Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Ballard’s mouth twitched, moved, turned into a frown of disbelief. “You only say that because of Sarah. Because you want to believe the worst of me.”

“I don’t want . I do believe the worst of you. Tell me what you and Peter did.”

“This wasn’t my plan.”

Nunn shoved the gun harder into Ballard’s cheek. The flesh went red in the dim light. “Whose plan?”

Ballard didn’t answer.

“You think I won’t kill you?”

“You won’t. You love Sarah too much to kill me.”

The awful truth of Ballard’s words, the blunt truth coming from a man he knew to be a liar, burned into Nunn’s brain. He pictured Sarah in Ballard’s arms. He didn’t know if he loved her or hated her. But he kept his voice steady and calm. “I won’t be the one hurting Sarah. You helped frame an innocent woman for murder. I guarantee that is a marriage ender for Sarah.”

Ballard narrowed his stare. “What do you want? Money? I can raise your standard of living.”

“That money is Rosemary’s money. Her kids’ money.”

“Rosemary is dead and that’s your fault, Nunn.”

Nunn’s finger squeezed on the trigger. Ever so slightly. Ballard saw the flexing of the vein on the back of Nunn’s hand and made a sudden, low moan in his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t-”

“What did Peter mean, they won’t know?”

“Peter’s drunk. He’s just blathering.”

“Is Christopher Thomas alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has he touched any of the money since Rosemary died? Is he part of your scheme?”

“I told you, I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. You know as much as I do.”

“You thought he was dead?”

“Until twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re lying. You engineered all of this with Peter.”

“No.”

“If I killed you right now, Stan, the scales would even out.” Nunn wanted to scare Ballard, banish the smirk from his face. “You stole Rosemary’s life. You ruined mine.”

“You’re not going to shoot me.”

“I am. I am going to shoot you, Stan. More than once. First the ears. Then the nose. Then the knees. Then, when the pain is more than you can bear, I’ll shoot you in the brain that cooked up all this misery.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Nunn pushed the gun past Ballard’s ear and fired. The blast boomed down the alleyway. Ballard screamed and dropped, clutching at his uninjured head as though blood fountained from a wound. He screamed like a man trying to determine if he was alive or dead.

Nunn grabbed him, flung him against the brick wall. Did anyone hear the blast? Nunn wondered. He had maybe a few minutes before the police arrived, if anyone reported a gunshot.

“You’re fine, crybaby,” Nunn said.

“The money… it was Peter’s idea… all his idea…”

“But you helped him, right?”

Ballard made a noise in between a sob and a grunt. Nunn took it for agreement. “You know Peter will spill every detail, Stan. You want to talk first, trust me; you want to be the police’s golden boy right now. You tell the police everything about what you know, Stan. Everything.”

Ballard, cringing, didn’t look Nunn in the face.

Nunn reholstered the gun in the small of his back. He made Ballard stand up and hustled him out of the alleyway. In the front of the museum, the same security guard who’d nodded earlier as Nunn left stood watching, listening. Apparently the sound of the shot had brought the man out of the building. The guard was a big guy, six-six, heavy. He looked as if he could handle Ballard.

“I heard a shot,” the guard said.

“Car backfiring, I think,” Nunn said. “This gentleman has information for the police regarding the woman who was honored at the memorial service at the museum last night.”

The guard glanced at Ballard. “Um, I can’t detain him or arrest him.”

“Neither can I. But Mr. Ballard is going to be a good boy. Just call the police and Mr. Ballard will detain himself until they arrive.” Nunn released his grip on Ballard’s arm. “Look at me, Stan.”

Ballard looked up finally, blinking, as though he’d stepped into a new world where legal strategies and filings and easy assurances did not carry their usual weight. It was a different reality for him.

“I’m going to go talk to Peter. So if you want to make a good deal with the police, before Peter does, I suggest you start talking as soon as they arrive.”

“Peter…,” Ballard started, then stopped. Then he didn’t say any more as Nunn hurried into the fog-choked night.

The St. FrancisYacht Club was at the Marina. The fog lay low over the water, like a cloud come to rest. Nunn had taken Ballard’s Mercedes and told the security guard at the parking lot that he was Stan Ballard, expected by Peter Heusen. The guard spoke to Heusen on the phone, nodded, and waved Nunn through into the lot.

Nunn parked and hurried down the dock. Despite being in a marina named after a saint who embraced poverty, St. Francis’s sailboats and yachts were grand, beautiful ladies. Heusen’s was a seventy-two-footer named Désirée . Beyond the boat Nunn could see the rising majesty of the Golden Gate Bridge, solidity in the drapery of fog. The dock was quiet; most people didn’t live on their boats, but Peter Heusen did. From the Désirée Nunn heard the shattering of a glass.

He stepped onto the deck, walked across, went to the galley.

Peter Heusen knelt on the floor. A broken cocktail glass glittered on the tile, lying in a puddle of whiskey. Peter picked up the biggest fragment of glass and glanced up at Nunn.

Then Peter laughed. “The memorial is over, Detective Nunn.” He snapped the word, dee-teck-tive , into three hard, snotty syllables. “But you’re not a dee-teck-tive anymore, are you?”

“Yeah, actually, I am, Peter. I have every reason to be now.”

“Look, that, um, science dude, from what I hear, saying the body wasn’t Christopher’s, that’s just ridiculous. He’s just some attention-seeking nerd. We’ll find out tomorrow”-here Peter stood up, awkwardly, dropping the glass fragment to the floor-“that he’s been hired by one of those tabloid websites, and he was wrong.” Peter leaned back against the counter and circled an aiming finger at Nunn. “Now. You got onto private property by lying to the guard, and I’m going to call him, and you’re going to jail for trespassing.”

Peter reached for the phone and Nunn walked through the broken glass and shoved him down to the floor.

“Uh, you can’t do that,” Peter blustered. He was well into his drink now, and when he tried to stand up again quickly, Nunn pushed him back down. “Get the hell off my boat. Now.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“I don’t even know where to start with you, Peter. Why have every advantage in the world and drink it away? Why let your sister die? Why steal from your own blood?”

“Why… don’t you get the hell off my boat?” Peter laughed.

“You and I both know that the forensics is telling the truth.” Nunn crossed his arms. “Ballard is talking to the police right now.”

“If Ballard is talking to police, it’s going to be about charges against you, trespassing, and incompetence. If my sister’s dead, that’s your fault, not mine.” Peter shook a finger at Nunn, then dragged a hand across his own mouth.

“Ballard is talking because he’s going to do what it takes to salvage his career. He’s cutting a deal. Now. Who do you think will negotiate the smarter terms, Peter? A seasoned estate lawyer or a drunk trust-fund baby?” Nunn glanced at his watch. “You and Ballard stole Rosemary’s money from her kids. He’ll get disbarred. You’ll get prison. Maybe you can give your fellow inmates sailing tips to pass the years.”