Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(50)

“Unless Ry Strauss acted on his own,” she says.

“That could be, but it’s unlikely. My cousin said two men grabbed her.”

She gives me a small smile. “You seem determined, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Your son was murdered. An FBI agent named Patrick O’Malley, a father of six, was murdered. My uncle Aldrich was murdered.” I pause, more for effect than anything else. “Now add in the brutality and murder of those young girls in the insufficiently dubbed ‘Hut of Horrors.’”

I lean toward her, aiming for dramatic effect. “Yes, Ms. Hogan, I’m determined.”

“And if you find the truth?” she asks.

I say nothing.

“What if you find the truth but you can’t prove it?” Vanessa Hogan’s face is animated, her tone more enthused. “Let’s say you find the guilty party, but there is no way you can prove it in a court of law. What would you do then?”

I look over at Jessica. She’s waiting for the answer too. I don’t like lying, so I quasi divert with a question. “Are you asking me if I would let a mass murderer and rapist go free?”

Vanessa Hogan holds my gaze. I try to move us back to the subject at hand.

“Billy Rowan visited you,” I say.

She blinks, sits back. “He seemed so nice when he came to my kitchen, so full of remorse.” Then thinking about it more, she gives a little gasp. “Do you think Billy Rowan had something to do with that awful hut?”

“I don’t know. But I do know it’s all tied together somehow. The Jane Street Six. The murder of your son. The stolen paintings. The Hut of Horrors.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not well, Mr. Lockwood.”

“What did Billy Rowan tell you when he came to see you?”

“He asked for my forgiveness. And I gave it to him.”

Vanessa Hogan does not blink. She keeps her gaze steady. Her mouth barely moves, but I am convinced that she is smiling.

Then I say, “You know where Billy Rowan is, don’t you?”

She doesn’t move.

“Of course not,” she says in a voice that’s not even trying. “It’s getting late. I’d like you both to leave now.”





CHAPTER 18



Vanessa Hogan shuts down after that.

“Kind of blew that one,” Jessica says, as we head out the door.

We hadn’t, but I don’t want to get into that now.

As we slip into the back of the car, my phone rings. I put it to my ear and say, “Articulate.”

Jessica rolls her eyes.

Kabir says, “You want the whole story, or should I cut to the chase?”

“Oh, please draw it out and be extra verbose. You know how I love that.”

“The black Lincoln tailing you belongs to Nero Staunch’s crew.”

I would ask him how he knows, but I’d encouraged him to cut to the chase and so he had. Kabir tells me anyway: “It was registered to a craft beer place the family uses as a front. By the way, do you know who runs the Staunch crew now?”

“I do not.”

“Leo Staunch.”

“Okay,” I say. “And that matters because…?”

“Leo Staunch is Nero’s nephew. More to the point, Leo is Sophia Staunch’s baby brother.”

“Ah,” I say. “Interesting.”

“Not to mention dangerous.”

“Where is this black Lincoln now?”

“Open up the map app on your iPhone. I’ve dropped a pin from the tracker device, so you can keep tabs on it.”

“Okay, good. Anything else?”

“Remember how yesterday tons of media outlets wanted interviews because your Vermeer had been found at a murder scene?”

“Yes.”

“Now imagine adding onto that the murder victim was Ry Strauss.”

It would indeed be a feeding frenzy. “What are you telling them?”

“I’ve learned how to say ‘No comment’ in twelve languages.”

“Thank you.”

“Ei kommenttia,” Kabir says. “That’s Finnish.”

“Anything else?”

“Tomorrow morning. You have Ema for breakfast.”

The one appointment I would never miss or forget.

I hang up. Jessica stares out the window.

“Would you like to go for an early dinner?” I ask her.

She considers it for a moment, and then says, “Why not?”

We arrive at the grill room at the Lotos Club, an elegant private social club whose early members include Mark Twain. It’s located in a French Renaissance town house on the Upper East Side. The grill room is in the basement. It is all dark woods and rich burgundy walls. The bar is front and center. Men must wear a jacket and a tie, something you rarely find in Manhattan anymore; some consider this dress code outdated, but I relish these old-world touches.

Charles, the head waiter, recommends the sole meunière, and Jessica and I both choose it. I select a Chateau Haut Bailly, a Bordeaux wine from the Pessac-Léognan appellation. Their whites are underrated.

I feel my phone buzz and excuse myself. You never pull out your phone at the Lotos Club. You instead make your way into a private phone booth, the only place where you are allowed to use it. As expected, it’s PT. I answer.