Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

But if Christopher Thomas wasn’t dead, where was he?

The meeting had now broken up, and everyone had begun to drift away, and Nunn knew that too many questions and uncertainties clouded their minds. He watched them go, not wanting to talk to anyone. No one spoke to him, no one met his gaze. What kind of detective was he that he could have been fooled? Never mind the evidence. He’d always doubted Rosemary’s guilt, but he’d ignored the doubts. Full speed ahead to conviction, to make everyone except himself-and Rosemary, tragically-content and certain that justice had been served.

A hot, sudden anger at the waste of it all tore through him and he leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

A painting hung to his left, a wild, modernist smear of blue and orange and white in a chaotic tango. A painting, a creation, with a meaning and a pattern he didn’t understand.

Creation. Pattern. Death. Rosemary’s death, and the death of his own marriage and career, that extraordinary lie had been someone’s creation, crafted with the careful touch of an artist, with an underlying pattern, a foundation, that he’d failed to see.

Why?

A framing of this sort implied cold calculation, not passion. And for such a crime, he had one rule that he should always have obeyed with unbending focus: follow the money.

In this case, the money took the form of one sodden, rotten Peter Heusen.

Nunn stepped away from the chaotic modernist painting. He looked around, everyone was gone: the living and the ghosts of the twisted, lying past. Maybe everyone had fled from him, the cop who had built the case against Rosemary, the cop who had been so wrong. He must smell of failure and regret and incompetence. A wave of nausea surged through him and he thought, I am going to find out the truth . An ember suddenly fanned into flame in his heart. I am going to find out the truth .

Maybe Rosemary was innocent. Maybe Rosemary had killed the person the world assumed was Christopher.

He wanted to know.

Follow the money. He wanted to talk to Peter.

His footsteps echoed in the emptiness. The painting watched him as though measuring his resolve. He nodded at the security guard waiting for him to leave. He exited the McFall, out into the damp, foggy blanket of night. The wet chill cut through him. The glowing stars were smears behind the clouds.

He saw a figure in the shadows of the looming art museum. Along the deserted sidewalk, walking with a momentary unsteadiness: Peter?

Nunn hurried forward, walking on the balls of his feet, silently.

The fog parted, cut by a knife of streetlight, and he saw it wasn’t Peter, it was Stan Ballard, reaching into his pocket for a cell phone, bringing it up to his face.

Maybe Sarah is calling him , Nunn thought. Sarah preferred a liar and a scumbag like Stan Ballard over him. What’s wrong with me? Nunn thought. What’s wrong with her? Their marriage seemed like one of those modern paintings, the foundation lost in the wild chaos. Had Sarah ever loved him?

Ballard turned into an alleyway, eschewing the warm comforts of a café and a bar another block down the fogged street.

Ballard wanted privacy in the wake of the shocking revelations. Interesting.

Nunn stopped at the corner, risked a glance down the alleyway. Dumpsters and crates from the café lined the pavement. He could see Ballard, moving behind a Dumpster, and Nunn hurried forward, his hand going to his gun, the relic of the cop he used to be. Odd that the urge to wear a sidearm and bring handcuffs to the museum had taken him: the visible proof that he still thought himself a police officer, although he wasn’t. But he was grateful for his idiosyncrasy now.

Ballard’s voice made a low hiss into the phone: “It’s all going to come out, what we did to make money off the estate.” Panic touching the words, poisoning them. He sensed the presence behind him and turned, so Nunn simply stuck his service piece into Ballard’s cheek.

Ballard froze, pale with shock.

Nunn put a finger to his lips. Ballard stayed mute. Nunn snapped fingers at the phone. Ballard handed it over.

Nunn put the phone to his ears. The rant blurted into his ear: “Shut up, shut up about it.” Peter Heusen, slurring words in a whiskey drawl.

Nunn made a noise of assent.

“I don’t care, Stan. We’re safe, we’re fine, we’re, best of all, we’re cool. We’re beyond cool. We’re icy. We are non-globally warmed.” Peter’s voice cracked into hard, brittle laughter. “It doesn’t matter whatever you say that CSI guy said. It doesn’t matter. Because we can’t be caught. The money is yours, mine, and ours.”

Nunn grunted, and as Peter launched into another drunken tirade of reassurance, Nunn covered the phone and whispered to Ballard. “Tell him to stay put. Tell him you want to come to see him. Now. Don’t take no for an answer.”

“You won’t…” Ballard’s gaze darted to the gun against his cheek.

“I will,” Nunn whispered. “Nothing to lose, man. You made sure of that. You’re the one with everything to lose, Stan. Do as I say.” Nunn put the phone back up to Ballard’s face.

“Yes, Peter, I’m here.” Ballard’s voice was steady. The lawyer in him kicked in. He would not show he was rattled, not to an audience. Or to an accomplice. “I want to see you. Now.” A pause. “No, not at a bar. Stay on your boat. You’re not in any condition to be in public again tonight. I’ll be there shortly… All right… Yes, Peter. Good-bye.”

Nunn clicked off the phone. “If only I had a tape recorder so I could prove to the world what a complete waste of skin you are.”

Ballard risked a half smile. “You just assaulted me and listened in on a private conversation. I’ll sue you into complete financial oblivion unless you just turn around and walk away. You think you hit bottom after Sarah dumped you? You’re still a mile above bottom, but I will crash you, Nunn.”

“Crashing is my hobby,” Nunn said. “I’m in Olympic training for hitting bottom, Stan. Seriously. I’m impressed with the level of jackass-ery you’ve managed. You helped Peter bilk the Thomas kids out of millions after their mother, his own sister, was executed. If only they gave medals for class and integrity.”

Ballard’s mouth worked and decided on a frown. “You’re making a huge assumption.”

“No, that’s what I used to do. Assume. No more. Show me your wallet and your car keys, Stan.”

Ballard fished out his wallet and keys. A Mercedes logo gleamed on the key chain. Nunn thumbed through the thick wallet. “You’re living so much larger than when Rosemary marched off to the death chamber. You and Peter raiding the family funds? It’s hard for a dead woman to ask for an audit.”

Ballard didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

“Peter’s a jerk, but he’s also a drunk and not exactly a guy you’d entrust with a plan,” Nunn said. The need to twist the knife in Ballard ran deep through Nunn’s bones. Part of him, wrongly he knew, wanted to pull the trigger and make Ballard’s usually sneering face disappear; but then he thought of Sarah. Did she really love this man? Did she even know him?

“What?” Ballard, usually so sharp, didn’t see Nunn’s meaning.

“Someone hatched a plan to put a body in that iron maiden and frame Rosemary. It is a crime that required a great deal of forethought and planning.”

“You sound like a textbook.”

“You’re sleeping with my wife, and I have a gun, so mocking me wouldn’t be a smart strategy.”

Ballard said, “Your ex -wife-”

Nunn cut him off. “The candidate pool is thin, Stan. You’re smarter than Peter, and your motive isn’t so obvious as Peter’s would be. If Peter profits, you profit.”