Baddest Bad Boys(27)

“I’m sorry, but I really doubt it,” Esther said regretfully. “She’s not even in town. She went up to the mountains for a few days.”

The mountains? A shuddering thrill went up Julia’s spine.

Of course, Robin might not have gone to the same place…but if she had? Oh, wow. It would be so incredibly perfect.

“Very well,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”

Lake. Cabin. Mountains. Everything pointed to it—the clipping, Molly, Esther, her prickling skin. Amendola and Robin were up there, having a secret rendezvous. A scumbag like Amendola was more than capable of betraying his friend by defiling his innocent little sister. The man’s disregard for anything but his own pleasure sickened her.

But where? She pulled the photographs out of her purse. She had no way to be sure this was the same place, but Molly had implied he went there often. And MacNamara was in that photo, too. If he owned his own cabin on a lake in the mountains, why go fishing elsewhere?

There were a thousand reasons why a rich CFO might go fishing elsewhere, but Julia dismissed them all like stinging insects. She had to trust her instincts. The picture was of MacNamara’s lake. The lake was the place. There was a symmetry to it. Cosmic perfection. She felt it.

She stared at the photo, studying the mottled face of Mt. Rainier.

She typed “Mt. Rainier climbing routes” into the engine, and hit on a website filled with up-to-the-minute climbing conditions on every approach to the mountain’s summit, each of which had its own photo gallery. Photos of every angle. Detailed topographical maps. Perfect.

She studied each approach, compared them to the lake photograph, and found an almost perfect match in the South Tahoma Glacier pictures. It was off by a few degrees, but she would compensate for that. The geological configurations were identical. Southwest, then.

She spread out her Washington map, and puzzled out the distances. She estimated no less than twenty-five miles, no more than thirty-five. She found the correct angle, calculated a fan of territory. Allowing margin on all sides, she came up with a list of eleven towns.

Well and good. And now? She was exhausted, from lack of food and sleep. Her head pounded. But with every hammer blow of her heart, she saw William’s blood-smeared hand, pressed to the glass. Those cruel letters, carved into his flesh.

Think, Julia. Think.

She stared at the two men in the boat. Amendola holding up the fish, like a little boy with a toy. Fishing. One needed a license to fish.

A fishing license. Sporting goods stores. Oh, yes. Of course.

She let out a happy sigh, dialed room service, and ordered a turkey on dry whole wheat toast, a fruit cup and black coffee, as a reward to herself. Then she dove right back into the digital soup of state telephone databases to make a list of sporting goods stores in the area.

Hours later found her exhausted and irritated, her euphoria gone. Twenty-seven sporting goods stores, and she had called all but two of them. Perhaps she’d missed one. Miscalculated the angles, the distances. Was this stupid, wasted effort?

William was looking impatient and stern. It made her anxious.

She took a grim swallow of cold, bitter coffee and continued down the list. Kerrigan Creek was next. Chad’s Sporting Goods. She dialed.

“Hi, this is Chad’s,” said a bubbly young female voice.

Julia made her voice young and chirpy. “Hi. My name’s Kelly, and I’m calling on behalf of my boss, Daniel MacNamara. He just had a change of address, and he wanted to make sure the info on his fishing license was up to date. Could you check the address for me?”

The girl hesitated. “Uh, I don’t think it makes any difference—”

“Could you just check for me?” Julia wheedled, woman-to-woman. “He had problems in the past, and he’s a perfectionist. It has to be just so, you know? He’s like that. Just check it? As a favor to me?”

“Hold on a sec.” The phone clunked and rattled. Julia waited for several minutes. “Hi, you still there, Kelly?” the girl asked.

“Sure am,” Julia replied brightly.

“The address listed on this license is on Mercer, in Seattle,” the girl said. “Is that his current address?”

Excitement bubbled through Julia’s body like fuel. Better than food. “It sure is. You don’t have to change a thing. Thanks so much!”

She hung up, hugging herself in delight, and then accessed the phone directory for Kerrigan Creek, and found a number for the tax assessor. The snippy receptionist informed her that the assessor’s name was Stan Borg, and put Julia through to him with bad grace.

“Hello?” Borg’s voice was that of an older man.

Julia made her voice deep, sugary, mature. “Hello, Mr. Borg. My name’s Cassie Kelly, from the Department of Tax and Finance. I was hoping you might check a name for me, for property ownership?”

The old fellow cleared his throat. “Ah, why, yes, I suppose I could. Let me have that name, and a call back number for you, Ms. Kelly.”

“Thanks so much,” she cooed. “The name is Daniel MacNamara.” She gave him a carefully chosen number, the area code and exchange of which were identical to a number of several official Washington State offices, but the final four digits were 9970, which would always ring busy. It was time to get going and drive on up to Kerrigan Creek. By the time she got there, the pleasant, helpful Mr. Borg would be ripe for a call back, and ready to tell her anything she needed to know.