“Look at us,” Virginia said. “Are we a couple of hotshot investigators, or what?”
She surveyed the small group gathered in her condo with a sense of deep affection.
Her grandmother, Octavia, was bustling around in the kitchen. Earlier she had made a large pot of tea and now she was constructing sandwiches. It was late and none of them had eaten dinner.
Anson lounged on the sofa. Cabot was prowling the living room. Virginia was dressed in pajamas, robe and slippers and was ensconced on the big reading chair, her feet propped on a hassock. In spite of Cabot’s concerns, the wound in her side had been declared a clean through-and-through, non-life-threatening. She had been stitched up, bandaged and sent home with a bottle of pain pills and a page of instructions on wound care.
She had been surprised to discover that she was taking an unfamiliar satisfaction in the knowledge that she had such a concerned circle of family and friends. After the shooting, Cabot had never left her side. Anson had picked up Octavia and driven her to the hospital. All three of them had stayed with her until she was released.
The police had dropped by to take statements. Virginia knew there would be more interviews in the morning. The Troy Gallery was once again a crime scene. Jessica had consoled her with the reminder that the publicity would no doubt be good for business.
Virginia took another fortifying sip of tea and looked at Cabot. “What made you and Anson come racing to my gallery this afternoon?”
Cabot halted his pacing and looked at her. “Abigail Watkins’s diary. Anson and I started going through it as a team. I read it out loud while Anson made notes on the computer. We were just trying to establish basic facts and nail down a time line. When we got to the part about Abigail being forced to give up twins for adoption, I tried to call you. But I was thrown into voice mail. Let’s just say I got a bad feeling at that point. Anson and I got into the car and drove over to see what, if anything, was going on.”
Anson snorted. “As it turns out, you and Jessica had the situation in hand by the time we arrived. Any truth to that story you told Delbridge? Was there some hidden info in the embroidery that appears in the portraits?”
“No,” Virginia said. “I made it up.”
Anson nodded. “You conned a professional con artist. Nice work.”
Virginia smiled ruefully. “Jessica was right. At least one of those glass paperweights deserves to be in the show.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Octavia said. She carried a plate heaped high with sandwiches into the living room and set it on the coffee table.
Anson and Cabot brightened at the sight. They both reached for a sandwich. Octavia smiled as the men dove into the food.
“One thing I’m curious about,” she said.
“What’s that?” Cabot asked around a mouthful of his sandwich.
Octavia looked at him. “You learned some more about the past. You know that Quinton Zane fathered fraternal twins, one of whom is now dead. But did you discover anything in that diary that might tell you whether or not Zane is still alive?”
“No,” Cabot said, “but thanks to Tucker Fleming, we might have some new leads. He went deep into the Darknet and he found some very intriguing information. Most of it relates to scams and cons that someone has been running in other parts of the world for several years. They all have a few things in common when it comes to style and technique.”
“They’re all pyramid schemes of one sort or another,” Anson said.
“Pyramid schemes have been around forever,” Virginia pointed out.
“True,” Cabot said, “but every con artist has his or her own way of constructing the scheme. Zane’s style is distinctive.”
“Even the smartest crooks take the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it approach to their work,” Anson said dryly.
“Tucker Fleming believed that his father was alive, so he compiled a detailed file of scams and cons that looked like they had Zane’s signature,” Cabot said.
“The bottom line,” Anson said, “is that, thanks to Tucker Fleming, we’ve got a whole new file on crimes that have a reasonably high probability of having been carried out by Quinton Zane. The file is massive, though. We’re going to need some serious expertise.”
“Xavier, I assume, will be eager to help,” Virginia said.
“If his parents will let him, which is an open question,” Cabot said. “I’ll admit we could use his talents, but in the end the machines can only give us raw data. Finding out the truth about Zane will take some old-fashioned detective work.”
“Max and Charlotte are coming back from their honeymoon soon,” Anson said. “Max used to be a criminal profiler. He’ll be able to offer some insight. We’re also going to need Jack’s help.”
“Jack?” Octavia asked.
“Jack Lancaster,” Cabot said. “My other brother.”
“I see,” Octavia said. “And what particular expertise does he bring to the investigation?”
Cabot and Anson exchanged looks.
“It’s sort of hard to explain Jack,” Cabot said.
Virginia noticed that he seemed to be choosing his words with great care.
“He’s an academic,” Anson offered with a touch of pride. “Writes books about the criminal mind. He does some consulting, too.”
“But his approach is a little unorthodox,” Cabot said.
“Define unorthodox,” Virginia said.
Anson snorted softly. “Can’t define it. Not when it comes to Jack. All I can tell you is that most people think he’s weird.”
Virginia smiled. “The older I get, the more I realize that everyone is weird in one way or another.”
“The difficulty in getting a handle on Zane is that – if we’re right and he’s still alive – he’s learned a few things since the disaster with his cult,” Cabot said. “He’s a lot more careful about risking his own neck now. He uses proxies and cutouts and pawns. When things fall apart, as they always do sooner or later, it’s someone else who takes the fall. Not Zane.”
Virginia shuddered. “The puppet master behind the scenes.”
“Yes,” Cabot said.
Octavia looked at him. “Is there anything else you know about him?”
“He likes to use fire to clean up the evidence,” Cabot said. “Several of the projects we have tentatively attributed to him ended with a fire in a warehouse or an apartment or some other structure. Sometimes people died.”
Virginia thought about that. “Zane doesn’t use fire just to destroy the evidence. I’ll bet he sees himself as an artist. Like any artist, he can’t resist signing his work. Sounds like fire is his signature.”