We Begin at the End(61)

She knelt and took Robin into her arms.

“What is it?” Hal said.

And then a lady noticed what she held in her hand.

“GUN.”

Hal pulled her close as panic broke out around them.

*

The call came after dinner. Hal filled him in. By the time the panic died the Escalade was gone. Duchess did not get the plates. It could have been anyone. The reminder kept them all focused.

As he cut the line it rang again.

“You’re popular,” Martha said.

He’d promised to cook for her, lost track of the day so ended up ordering in. Martha had laughed, said she was relieved she’d at least get something palatable. He’d left her in the house, working through more papers.

“Cuddy,” Walk said into the phone. He hadn’t checked in with Cuddy in a while so was relieved to hear the big man’s voice on the other end. “How’s he holding up?”

“I got him back in his old cell, had to move a runner on, bitched something awful but Vincent seems more settled in there.”

“Thank you.”

“Any news on the case? I tried asking Vincent about it but he wouldn’t say anything. Not like the others, always crying innocence and injustice. I swear, you’d think we’d locked up a bunch of choirboys.”

Walk laughed. “So he hasn’t spoken to anyone?”

“No. I tell you, it’s like he never left here. Straight back into the old routine. Starting to think he missed the place.”

They made small talk a while, and then Walk heard Martha call.

He stood, left his beer on the deck and made his way into the living room.

Martha didn’t say anything at first, just straightened slightly, then leaned closer to the stack of files, put her glasses on and focused. She’d been the one that made the break, that traced Darke’s name to a company registered in Portland.

“You get something?”

“Maybe. Go bring me some snacks. I need some thinking peppers. You got any Habanero?”

He shook his head.

“Malagueta?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Shit, Walk. Some fucking poblano. I need heat. Jesus. Prepare for me next time.”

Suitably chastised he made his way into the small kitchen, brewed coffee and watched the street. They’d been at it four hours, from dinner to late, both yawning and red-eyed but both knowing they would sooner work than lie restless in their beds. The case was getting to her now, more because of the way Walk looked, like he was being ravaged by the detail.

He handed her the coffee, and a pepper mill.

She fought a smile, then flipped him off.

He watched her pace, in her hand was a corporation tax filing, a statement of registration. The trail was the kind of complex that had already seen her call in favors from a taxation lawyer she knew.

“Fortuna Avenue,” she said.

“The second line homes.”

“All but a couple are owned by the same holding company. When did the report come in, the first one? The eroding cliffs. California Wild.” Martha chewed the cap of her pen.

Walk fished through a heavy stack of papers. “May, 1995.”

Martha smiled, then held up her paper. “This company bought the first house in September 1995. And then they bought another almost every year since. Eight homes, rolling finance, each mortgaged to pay for the next. That worked for the first six, till the rate hikes.”

“And then?”

Martha paced again, walked over to the cabinet, topped off her coffee with whisky and did the same to Walk’s. “So this company bought every house on the second line. California Wild gauged it at ten years, right?”

“Give or take. Then they built the breakwater. The King house is safe.”

“The second line, they’re not worth all that much. Small, family homes. Got them cheap, doesn’t look like they increased much over the years.”

“Until?”

“Until the front line started to fall, and the vacationers started to come. One by one they went down. So all that stood between the company and what …”

“Five million dollars. At least.”

“And all that blocked it was Vincent King and his family home. The land around. It can’t be built on. No one would get a permit while the King house stands.”

“This company, what’s it called.”

“The MAD Trust.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“The name, it doesn’t matter. But guess who the sole director is.”

She handed Walk the paper and he held it tight, trying to steady it.

And there it was, at the top, bold print.

Richard Darke.





25


THAT NIGHT DUCHESS WOKE TO a cold sweat.

She saw shapes, the closet taking Darke’s soulless form.

When she calmed she checked Robin, then slipped from the room and down the stairs. She wore a soft robe. Hal had left it out for her. It was something they had fallen in to. She would still take nothing from him directly. No food or drink, no help with the horses even when she had homework due and the day was draining fast. Instead he left things for her and she took them when he was not around. She marveled at his patience.

She drank water straight from the faucet.