My Sister, Myself. Alice Sharpe
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there?”
“Nobody knows for sure, but everyone suspects. He sent me off on a wild-goose chase. By the time I found out about the fire, he was dead. What you need to understand is that the fire investigator found an accelerant on scene. That means arson.”
He could tell she was beginning to sense the direction this talk was taking, and he hated himself for having to continue. He folded his hands together and pinned her with his gaze. “When a fire is purposely started, everybody involved gets investigated, and that includes the cops. Your dad died with huge gambling debts, Tess. I didn’t even know he gambled, let alone on that scale. He’d lost almost everything he owned. Once the newspapers caught wind of his involvement, other stuff started surfacing. Kickbacks, extortions, bookies. I didn’t know about any of it. I just thought he was a quiet guy. I didn’t know he was addicted or crooked.”
She stared at him with a deer-in-the-headlights gaze, tears blurring her lashes. “Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“You think my father started the fire?” She asked it as if she couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “Why would he do something like that?”
“Someone must have hired him.”
“Who would hire a cop to burn down a house?”
“Someone who knew the cop was bent.”
“Such as?”
“In this case, the logical suspect is the widow’s stepson, a guy by the name of Nelson Lingford. A valuable art collection was mostly destroyed in the fire. Just a few paintings survived. If the insurance company can’t link this back to Nelson, they will have to pay up, and the widow will collect a good chunk of change. Since she’s relatively elderly, the money will go to Nelson.”
“But why wouldn’t he wait to inherit the collection itself?”
“Because it was about to be transferred to the museum to be assessed and catalogued. The widow was going to donate it—lock, stock and barrel. Once that had been completed, Nelson would have been out of luck. I don’t imagine anyone was supposed to know the fire was arson.”
“In other words, my father was supposed to make the fire look like an accident. So why not arrest this stepson?”
“There’s nothing linking him to the fire or your father. Look, Madeline Lingford’s late husband—Nelson’s father—was a longtime businessman in New Harbor. After he died, Nelson took over, but he doesn’t have his father’s scruples. Some of his dealings have teetered on the edge of the law. Let’s just say he’s made his share of enemies. From what I hear, a former friend of Nelson’s named Vince Desota lost his shirt on one of Nelson’s deals. Since it’s well known Nelson spent several evenings a week in residence at his stepmother’s house, speculation has it old Vince decided to instigate a little payback.”
“By destroying Nelson’s stepmother’s house?”
“And everything of value in the house, all of which would come to Nelson sooner or later, or so Vince probably thought. Like I said, it’s speculation.”
“So was Nelson Lingford at his stepmother’s house that night?”
“Nope. Begged off at the last minute to attend a concert. Interesting, huh?” He stared at her a second before continuing. “Tess, your father’s life was out of control. He apparently got caught in his own trap. They found receipts for a fuel can in his truck, the same kind found inside the house. They found a clerk down the coast who remembered him coming in and buying the damn thing. There was no fuel can at his apartment or in his truck or anywhere else except in that burned-out shell of a house. It was well known the widow was disabled and seldom left the place. A fire would kill her. Your dad would know that. I didn’t want you hearing it from someone else.”
“He tried to kill a woman?” Tess said, her eyes huge.
“I know it must come as a shock to you—”
“Oh, who cares about me? Poor Katie.”
At that moment, for Ryan, Tess Mays stopped being a novelty, stopped being a carbon copy of her sister and turned into an individual. He searched his mind for a few comforting words to offer and came up short. He couldn’t even reassure her about how Katie had taken it.
With a sigh he resolved to finish this. “That’s not the worst of it,” he mumbled at last, wishing the waitress would come back with the coffee and pour it over his head. He was suddenly freezing. Tess looked as though she was, too, and he fought an alarming desire to take her hands, to hold them close to his mouth and breath warm air on them.
“Tell me,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Just get it over with. My father—”
“It’s not about your father,” he said, interrupting. He took a deep breath. “It’s about your sister.”
“My God, what has she done?”
“It’s not like that,” he said quickly. He scanned the diner out of habit before lowering his voice and leaning over the table. “I don’t think her ‘accident’ was an accident,” he said with a knot in his throat. “I think someone purposely tried to run her down.”
Tess gasped softly. “What are you saying?”
“I think someone tried to kill her.”
Chapter Two
Tess ran her hands up and down her arms, aware for the first time that she wore a blouse so new there were probably tags still hanging down the back on the inside, attached to the label at the neck. She’d been in the process of dressing for work when the call from the Oregon police came. Dressing for work meant turtlenecks and lab coats. She didn’t know how she’d come to choose the red silk; no doubt it just happened to be the first thing her fingers came in contact with.
And now it draped her body in soft, vulnerable, fragile wisps, and she wished she’d chosen something substantial, something strong…like body armor.
At any rate here she was twelve hours later sitting in a diner with a stranger, learning things about her family—a family she hadn’t even known existed—that went from bad to startling and back again. The unmerciful overhead lights in the diner made the headache building behind her temples all the worse.
She got up abruptly, registering the startled look on Ryan Hill’s face as she did so. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. He’d been talking, but his words had morphed into Swahili. She knew she couldn’t sit still another moment. Digging in her shoulder bag—she’d left the duffel in her sister’s hospital room—she produced a ten-dollar bill and slapped it on the table, then hurried through the restaurant and out the door, pulling on her coat as she walked, aware that he was following, embarrassed to be acting like a drama queen, but doing so, anyway.
The night air was cold and wet and fresh, salty with the nearby sea, invigorating, just what she needed. She pulled her lightweight coat close about her body, shivering despite herself, head tilted down against the rain. It might be wetter than usual in San Francisco this year, but it wasn’t cold like this, the wind didn’t bite at you, the raindrops didn’t ricochet off the sidewalk and nip your skin.
Ryan Hill’s long-legged stride being twice hers, she’d known he’d catch up with her quickly if he wanted to. He didn’t grab her arm, for which she was grateful, just hunkered down and slowed his gait to match hers, staying right by her side. His presence was reassuring.
Eventually they reached the corner, and she had a decision to make. To the left lay the hospital and her sister, lost in a coma, unaware Tess had come to see if her existence could possibly be true. To the right lay the ocean, albeit some way off. She turned right, which meant she was walking more or less into the wind. Her hair whipped around her face and plastered her damp clothes against the front of her trembling body.
“You’re going to freeze to death,” Ryan finally said. “Hell, I’m going to freeze