Taylor Smith: The Innocents Club

“The Innocents Club is an exciting espionage thriller….”

—Midwest Book Review

“Fifteen rounds of sturdy international espionage-cum-detection….”

—Kirkus Reviews on The Innocents Club

Taylor Smith…John Grisham “…it’s a perfectly plausible comparison—though Smith’s a better prose stylist.”

—Publishers Weekly on Random Acts

“The mix of suspense, forensic science, romance and mystery make this a real page-turner.”

—Orange Coast on Random Acts

“The story line is fast-paced and filled with numerous twists…Taylor Smith…continues her amazing rapid climb to the top rung…”

—Painted Rock Reviews on Random Acts

“Sharp characterization and a tightly focused time frame…give this intrigue a spellbinding tone of immediacy.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Best of Enemies

“The pace is swift and the action is concentrated…making it a perfect summer read.”

—Orange Coast on The Best of Enemies

“In this absorbing tale…characters are engaging…”

—Publishers Weekly on Common Passions

GUILT BY SILENCE

COMMON PASSIONS

THE BEST OF ENEMIES

RANDOM ACTS

DEADLY GRACE

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book could only be for Amy Moore-Benson, with heartfelt gratitude for her insight, her perseverance and her unflagging grace. Here’s to the wonder of new beginnings.

My deepest thanks to those who offered their expertise and encouragement throughout this project. If I played fast and loose with the facts, it’s through no fault of theirs. I am especially grateful to members of the Newport Beach Police Department, who have been extraordinarily kind and helpful, particularly Dale Johnson, Don Gage, Ken Cowell, Mike Jackson and Dave Sperling. Thanks, too, to Dr. Ed Uthman, Ken Keller, Gary Bale and Luis Hernandez for coming up with answers when I needed them. For unflagging moral support, I thank Patricia McFall, Philip Spitzer, the Fictionaires (Orange County’s finest fiction writers) and family members near and far (most especially my wonderful Richard, Kate and Anna, who make life a joy even on the darkest of days).

No one could be more thankful than I for the steadfast commitment and hard work of the talented people at MIRA, beginning with Editorial Director Dianne Moggy. My warmest thanks to them all, most particularly Randall Toye, Katherine Orr, Stacy Widdrington, Greg Sarney, Heather Locken, Krystyna de Duleba and her brilliant design team, and, last but never least, Alex Osuszek and his enthusiastic team, the folks who bring stories and readers together.

To forget one’s ancestors is to be a brook without a source, a tree without a root.

—ancient Chinese proverb

Thursday, July 4 Thursday, July 4

Prologue

Monday, July 1

Chapter One

Tuesday, July 2

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Wednesday, July 3

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Thursday, July 4

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Friday, July 5

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tuesday, July 9

Epilogue

She was exhausted. Wounded, bleeding, swimming for her life. Lungs on fire. Thin arms and legs aching from cold and the effort of pumping against heavy surf. A silent cry arose inside her, fueled by equal measures of pain, fear and indignation: I can’t do this!

As a young woman, Renata thought, she might have had a chance. She’d been fit then, and strong, albeit more than a little spoiled—the indulged only child of one of the world’s wealthiest men. But she was sixty-one years old now, for heaven’s sake. She hadn’t the stamina she once had.

Her brain snapped an obvious response: Swim or die, you fool!

She glanced nervously over her shoulder as, behind her in the dark, deep voices sounded, exchanging terse, furious commands. Had they spotted her, a tiny form bobbing on the star-sparkled water? Were they following? They seemed so close.

No, she tried to reassure herself. Not that close. It was just an acoustic trick of the clear night air. They were far away, too far even to be seen very clearly, though the sweep of the searchlight told her they hadn’t yet abandoned the hunt for her.

Only her?

A flash of shame passed through her as she thought of the young girl she’d abandoned on deck. What kind of woman leaves a child in mortal danger while she flees to save her own skin? Was it true what her husband had once said about her? Renata wondered. That there was something unnatural about a woman without empathy?

Her stroke slowed. Keeping low and still, she peered back at the boat, trying to distinguish between the silhouettes on the deck, but her vision wasn’t what it had once been, either. If the girl was still on board, Renata couldn’t make her out.

Perhaps, she rationalized, Lindsay, too, had managed to escape, leaping overboard in the confusion that had followed her own break for freedom. The girl appeared delicate, but they said she was a competitive swimmer. So, if she had gotten away, she had as much a chance as Renata herself of making it to safety. Maybe even better. After all, Renata thought resentfully, the girl had youth on her side.

Renata felt another quiver of guilt run down her spine. And if Lindsay hadn’t escaped those thugs on the boat? There was little doubt what was in store for that lovely young thing.

Well, all the more reason to keep swimming. Renata turned back toward shore and paddled on with new resolve.

Her captors had miscalculated. All up and down the coast, from Dana Point to Long Beach, Chinese rockets, pinwheels and brilliant cascades were exploding in the blue-black sky, clamorous displays of Fourth of July patriotism. Dozens of other small craft bobbed on the water, observing the spectacle.

Those brutes may have counted on the noise and confusion to cover their escape, but they hadn’t counted on one of their victims jumping overboard, had they? Renata thought smugly. And the pyrotechnics, far from making her more visible, seemed to have camouflaged her amidst watery shadow and sparkle as she made a clean escape.

Almost. But not quite.

At first, she hadn’t even realized they’d fired on her, what with the noise of the fireworks. They had to have been shooting blindly, but one lucky shot had found its target. Renata winced at the caustic, burning sensation in her shoulder, but forced herself to ignore it. If she could just reach one of the small pleasure crafts lying in toward shore, she’d be home free. Then, she’d send back the authorities.

She slogged on, determined to get as far away as possible from the boat’s searchlights before the fireworks finale, when her predators’ eyes would readjust to the dark and have a better chance of picking her out. It would be a ridiculous way to die, flapping in the water like some wing-shot pelican. She wouldn’t have it. It was as simple as that.