Chapter One
He hated cases that ended the way this one was going to
end. Ethan Truax closed the file folder and placed his
hands on the small round table. He regarded the man
sitting in the undersized hotel room chair across from
him.
"You're sure these numbers are solid?" he asked neutrally.
"Absolutely." Dexter Morrow smiled his reassuring
investment adviser's smile. It did nothing to conceal the
calculating expression in his eyes. "I took them straight
off Katherine's personal laptop last night after she went
to sleep."
"You did say that you were close to the boss."
Morrow chuckled. It was the kind of man-to-man laugh that
you heard in locker rooms and bars. "Real close. I can
tell you from personal experience that she's almost as
good in bed as she is at running her company."
Ethan managed to keep his face expressionless but it was
not easy. He was here to get the job done for the client,
not to defend her honor.
Outside the window the Arizona sun shone down on the
hotel's blue-tiled pool and lounge area. It was warm and
bright, the kind of day that made the state famous. But in
here there was a chill in the air, and it was not coming
from the air conditioner.
Morrow casually cocked one ankle on his knee. The collar
of his pricey, cream-colored polo shirt was edged with a
thin black stripe. The shirt complemented the designer-
label trousers and Euro-leather loafers. A gold Swiss
watch gleamed on his wrist.
Dexter Morrow had it made. He worked in a plush office,
played golf in the middle of the week and entertained his
clients in expensive places such as the Desert View
Country Club. He was a winner here in Whispering Springs.
Ethan was about to take it all away from him.
"All right," Ethan said quietly, more than ready for the
endgame. "We've got a deal."
Morrow glanced at the aluminum-sided suitcase that sat on
the floor beside Ethan's chair. "You brought the cash?"
"Small bills, as agreed." Ethan reached down, grasped the
handle of the suitcase and shoved it across the carpet
toward Morrow.
In a world where money could be transferred around the
globe in the blink of an eye with computers, hard cash in
a suitcase was still the transfer method of choice for
those who did not want to leave any electronic tracks for
the Feds or the SEC to uncover.
Morrow picked up the suitcase and hoisted it onto the
table. Ethan could tell that he was trying to appear cool
but he was not doing a very good job of it. Morrow's
fingers shook a little when he unsnapped the locks. The
guy was excited.
Morrow raised the lid and looked at the stacks of neatly
banded bills. Near-feverish anticipation radiated from him
in heavy waves that in another man might have been
mistaken for a sick lust.
"You want to count it?" Ethan asked softly.
"That would take too long. I've got to get back to the
office. I don't want anyone to start asking questions."
Morrow reached into the suitcase. "I'll just do a random
check."
Ethan got to his feet and put some distance between
himself and the table. You never knew how a man would
react when he realized he'd been cornered.
Morrow riffled through a stack of crisply cut blank paper
bundled beneath the single real twenty-dollar bill. For a
couple of seconds he did not appear to understand what had
happened. Then comprehension struck. His tanned face
flushed a dark red. He swung around to face Ethan.
"What the hell is going on here?" he snarled.
The bathroom door opened. Katherine Compton walked out.
"I was just about to ask you the same question, Dex," she
said. Her voice was flat with controlled anger. Her
handsome features were tight and drawn. "But that would be
a waste of time, wouldn't it? I already know the answer.
You just tried to sell those confidential bid figures to
Mr. Truax."
Something that might have been panic flickered across
Morrows face. "He said his name was Williams."
"It's Truax," Ethan said. "Ethan Truax of Truax
Investigations."
Morrow's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He
appeared to be having difficulty connecting the
dots. "You're a private investigator?"
"Yes," Ethan said.
He was a little surprised by Morrow's stunned expression.
The guy had a history of scams like this one. You'd think
he'd be accustomed to having things go wrong once in a
while. It wasn't like he was in any real jeopardy here,
and he had to know that. Employers almost never prosecuted
in these situations. They didn't want the negative
publicity.
"I hired Ethan last week when I started to get suspicious
of you, Dex," Katherine said.
Morrow spread his hands in a pleading gesture. "Darling,
you don't understand."
"Unfortunately, I do," she said. "I understand everything.
You certainly made a fool out of me for a while, but it's
over."
Morrow glanced briefly at Ethan. Rage darkened his face.
He turned back to Katherine. "You've got it all wrong.
You're making a huge mistake here."
"No," Katherine said.
"Listen to me. I knew there was a leak and I knew that it
was very close to you. I was trying to identify the
bastard who was screwing you."
"You were the bastard who was screwing me," Katherine
said.
"That's not true. I love you. I was trying to protect you.
When Truax put out feelers letting me know that he was in
the market for those bid figures, I thought I'd finally
gotten a lead on who was behind the inside leaks. I'm here
because I warned to set him up so that I could get him to
spill some information. I was playing him."
"Don't worry," Katherine said. "I'm not going to file
charges. A court case would hurt the company. We're all
about trust and long-term business relationships at
Compton Investments." She smiled thinly. "But then, you
already know that, don't you, Dex? After all, you've
worked for me for nearly a year."
"Katherine, you've got this all wrong."
"You can go now," she said. "A security guard will meet
you at the office. He'll stay with you while you clean out
your desk, and then he'll take your keys and escort you
out of the building. You know the drill. Standard
procedure in situations like this. No one will be told why
you were let go. I'm sure that everyone in the firm is
aware that you and I were involved. The assumption will be
made that we ended our personal relationship. Whenever
that sort of thing happens, it is always the lower-ranking
executive who leaves the firm, isn't it?"
"Katherine, you can't do this to us."
"I'm not doing it to us. I'm doing it to you. Speaking of
keys, I'll take back the one to my from door that I gave
you a few months ago. You won't be needing it anymore."
She held out her hand, palm up.
"I'm telling you, you're making a mistake." Morrow sounded
hoarse now.
"No, I'm correcting the one I made when I got involved
with you. My key, please." Her tone sharpened without
warning. "Now."
Morrow actually flinched. Ethan was impressed by the speed
with which he got the gold key chain out of his pocket.
Morrow fumbled the key off the ring and tossed it to
Katherine.
"I'll have the locks changed, just to be on the safe side,
of course." Katherine dropped the key into her
purse. "This morning after you left I packed up the things
you've been keeping at my place for the past few months.
The spare shirts and the razor and such. I dropped them
off at your condo."
Morrow's face worked furiously. He looked at Ethan. "This
is your fault, you son of a bitch. You'll regret it, I
promise you that much."
Ethan took the tiny digital recorder out of his pocket.
They all looked at it. Without a word he switched it off.
Morrow's jaw locked when he understood that the threat had
been recorded. Without saying another word, he picked up
his briefcase, his grip so fierce it squeezed the blood
out of his knuckles.
He went to the door, opened it and let himself out of the
hotel room.
There was a short silence. The room seemed to exhale
deeply on a long sigh.
Katherine did not take her gaze off the door. "Do you
think he meant that threat he made to you, Ethan?"
"Don't worry about it." Ethan went to the table, picked up
the packet of phony twenties and tossed it back into the
suitcase. "Guys like Morrow prefer not to take the risk of
getting physical. When they get caught, they disappear as
fast as possible. He'll be out of town by this time
tomorrow. Day after at the latest. In a couple of weeks
he'll be set up somewhere else, working on his next scam."
She grimaced. "I'm not doing the world any favors by
letting him go without bringing charges, am I?"
"Not your job to do the world a favor," he said without
inflection. "You've got a responsibility to your company
and your clients. It's a tough call."
"No," she said without hesitation, "it's not. The company
comes first. We're in the middle of some extremely
delicate negotiations. Between the three branches of
Compton Investments here in Whispering Springs and in the
Phoenix area, I've got over fifty employees and hundreds
of clients who will be directly affected by this deal.
I've got an obligation to all of them."
Spoken like the real CEO she is, he thought.
Katherine shook her head, looking weary now that it was
all over. "I never thought I'd ever get taken in like that
by a man, you know. I was always so sure of myself and my
instincts. So sure that I could spot a phony."
"You did spot Morrow." He closed the lid of the case and
snapped it shut. "That's why you picked up the phone and
called me, remember?"
She was startled by that observation. After contemplating
it for a moment, she nodded once, acknowledging the truth
of the statement.
"Yes, I did call you, didn't I?" She walked resolutely
toward the door. "Thank you for reminding me of that
salient fact, Mr. Truax. In all the excitement, I had
forgotten that I was the one who finally realized that
there was something a little too good to be true about
Dexter Morrow."
Ethan followed her out into the hall and closed the
door. "Your instincts were working just fine."
"I was actually thinking of marrying him, you know."
Ethan nodded.
"It would have been my second marriage," she added.
Ethan nodded again. He stopped in front of the elevators
and pressed the call button.
"My first husband married me because he wanted to get his
hands on my father's company," Katherine continued. "When
he realized that I was the heir apparent and that I
intended to run Compton myself, he filed for divorce."
Ethan prayed to the hotel gods in the vain hope that the
elevator doors would open quickly. He understood the
client's need to talk after it was all over. He usually
made it a point to listen patiently. He considered the
debriefing part of the job. But today he just wanted to be
done. A bone-deep weariness was creeping through him.
The adrenaline rush that generally accompanied the
satisfactory resolution of a case had not hit him back
there in the hotel room. Maybe that was because he had not
been sleeping well lately.
He knew the reason for the insomnia. It was November.
November was a bad time. If the past two years were
anything to go by, he would not sleep well again until
December.
Mercifully, the elevator doors opened. Katherine moved
inside ahead of him.
"Have you ever been married?" she asked.
"Oh, yeah," Ethan said.
Her brow climbed. "Divorced?"
"Three times."
She frowned. He was not surprised. One or two divorces
were acceptable in this sophisticated day and age. There
were excuses that could be made. Three, however, raised
questions concerning possible innate character flaws.
"Are you married now?" Katherine asked.
He thought about Zoe waiting for him at home. He summoned
up the image of her sitting across from him at breakfast
that morning, vibrant and vivid in an amethyst-colored
pantsuit. He remembered how the morning sun streaming
through the window had touched off sparks in her dark
auburn hair and how she had looked at him with her
mysterious, smoky eyes. His woman; his wife.
The mental picture was a talisman that he carried against
the dark forces of November that swirled around him. But
part of him dreaded the future because he was pretty sure
that sooner or later those forces would triumph and drive
Zoe away from him.
He punched the lobby button.
"Sort of," he said.
Chapter Two
It had been a good day. She had not encountered any
screaming walls.
For the vast majority of interior designers, "screaming
walls" implied an unfortunate choice of paint color or a
really bad window treatment. But for a psychic designer
who happened to be acutely sensitive to the invisible aura
left in rooms that had been scenes of violence or strong
passions, the term "screaming walls" could be interpreted
quite literally.
She had not set out in life with the intent of becoming an
interior designer, Zoe reflected as she poured two glasses
of wine. Her original plan had been to pursue a career as
an art curator. But the murder of her first husband had
changed everything.
She was the first to admit that she had lost control for a
time following Preston's death. What could she say? She
had been a desperate woman. The cops had concluded that
Preston had been shot by a transient burglar. The instant
she had stepped into the cottage where the murder occurred
she knew that was not what had happened. The walls had
screamed bloody murder.
In her passion to see justice done, she had made the near-
fatal mistake of telling everyone who would listen that
Preston had been killed by someone close to him. In a
desperate attempt to convince her scheming in-laws that
one of them was to blame, she had told them that she could
sense the terrible rage that the murderer had felt
clinging to the walls of the cottage.
Big mistake.
Her wild claims of psychic talents had given her in-laws
the excuse they needed to have her committed against her
will to a very private, very exclusive psychiatric
hospital. She knew that she was not insane when she had
entered the place, but the ordeal of her stay there had
very nearly turned the phony diagnosis into a reality. To
this day, she still had nightmares in which she walked the
halls of Candle Lake Manor.
Zoe put the two glasses of wine on a tray together with a
plate of cheese and crackers. She picked up the tray and
carried it out into the living room of her small
apartment.
Ethan was on the sofa, leaning forward slightly, legs
apart, elbows resting on his thighs. He wore a black crew-
neck tee shirt and khaki pants. He held the remote loosely
in one hand, absently clicking through the early evening
news programs.
She remembered her first impression of him that memorable
day six weeks before in October when she had walked into
his second-floor office on Cobalt Street.
Continues...