. It came to me, Stan, with a good hunk to you as commission. And a goddamned good thing it did too. I refuse to feel any guilt about that.” Peter cocked his head. “Is this why you wanted to come out and have this little chat today?”

“Yes. Mostly, I’d say so.”

Peter’s face darkened. “You think someone, after all these years, will see a motive for one of us to have killed Chris?”

“If someone’s looking,” Stan said, “and I believe Jon Nunn is .”

“Then let him look. He didn’t find anything back when it mattered. He won’t find anything now.”