The present
“I don’t know,” Jake mumbled into the pillow Tuesday morning and then opened his eyes. “Shit.”
He rolled onto his back and threw his arms out wide across the huge bed. The nightmare was becoming a nightly routine. His chest heaved, but he refused to give in to anger. He coped by believing Angela was motivating him, prodding him to find and punish the person who wanted her dead.
“I’ll find him, I promise,” he muttered. “Now, please let me sleep.”
Three hours later, the alarm clock woke him. He slapped it into silence with his eyes still closed. Finished with several jaw-locking yawns, he swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat up. His gaze rested on Angela’s photo on the nightstand. God, she looked great in that red dress.
He lumbered into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. His eyes burned from long hours spent reviewing Angela’s business and personal files. Every night he’d gone to bed mentally exhausted only to have his sleep disrupted by the damn nightmare. Fatigue. Frustration. Guilt. The mirror reflected his suffering.
The call last night to the Contractor had been a fiasco. Jake had no delusions that the Contractor would feel the burn of guilt and change his mind about disclosing the name of the buyer. It was far more likely the evil man was currently arranging a contract to kill Jake Stone. Looking over his shoulder, watching his back, would slow him down.
His fingers scratched the sandpaper of whiskers on his chin. He desperately needed a break in his investigation. So far, he hadn’t turned up a single soul with a hint of a motive. Time was passing quickly, and he feared the trail would soon grow cold. Before falling into bed last night, he had decided how to expand the search.
In the kitchen, Jake poured a mug of strong, black coffee. While he drank the life-preserving caffeine, he flipped through the pages of Angela’s personal address book until he found the phone number he sought.
As he dialed, he braced for an unpleasant conversation.
“Reardon residence,” a female voice answered.
“Randall Reardon, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Jake Stone.”
“Regarding?”
He hesitated. “Angela Reardon.”
The voice whispered, “Did you find her?”
Jake frowned. “Who is this?”
The woman drew a deep breath, but her voice still trembled when she spoke. “Please excuse me, Mr. Stone. I am Rosa Sanchez, the Reardon’s household manager. I have been praying you would find my baby girl.”
“Your baby girl?”
A muffled sob. “I practically raised Angela. I can’t believe my angel baby is gone.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms. Sanchez.”
“Are you working with Detective Smithson?”
Jake paused. “Collaborating with him.”
“I see. Please bring Angela home, Mr. Stone. I’ll connect you with Mr. Reardon now.”
“Thanks.”
A minute passed before a man’s voice came on the line. “Randall Reardon.”
“Good morning, Mr. Reardon. My name is Jake Stone.”
“Yes, Rosa told me.”
“Right. First, I’d like to offer my sincere condolences.”
“Thank you. What do you want?”
Jake tensed. “If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions about Angela.”
“Rosa said you were ‘collaborating’ with Detective Smithson.”
“Yes. Closely.”
“Really?” Randall Reardon paused. “What are your questions, Mr. Stone?”
Jake forced himself to tamp down his rising anger. “Let me explain that I don’t believe Angela committed suicide.”
“What are you suggesting?” Reardon asked warily.
“I think she was murdered.”
“Murdered? What about the suicide notes? The sleeping pills?”
“I think someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like a suicide.”
“Why would someone murder Angela?” Reardon said with apparent disbelief.
“I don’t know, but I swear to God I’m going to find out.” Jake made sure his tone left no doubt of his intensity or intentions.
Reardon cleared his throat. “Your questions, Mr. Stone?”
“The obvious one: Did Angela have any enemies?”
“Of course not. My daughter was a kind, loving, compassionate woman. She was also exceptionally talented and smart, although her strong-willed independence made her difficult at times.”
“Her independence caused problems at home?”
“Angela’s mother and I were disappointed in some of her choices.”
“Like dropping out of law school and becoming an interior decorator?”
“One of many,” Reardon said curtly.
“Many?”
“Angela made no secret of her disdain for our lifestyle, our respect for proper society. After high school, she wasted no time getting as far away from our societal universe as possible. She practically destroyed me—I mean, us—when she fled to Los Angeles, of all places.” He snorted. “But in the end that didn’t work out so well. Excuse me a moment.”
Jake heard a muffled female voice in the background and guessed the man had covered the phone mouthpiece. He listened to the two voices grow louder, angrier.
Then Reardon was back. “I apologize. Where were we?”
“LA.”
“Oh, yes. We tried to warn Angela about the perils of California, but she wouldn’t listen. Her move was disastrous for the whole family. When she was…when the incident occurred four years ago, we thought she’d have the good sense to come home. But some offspring never learn.”
Incident? What Angela had endured was no goddamn incident. Listening to her father’s judgmental attitude, Jake could better understand why she hadn’t returned to Virginia afterward. She’d gone through hell just telling him about it years later.
A click alerted him that someone had picked up another phone extension. He waited, listening, curious.
“Adrienne, you weren’t invited to join us,” Reardon spoke sharply to his wife.
“I have a right to know what’s going on.” She turned her anger on Jake. “Why can’t you respect our privacy as we deal with the death of our daughter? Just what are you up to, Mr. Stone?”
“I’m trying to learn the truth about Angela’s death, Mrs. Reardon.”
“Detective Smithson told us the truth. Angela committed suicide.”
“Well, ma’am, I don’t believe she did.”
“Please let us grieve in private and don’t make trouble for us.”
“Trouble?”
“By drawing even more attention to this…this disaster. Like Angela would want.” Her tone changed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the timing was intentional.” The venom in her mother’s voice shocked Jake.
“Adrienne, watch what you say,” Reardon snapped.
Jake’s fist clenched, but his tone was smooth, conciliatory. “You might be onto something, Mrs. Reardon. What do you mean about the timing being intentional?”
“Adrienne—” Her husband tried to stop her.
“Shut up, Randall. Mr. Stone won’t let this go until he knows the truth about our darling daughter, who obviously didn’t care how much she hurt us. So I’m going to tell him.”
“I appreciate your honesty, ma’am.”
“We’ll see if you do. Now, where do I start? I overheard Randall telling you Angela was difficult. That’s an understatement. She lived to undermine our place in society, destroy the respect we worked so hard to earn. Randall spent a lifetime making a successful career in the State Department. He was Ambassador to Spain while Angela was in high school. He and I were in Greece most of the time she was in college. But we moved back to McLean four years ago to wait for his appointment as Ambassador to the UK.”
“Adrienne, please stop.”
“No.” She exhaled impatiently. “The UK was to be his crowning accomplishment, the pinnacle he would retire from. But Angela decided to destroy our dream. She managed to be involved in that…that awful incident just in time to trigger an avalanche of bad press. We hoped it might generate a sympathetic reaction, but instead the powers-that-be decided Angela needed her parents in the US instead of in the UK. She never even came home. Stayed in goddamn California.” Adrienne’s voice cracked, but with anger, not grief. “We’ve waited four years for another ambassadorship. A week ago, Randall was the favorite for the opening in Panama. My God, it’s humiliating. Panama.” She paused. “Then this whole mess with Angela happened. Yesterday, Randall got a call informing him Thornton Spiegel had been chosen instead.” She laughed bitterly. “Can you imagine? Thornton has a handshake like a dishrag, and he can’t even dance.” She choked back tears. “Angela ruined everything again. We gave our daughter a wonderful life. How could she be so heartless?”
Rage squeezed Jake’s throat and left him speechless. Was this woman for real? A heavy silence hung on the phone line. There was a click and then more silence.
Finally, Randall Reardon cleared his throat. “You’ll have to forgive Adrienne. She’s so distraught over Angela’s death she’s not herself.”
“Do you share your wife’s opinions?” Jake asked tightly.
“Heavens no. Angela had a wonderful heart. She was never hateful or vengeful. I don’t believe there was any intention to hurt us with her actions in either incident. But she changed after what happened in LA, became even more distant from her family. I don’t think she was ever truly happy again.”
“Are you saying her unhappiness led to suicide?”
“Yes, I believe it did.”
“And you can’t think of any enemies or anyone else who would have wanted her dead?”
“If you’re intimating that about my wife, I strongly resent it, Mr. Stone.”
“I’m not.”
“Then—as I just told Detective Smithson—I can think of no one with a motive to kill Angela.”
Jake did a double take. “Smithson asked you the same question?”
“Yes, and several other distasteful ones.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago. If you’re ‘collaborating closely’ with the detective, I would think you would know that,” Reardon said snidely. “I’m sure I should’ve inquired earlier, but what exactly is your role in this matter, Mr. Stone?”
“I’m a PI,” Jake said, his anger about to boil over. “Detective Kent Smithson and I have had a professional relationship for several years. We’ve officially discussed Angela’s case. He knows I don’t think she committed suicide.”
“And what was your relationship with my daughter?”
Jake wanted to curse and tell the asshole it was none of his damn business, but he had to keep this resource open. “Angela and I had been dating for about three months. We were in an exclusive, committed relationship.”
A long silence followed.
“Pardon my skepticism, but my understanding was that—after LA—Angela wasn’t interested in relationships with men. We didn’t know she was seriously dating anyone.”
“Pardon my bluntness, but I can’t say I’m surprised she didn’t share the news with you.”
The insult must have hit a vulnerable spot because Reardon’s tone suddenly changed to one of sorrow and remorse. “It’s a shame, but you’re absolutely right.” He cleared his throat again. “Do you think Angela was happy?”
“Yes. Definitely. She told me she hadn’t been so happy in a long time.”
“I’m glad.” He paused. “She was my daughter, and I loved her—whether you believe me or not.”
“Then help me find out the truth about her death.”
“I don’t know anything that would help.”
“I understand, but if something comes to you, call me anytime, day or night.”
Jake recited his contact numbers and ended the call as quickly as possible. He swore vehemently. Poor Angela. It was amazing she had grown up to be the terrific person she was, considering her horrible parents. Her life must have been hell when she lived with them.
After pouring a second mug of coffee, Jake paced while he sorted through the minimal information gleaned from the call. For a fleeting moment, he entertained the thought that Adrienne Reardon had put a contract out on her own daughter. But that didn’t make sense. True, she seemed to wish Angela didn’t exist, but her death in any manner would have produced attention. And attention on Angela was not what her mother wished for.
Jake wandered outside to stand at the edge of the patio. Staring down at the fifty-foot drop, his mind switched gears.
Smithson had called the Reardons and asked “distasteful” questions. Jake grinned. Kent could be a real son of a bitch when he wanted to and, hopefully, he’d been at his worst. But had the detective learned anything? Probably nothing more than what Jake had learned. The bigger question was why Smithson had called in the first place. Yesterday, the man had said there was no Reardon case, and today, he was calling the parents and asking questions.
Jake pulled his cell from his pocket and slid onto a chaise lounge. He smiled as he dialed.
“Smithson.”
“You lying sack of shit.”
“Morning, Stone.”
“Did you have a nice chat with the Reardons?”
“Damn. News travels fast.” He chuckled incredulously. “Probably as nice as yours. Wonderful folks, aren’t they?”
“I have a new level of respect for Angela. That’s for sure.”
“Agreed.”
The banter ended, and Jake turned no-nonsense. “Why did you call them?”
During a long pause, he heard a door shutting.
Smithson’s voice was firm and low. “Look, Stone, I don’t have any grounds to officially pursue this. And I have too many cases to go chasing after anything unofficial. Besides, I could get my balls in a bind if I did, and I happen to like my balls. But something doesn’t smell right about this.”
“Damn straight. My gut says the same thing.”
“Yeah, well, if it’s ever your gut against my balls, I’m sticking with my boys.”
“No argument there. What changed your mind?”
Kent snorted. “I was already having trouble with it when you came to see me. Plus, all your points were valid. I can even add two more.”
“Two more?”
“Yeah. Number one: If you can simply take an overdose of sleeping pills, why bother with the scarier, messier method of jumping off a damn bridge? Overkill. You can’t die twice. Number two: Since when does a jumper take off her dress and shoes? It’s not like she’s going to need them again. No woman I know would want to stand out on that bridge half-naked in the middle of the night, even if they were committing suicide.”
“What’re you saying?”
“The clothes on the bridge were a cover-up. No pun intended.”
Jake stroked his chin. “To explain the disappearance of the body?”
“Right.”
“So you’re thinking murder?”
“First degree. The bastard put a lot of planning into this. He killed her in the condo. The sleeping pills were only a prop—probably didn’t even use any. Then he removed the body to God knows where, but left the clothes on the bridge as a decoy.”
“Devious.”
“Yeah. Also, there was no sign of forced entry or struggle. The perp knew her signature well enough to forge it. Knew she took prescription sleeping pills. Knew the neighbor lady would be concerned about the dog barking. Which means Angela definitely knew her killer.”
“It all makes sense. What about motive?”
“Beats me. What do you think, Stone? You’re my prime suspect.”
* * *
After his double-edged conversation with Detective Smithson, Jake left his beautiful backyard and secluded himself inside his office. He also switched from coffee to a Bloody Mary.
Smithson’s message was a mixed blessing. He was no longer convinced Angela had committed suicide. That was good. He was thinking murder. Even better. He considered Jake a suspect.
Bad, very bad.
Jake had known the risks when he went to Smithson’s office yesterday and set the chain of events in motion. At least the detective wasn’t opening an official homicide investigation. Yet. Their friendship—if it could be called that—probably made the man uncomfortable with his suspicions. Jake would have to keep it that way. He needed to be careful how he manipulated the cop to garner whatever information he could. He had to avoid getting caught in the net at all costs.
His cell phone rang, and he glanced at the screen. The caller’s phone number was “unavailable,” so he didn’t answer. His attention returned to his computer monitor, which was displaying information from Angela’s personal laptop. The phone rang again: unavailable. He pushed it aside and clicked the mouse through several commands.
When his cell rang the third time, Jake frowned and answered but remained silent.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
She didn’t continue so he disconnected.
Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. “Shit,” he muttered. After ten rings, he answered.
“What the hell—”
The female voice sounded familiar, but Jake still ended the call. The process started again. He hesitated. His finger hovered over the talk button before finally touching it.
“Jake Stone? Don’t hang up. I need to talk to you, damn it.”
He froze. “Angela?”
“What? Are you crazy?”
He pushed end and exhaled the breath he’d been holding. He shook his head to clear it. The damn phone rang again.
This time, he stabbed the talk button immediately. “Who the hell is this?”
“Well, it’s about time, Mr. Stone.” The woman laughed, but it wasn’t Angela’s charming laughter.
“Who are you?”
“Maleena Reardon.” When Jake didn’t respond, she continued in a mocking tone. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“No.”
She laughed again, an annoying, grating sound. “I’m Angela’s sister.”
“Sister?” No wonder the voice sounded familiar. “Angela never told me she had a sister.”
“Not surprising. We weren’t close.”
“Your father didn’t mention you, either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Are there any more siblings?”
“Thank God, no.”
Jake shook his head to clear the shock waves. “What do you want?”
“I want you to back off.”
“Back off?”
“You really upset my parents this morning. They don’t need some pompous PI putting outrageous theories in their heads. Can’t you appreciate what a difficult time this is for them?”
“Yeah, I could tell they’re really broken up over Angela’s death.”
His sarcasm was apparently not lost on Maleena because she struggled with a response. “As…as diplomats, my parents have learned to…to keep their emotions under control, Mr. Stone. My sister’s death was devastating, but they’re coping in their own way.”
“Your mother’s way is a little unorthodox.”
“Her reaction was a byproduct of wanting to protect me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m getting married in a few months. She has been totally immersed in the wedding planning. This is a big deal for her. First child getting married and all that.”
“Congratulations, Miss Reardon. I wouldn’t want to overshadow the happy event by trying to find out the truth about her other daughter’s death.”
Maleena’s voice tightened. “Don’t be cruel, Mr. Stone. My wedding is a very public, high society event. I’m marrying Senator Jim Blackwell.”
Jake whistled. “I can understand your concern. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see the headline: One Reardon daughter gets murdered, and the other gets married.”
“Fuck you!”
“Tsk, tsk, Miss Reardon. That’s no way for a young society maiden to talk. What would your mother say?”
“I don’t really give a damn. But I’m beginning to think I need to talk to Detective Smithson myself.”
“Go ahead. Be my guest.”
“I don’t need your permission to ask him why he’s not investigating you. If you’re right and Angela was murdered, you should be the prime suspect. As I recall, women are murdered most often by a significant man in their lives. And my father said you were sniffing around Angela.”
Jake bristled. “For your information, I don’t sniff. Maybe you let men sniff around you, Miss Reardon, but Angela was too much of a lady to ever allow that sort of male behavior.”
“So, if you weren’t after sex, were you after her money?”
“If I was after her money, why would I kill her? I’m sure I’m not a beneficiary in her will. You can’t have it both ways. Maybe you were after money. A bigger inheritance is a great motive for murder.”
“I’m warning you, Mr. Stone. Back off. You’re hurting my parents and me, not helping us. If you make trouble, my fiancé has the power to deal with you.”
“Don’t screw with me.”
“Then disappear. Let Angela go peacefully. And don’t ruin our lives with your goddamn inability to cope.”
“Now you listen to me. If you or your parents get in my way, I’ll contact every media outlet on the East Coast to tell them the Reardon family is impeding the Angela Reardon murder investigation. Will my news play very well with your wedding announcement in The Washington Post?”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Stone?”
“No, Miss Reardon. It’s a promise.”