Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island Read online

  Kyra grabbed her purse and felt the light heft of the revolver. Not that she’d need it today. Or anytime on this case. They got into the Honda and drove off, Noel right into the case. “I didn’t tell you, Jordan Beck is a Morsely descendant. That’s why Peter hired Triple I. Afraid an in-house investigation would be discovered in-house.”

  Kyra said, “That makes sense.”

  Noel mulled aloud about plagiarism. Kyra had heard it before, from him and from Peter. She stayed silent.

  Past other guest houses and dorms, past some classroom buildings, around the Mansion to Orcas Boulevard and a quick left to Rossini’s home, a two-storey white clapboard with open shutters painted green. Very out of place on an island off Washington State—should be in New England somewhere. In the driveway, a man, his dark hair streaked with gray, had just put a small suitcase into the back of a green SUV. Leather jacket, blue shirt, gray slacks. Noel figured him for mid-fifties. He pulled the Honda into the drive and stopped. He and Kyra got out. He called, “Professor Rossini?”

  Rossini looked up, noticed them, waved and walked toward them. “Yes. How may I help you?”

  “We’re private investigators and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Franklin.” Turning to Kyra: “And Ms. Rachel.”

  “Hey, you’re good,” said Noel.

  “No, I just had a call from Peter,” said Rossini, adding, “Langley. You’re investigating a case of possible plagiarism.”

  “We’d like to speak with Susanna. Your daughter.”

  “So would I,” said Rossini. “But she’s not here. Off visiting friends in Oregon.”

  Kyra now: “Do you have phone numbers? Susanna’s or the friends?”

  “I do, but they’ve all gone camping. The Tillamook Forest.”

  “Cell phones?”

  “No signal. They’re deep in the woods. They aren’t reachable.”

  “I see.” Damn, thought Noel. “How long will they be gone?”

  Rossini waited a moment before answering. “About a week, I hope.”

  Strange how the man suddenly looked uneasy. “Maybe you can help us. Do you know a student here named Jordan Beck?”

  Rossini stared into the distance. “Jordan Beck,” he repeated. “The name isn’t familiar.” He thought some more. “It’s possible Susanna mentioned someone named Jordan. But she has so many friends.”

  “You wouldn’t know if she ever read anything Beck had written?”

  “Written?”

  “Like essays or stories.”

  He thought some more. “There was a young man who’s a writer that she knew. And I believe she did read some essays for somebody, yes.” He glanced from Noel to Kyra and back. “What’s this about? What’s it got to do with Susanna?”

  “We’re just trying to determine a relationship here,” said Kyra.

  “Hold on,” said Rossini. “Is this about the possible plagiarism case?”

  “We can’t go into it, Professor.”

  “Do you think Susanna has something to do with that?”

  “We’re just looking for a bit of information.”

  All of a sudden Rossini looked deflated. As if he’d shrunk a couple of inches. He whispered, “Oh Susanna . . .”

  Noel took a step toward him. “Are you okay, Professor?”

  Rossini stretched his head backward and let out a sigh. “Not really.” He looked Noel in the eye. “I’m in the middle of a large research project and I’m a little tired. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my lab.”

  Noel handed him an Islands Investigations International card. “If you should hear from Susanna, would you ask her to call us?”

  Rossini took the card, read it quickly, and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “Yes.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for your time.” He returned to the Honda, Kyra following. He backed out and drove away.

  “Where we going now?” said Kyra.

  “We need breakfast. After that, you need to read some of Jordan’s writing.” They drove toward Friday Harbor. Something about Rossini didn’t seem right. Going to the lab . . . “Kyra, did anything about Rossini make you curious?”

  “He seemed straightforward to me.”

  Noel frowned. A piece that didn’t fit . . .

  Larry Rossini waited till the detectives’ Honda drove off and the sound of its engine faded away. Why had he told them he was going to the lab? What would they care that he was on his way to Seattle to see Toni? He returned to the house and stepped inside, glancing at himself in the full-length mirror. Yes, he’d look okay for her—curling hair still all there and gray only at the temples; eyes, nose and mouth where they should be; blue dress shirt open at the collar, no belly to speak of, clean slacks, loafers. A man fit for Dr. Celeste-Antoinette deBourg.

  He took a sweater off the newel post, regarded it absently as if having forgotten why he came back for it, sighed, replaced it on the post, picked up a shoulder bag, went back outside and locked the front door. He shook his head hard, the gesture of a man trying to clear out his brain. He knew he was right here beside his house because he had to be somewhere, but he was far away as well. In two places.

  The first place, wherever Susanna was. He needed to believe that even if she was a captive, she was alive, she had to be. He could feel the movement of her living breath on the breeze. He’d get her back. He knew he’d want to call in to the house’s message machine every hour or two, all through the night. But they hadn’t contacted him again after that first call; they’d said they’d get back to him when everything had worked. Oh dear god—

  The second place, the hotel. Where Toni was. The Executive Hotel Pacific. He’d checked it out on the Internet: One of Seattle’s finest boutique hotels. He’d be in Seattle a single night, the room lights low or off. His attention would be solely on her, whatever the décor.

  No, he wouldn’t keep calling in; Toni wouldn’t appreciate that from him. Though she did know the situation. She and the Sheriff, Marc Coltrane, knew. The only people he’d told. Marc had let Charlie know; Marc needed Charlie to find Susanna. Marc had said, Act normal. Don’t look upset. Do as they say and tell no one. We’ll track her down.

  Charlie understood the island. He had been Undersheriff for twenty-three years; he’d seen four elected Sheriffs, like Marc, come and go. Even Marc, well qualified, had been on the job for only three years. Each of the Sheriffs had needed Charlie. But not even Charlie had found Susanna yet. No one had found Susanna.

  He sat behind the wheel of his Hyundai Veracruz and stared out the open window as if he’d never seen the end of his driveway before. He suddenly realized he’d been gazing blankly into the beyond for many seconds, perhaps even minutes. Move or you’ll miss the 8:05.

  He started the engine. Nothing like a ferry threat to get a man going. He shifted into first and jerked forward. No one on the road and he turned left. Once aboard the ferry, his mind could wander without the responsibility of steering a vehicle.

  After Susanna had disappeared, after the dreadful phone call, he’d gone into this kind of zombie state for nearly twenty-four hours. He’d done what they told him, the carbon structures and the software algorithms to Bellingham, the post office box, no police. Only the next day, when he’d snapped out of brainlessness, did he contact the Sheriff. Too late to keep a watch on the PO box, and now how to figure a way of finding her? Marc and Charlie had wanted to bring in the FBI, but Larry forbade it—the man’s threat on the phone was clear: No police or fibbies. Any kind of cop gets spotted and Susanna dies. She’s released when they’re certain the experiment works. If all was okay, she’d be back with him in three weeks.

  A long lineup at the ferry dock. Damn, he might not get on. That’d put a crimp in the day, next ferry not till 11:00. He couldn’t afford the time for this trip, but he desperately wanted to be with Toni, in fact right now. Just as she’d said she had to be with him. To lose three hours just by being late for the ferry—damn it again! Third in this
line but too many lines would board before his. Usually he’d get on from around here, but . . . He killed the engine, rolled down the windows, let the cool breeze flow across the front seat. A fine morning for a drive down to Seattle. A rotten morning to sit in a ferry lineup letting time kill itself. How could he have dawdled so long with those investigators? Damn it to hell.

  Okay, do like always, think the irritation away. An image, a distraction.

  The best kind of mind picture, Toni deBourg herself. He closed his eyes and saw her as she was in the photograph, six by eight, that he kept in the folder in the second drawer of his dresser. Brought out only at the end of the day when no one—by which he realized again he meant Susanna; who else came into his bedroom?—would see it. He didn’t need it now; his mind’s eye owned the best images.

  She was the most captivating woman Laurence Rossini had ever met. Nearly as tall as he in her heeled shoes, when she stood close and her rich chestnut brown hair wisped against his cheek, he could embrace miracles; the vitality she breathed into him made anything possible. Her satin-gray eyes melted the most scientific bones in his body, and when she turned them to his own, they melted his will.

  She’d entered his life barely five months ago. Since their meeting, they’d been together three times: two, three and four days’ worth of encounters. Tonight till tomorrow morning would be the shortest. He couldn’t be away from San Juan any longer; his work needed him. Stop lying, Larry; why are you lying to yourself? Wherever Susanna might be, he knew he must be home so that if she tried to contact him—if they tried to contact him—he’d be available. He shouldn’t be spending even one night in Seattle. But when Toni told him she’d be in San Francisco for a meeting, could he join her there, they’d compromised on Seattle.

  They had first become acquainted in early March. She’d asked for an appointment; she would like to meet, talk about his work and her company’s ventures. They had two colleagues in common, both of whom felt it would be mutually beneficial for Dr. deBourg and Professor Rossini to know each other. Reluctance was Larry’s first stance: no time, and besides, he was hardly going to speak about the Project to an unknown outsider. He answered her beautifully handwritten request with a blunt email: Sorry. No. Several days later, she called. Unusual since his lab’s number was unlisted, not available even from Morsely University’s electronic contact information. His secretary, Phoebe, buzzed him. “There’s a Dr. deBourg for you, Larry. Line 2.”

  “Who is that? How’d he get to this office?”

  “She. And she mentioned Professor Gibbons and Dr. Heckshaw.”

  Same two connections as mentioned by that woman’s letter, the one from Geneva. Rude to them if he simply flicked her off? He pressed 2. “Hello, Dr. deBourg.”

  “Professor Rossini. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  But it was her voice that suddenly caught his full attention. Low, with a mellow lushness to it that in his ear felt like warm silk. The only words he could find were, “How can I help you?”

  “I’d very much like to meet with you. My corporation is Veritec; we’re based in Geneva. Perhaps you’ve heard of us. I believe we share a number of interests, my board’s and your work.”

  Despite the warmth of her intonation, Larry felt uncomfortable. How did she know enough about his work to assume there’d be some parallel to her own? “I don’t think it would make any sense for you to leave Geneva so that we can talk in person. And I’m afraid I can’t leave here.”

  “Oh, I’m not coming from Geneva; I’m just across the sound from you in Seattle, here for a conference. I have a car and would enjoy the ferry ride and I can see you at your convenience.”

  Her accent was near-perfect British, time spent in Oxford if he had to guess. To say no to her might be a put-down to Gibbons and Heckshaw. He could give less of a damn about Roger, but Gerry was a good guy. He’d been generous to Larry a couple of years ago. “All right then,” he’d said, and they’d set a time for the next day.

  The cars beside him were rolling forward. He turned his key and the engine pinged to life. Up ahead, as the final car in the earlier line drove on board, the ferry worker raised his hand to Larry’s row. Larry edged forward, following the car ahead, an old Ford clunker. Now the worker motioned the Ford forward, holding his hand high to keep Larry from following. Great, first car on at 11:05. Three hours lost from Toni—but no! A wave of the man’s hand and Larry was aboard. Behind him the guardrail came down.

  She had arrived at his lab a few minutes before 2:00. A security guard led her through the main gate, the only opening in the ten-foot

  chain-link fencing topped with razor wire, and into the building. Directly past the heavy oak doors, a small wood-walled anteroom more befitting a midsize Victorian mansion than a scientific laboratory, equipped with three stuffed chairs and a large desk, was presided over by a thin, smiling woman behind a sign that said, RECEPTION. Dr. deBourg mentioned her appointment. She waited no more than a minute after the receptionist lifted the phone and spoke quietly into it. A near-invisible door in the wall to the right opened, and she had her first glimpse of Laurence Rossini. He introduced himself and led her to his office, far less opulent than the anteroom: glass cases filled with antique scientific equipment; a set of nineteenth-century microscopes; surgical tools that might have dated from the 1400s; what looked like a floor-model radio from before the Second World War very like those everyone’s grandfather had owned. Folding chairs along the right side wall, ready to be opened as if for an impromptu meeting. A portable whiteboard beside a bank of computers that seemed state of the art. And Professor Rossini’s desk, heavy and metallic, without grace, a rolling chair behind it, two wooden chairs in front.

  A stunning woman, Larry had thought. Mid-thirties perhaps? Black suit with straight skirt to just below her knee, slit on the right side. No blouse under the suit jacket, only a thin gold chain at her throat. Low-heeled black pumps. And a face of gracious beauty framed by chestnut hair that glowed even in the thin artificial light of the office. “Please, Dr. deBourg, have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” She sat in front of the desk.

  A non-thought-through decision and he sat beside rather than across from her. “May I offer you some coffee? Tea?”

  “A glass of water would be nice.”

  Her voice floated across the two feet between them and caressed his ears. He stood again, opened the door, and asked Phoebe for two glasses of water. Back beside her he said, “You work with a research corporation, you said?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “Veritec. It is in fact my corporation. My father founded it in 1985. He had been working with Binnig and Rohrer till he started out on his own.”

  Larry was impressed. Gerd Binnig and Heinrich Rohrer were the inventors of the scanning tunneling microscope, an impressively complex tool for imaging at the atomic level. They had been situated in Zurich, at the IBM labs, and in the 1990s were awarded the Nobel Prize for Physics. Larry had used such a microscope as soon as he could get access to one; several of his well-received early papers would not have been possible without this remarkable instrument. “Your father’s name is—Pierre deBourg?”

  “Was.”

  “Of course. It’s an honor to meet his daughter.” He paused. “I’d read he’d died. You have my condolences.”

  She dropped her head lightly. “Thank you.”

  The door opened. Phoebe appeared with two glasses of water and set them on the desk. “Thank you.” She left, closing the door behind her.

  “Father’s name was not much in the news for the last decade. He passed away very slowly, out of the limelight.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. deBourg. But—you’ve been carrying on his work?”

  “Yes. It’s why Gerry thought it’d be a good idea for me to meet you.”

  Interesting. Gerald Heckshaw was a bit of a prim fellow. Few called him Gerry. It’d taken a small celebration featuring some mighty fine single malt at the end of their joint project in photon scanning
microscopy before he’d told Larry to call him Gerry. When we work on the next project, we can call it the Larry and Gerry Show, he’d declared. “Have you worked with Gerry, then?”

  “Only indirectly.” Her lightly pinked lips opened gently as she breathed, “But we spoke at some length at the Protein Pathways Conference in Buenos Aires in February.”

  Larry had considered participating—had been invited to but was so deep into his own work, he’d let the call pass. “Yes, I heard it was a successful meeting. I almost went.” He took a sip of water.

  “What would you have presented, if you’d been there?”

  A question he would not answer. The correct response, My present work, would only lead to her wanting to know its precise nature, and this he wasn’t ready to divulge. So he’d said, “At the moment I’m not yet far enough advanced to present anything. I’d only have gone to hear what others were passing on.” Time to shift. “I gather Jonathan Shaw developed his work on fullerenes.”

  “Yes. He and Silberberg gave a joint presentation.” She sipped her water.

  “Unusual for Shaw.”

  “Yes, a bit of a prima donna.”

  “Occasionally I think we all can be.” He again sipped, having forgotten he held the glass in his hand. “Especially when we have something important to impart.”

  The right side of her lips tilted upward a little, a half-smile. “I doubt you could, Professor Rossini.”

  With that slanted mouth, she’d undermined his composure. “Please. Call me Larry.”

  “A pleasure, Larry. And I’m Toni.”

  He kept himself from smiling. Less of a Toni he never had seen. “Was Silberberg up to the co-presentation?”

  “He’s young, but he’s learning.”

  They both laughed. Milus Silberberg would never see the sunny side of sixty again. Gossip and shop talk with a dazzling woman, both of them with a similar sense of humor. Their laughter and professional chitchat went on for an hour and a half. They had a number of mutual friends. Nanotechnology on this level was a small world. And hard to keep projects hidden. Throughout, Toni had tried to discover his, with indirect questions and barely veiled hints that she knew more about his work than she was letting on. He parried back, his questions searching what she thought she knew about the Project. On one level, he considered a straightforward lie—Not much there yet, coming along—but then the conversation might end, and he wanted to go on talking with her for at least a few more hours.