Less Than a Treason Read online

  She held up her pencil. “Got it in one.”

  “Isn’t Personnel supposed to keep that stuff confidential?”

  “Don’t count on it. Bernice is a big mouthed cow.”

  Harry smiled. “They’re still married, then?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “So, go on, answer the big question. Does the elusive Lady Anne live here now, or is she still in the States?”

  “Bernice didn’t know—and don’t tell anyone else about the baby. He might not like it.” She gestured to the closed door. “Let’s talk about something else. He might come out.”

  Harry had just left her desk when, as she’d predicted, the Superintendent came out of his office. He looked worse than he had before, if that were possible.

  “I’m on my way, then.” He had his worn leather briefcase in one of his hands, his computer bag over his shoulder, and his coat over his other arm. “I’ll have my mobile, and I’ll check email. Keep me advised. Let me know when we have more information on cause of death for Pooley.”

  “We will.” Allison raised her hand in a little wave. “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Happy Christmas, guv.” Harry said.

  “Thanks. You too.”

  After the door shut, Harry looked at her. “How about if we go to the Pink Elephant after work? Celebrate the holidays a couple of days early?”

  “Let’s go to the shooting range instead. I’ve got my testing coming up, and you’re supposed to be helping me.” She popped a copy of the flashdrive she’d given Reid into her computer. When the inventory of documents came up on the screen, she started going through them, one by one, making notes on the paper in front of her, and referring back to her two computer screens as she went.

  “Slave driver.”

  She pointed to her screen, turning in her chair, causing it to make its customary loud squeak. “Did you see how tricky this whole thing is?” She automatically reached down to adjust the piece of paper she’d put in the chair’s springs to keep it quiet. The Super had used their new budget allotment to make sure they had the best technical gear available. Of course, that meant their offices were furnished with cast-offs dug up from the bureau’s basements and storage closets. Consequently, they had to endure squeaks and a lot of ugly, but the technical equipment was what mattered. “Using hedge funds to launder money must be awfully lucrative to make it worth all the effort they have to go through to hide the trail.”

  Harry said, “Apparently, it’s also risky. But if you’re laundering dirty money, you’re probably used to taking risks.”

  “I guess. I finished the list of the financial houses he used, as well as the brokers we suspect are Von Zandt’s main connection at each one. I’ll print it off for you. If Pooley was killed because he wouldn’t do what Von Zandt wanted, there may be others in danger as well.” She hit the print button on her computer.

  “Are all of those accounts in VZ’s name?”

  “Only two. Most of them were in the name of one of the entities he manages the investment for. The two investments he made in his name were the only ones he ended up losing any money in—and both of those two were with Damien Investments. Where Pooley worked.” She pulled the list off her printer and handed it across her desk to Harry. “That might explain why he’d be particularly mad at Pooley, and probably means the other blokes aren’t in any danger.”

  Harry picked up the telephone. “Even so, I’m going to make sure we get the wiretaps on all of these chaps, just in case they’ve somehow gotten on VZ’s shite list. Even if he’s out of the country, he could be having others do his dirty work. Crime doesn’t take off for Christmas.”

  Chapter 3

  RAFE KENSINGTON eyed the gold silk chaise lounge where his wife lay stretched out, wrapped in her fuchsia dressing gown. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even. She was out cold. He envied her ability to nap whenever she wanted to, no matter where she was or what was going on around her. Her sleep was always immediate and deep. But still, he needed to be careful to make sure she didn’t wake up and see him going through her things. She would be beyond furious if she caught him.

  He didn’t have much time. They needed to leave by two o’clock at the latest in order to get to Dunbaryn Castle in time to be able to change and get settled before the pre-dinner cocktail hour, which meant his wife would need to wake up from her nap soon. A lifelong diabetic, Flora was almost fanatically attuned to her body’s signals. When she needed to eat, she ate, when she needed to rest, she rested. As it turned out, he was glad she had. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have had the chance before they left for the holidays to go through the room to try to find the papers.

  The too-sweet scent of the perfume she’d recently started wearing again permeated the room. When they’d started seeing each other, he’d told her he didn’t care for that particular fragrance, and she’d compliantly changed to something he liked better. That she’d now gone back to her old fragrance annoyed him, but it was only a minor annoyance, as they were seldom together.

  He’d come back to their country house last night for the express purpose of joining his wife for the usual Christmas journey to Dunbaryn. He wished they weren’t traveling there together, but he had to dance some husbandly attendance on her. After all, it was Flora’s money that allowed them to have this big house and all of the extras his earnings didn’t provide. He hadn’t pursued his career as vigorously as he could have, knowing he had a soft financial safety net to fall back upon. Nor had he saved much. In fact, he’d saved nothing. The flat in Glasgow was luxurious and elegant, his clothes impeccable and expensive, his car a late model Rolls Royce, and his dinners out, other than those at his club, were always at the best restaurants.

  Quietly, he tiptoed over to the massive French antique dresser where his wife stored some of her clothes. As he moved, he watched her sleeping body to make sure he would see if she made any sign of waking up. He opened the drawers one by one, going through the contents of each drawer carefully and quickly. Years ago, Flora had, upon her father’s advice, changed her solicitor from one of Rafe’s law partners to the man the Reids used for their business affairs. Because Rafe could no longer easily access the details of his wife’s legal and financial business, he’d been reduced to the indignity of having to snoop.

  If she woke up and saw him, he’d have a hard time explaining why he was in her dressing room, let alone why he was going through her bureau drawers. They each had their own private spaces, and, of those, their dressing rooms were probably the most sacrosanct. But he’d already gone through the morning room she used as her personal office. Finding nothing other than the expected household business paperwork: menus, gardening plans, shopping lists, and the files relating to her church volunteer work, he knew the next logical place to search was her dressing room.

  The absence of any legal documents where she customarily kept her papers, was suspicious in itself. That she was working with her solicitor on various matters was no secret, so there should be paperwork, documents. As a solicitor himself, he knew any business with a client necessitated some kind of paperwork. So the papers had to be hidden here in her dressing room. That meant there was something in them she didn’t want him to see.

  He sensed, with the experience that came from twenty years of marriage to the woman, something was wrong. He needed to find out what was in those papers. They might simply relate to her fight with her ex-husband over the division of the property the two of them still held together, but if so, why was she hiding them? He couldn’t take any chance she was doing something that would put a spanner in his plans.

  He pulled at the middle drawer, but it seemed to be stuck. If he pulled too hard, it would make an infernal noise when it finally broke free—these old pieces of furniture could be unpredictable. For now, he’d skip that drawer and just keep going, moving on to the others that opened more easily. With any luck, he’d find what he needed in one of the other drawers and not have to bother with this one. Having to be so quiet ma
de this process excruciatingly slow and nerve-wracking. Rafe wiped his hands on his pants leg. He never sweated like this.

  Marrying the rich daughter of an earl had unquestionably been his smartest career move. He’d met Flora when she was consulting with another member of his law chambers regarding divorcing her first husband, George Greene. They’d married as soon as her divorce came through. Then, as quickly as he could, he’d convinced Flora to send her two children away to school, where in his opinion, they should have been already. Shortly after that, Flora became pregnant with their son Lance. Now Lance was in his first year at university. That was part of what was making Rafe so nervous. Lance’s growing independence had begun to loosen the main tie holding Flora and Rafe together. She seemed detached, a dangerous condition in a woman. He couldn’t have her making any changes in their financial arrangements now. Losing access to her wealth would be devastating.

  Rafe hoped he wouldn’t find anything to confirm his suspicions, but if he did, then he’d at least know exactly what was going on and be able to figure out how to fix things before she did anything drastic. Praemonitus, praemunitus, he thought. Forewarned is forearmed.

  He pulled out another drawer and rummaged through it. How many nightgowns did one woman need? She must keep every piece of clothing she’d ever owned. He slid his hand through the contents of each drawer, one by one. Finally, he felt something in the bottom of the drawer where Flora kept her slips. He studied it to make sure it was what he was looking for. Yes, this had to be it. A large manila envelope with her solicitor’s return address on it, and, from the feel of it, full of papers.

  Just then, Flora stirred. Panic seized him when she stretched out. A loud yawn told him she was definitely waking up. There was no way he could take the envelope now.

  He closed the drawer, inched his way over to the door, took a deep breath, and turned the doorknob. He was backing out of the doorway when she opened her eyes and looked at him.

  She frowned. “Rafe? What are you doing?”

  He smiled, his heart pounding. “I just came to see if you were awake.” He looked at his watch, gruffed up his voice. “We’d better be getting on our way soon. It’s beginning to snow.”

  She yawned again. “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be ready.”

  “Right, then. I’ll just be downstairs.”

  Chapter 4

  REID TURNED the wheel sharply, pulling the black Range Rover out of the ridiculously heavy traffic and stopped the car in front of an old stone Victorian building. His mind had been wandering, and he’d almost passed his destination. Someone hit their car horn, but he ignored them. Annoying a stranger with his driving was the least of his worries today.

  The front door of the flat on the right opened immediately, and Miranda Greene emerged carrying a small suitcase and a large black handbag. He got out of the car and went to help her with the bags.

  “This is all you have? For a holiday week? I’m impressed.” A Christmas house party at Dunbaryn would entail dressing formally most nights for dinner, and he hadn’t known a woman yet who could get multiple gowns into a bag that size.

  She shook her head. “I have a larger suitcase and a bag of presents. I was hoping you’d go up and get them. They’re right inside the door there. I left it ajar so you can just push it open.”

  “I thought one reasonably-sized bag was too good to be true.” He sprinted up the steps to the front door and fetched the large black suitcase and a shopping bag full of wrapped gifts. “Go ahead, get in the car. I’ll put these in the back. We’ve a long drive, and we’re already quite a bit behind schedule.” He loaded her luggage in the boot and got back behind the wheel. “Sorry I’m late. I went for a run after I left the office and then had to finish packing. Rodney doesn’t want a ride?”

  She leaned over to give him a friendly kiss on the cheek. “Hello. And, no, he’s driving up separately. His work’s been hellish lately. It took me forever to even get hold of him yesterday to coordinate. He may have to leave early, so he needs his own car. Besides he’s bringing that girl he’s dating. Krystal somebody or the other. That’s Krystal with a k, as she’ll be sure to tell you.”

  “He’s bringing a girl? Are they serious?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think so, but who knows? Her daddy has money and she’s crazy about Rodney, but I think she’s a bit thick.”

  “Now, be nice.”

  “Easy for you to say. You didn’t have to listen to her for two hours like I did the other night at dinner.”

  He carefully pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic. “I’ve brought coffee as well as some egg and sausage sandwiches.” He inclined his head toward the cup holders and to a small white paper sack on the floor of the passenger seat.

  “You’re an absolute angel. I thought something smelled good in here. I was in such a rush I didn’t have time to have breakfast.” She reached down and took the bag. “Do you want your food yet?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll wait until we get out of this traffic.”

  She opened the bag of hot sandwiches, took one out. She bit into it and moaned with appreciation. “How can something that tastes so good be so bad for you?" She handed him his coffee. “I suppose you also went to Mass this morning?”

  He nodded, taking the cup. He’d needed to do everything he could to fortify himself for this trip.

  Miranda leaned back against the seat. “I feel positively slothful. You must have gotten up frightfully early.”

  “I had a lot of things that had to get done before I left town.”

  Miranda grinned. “What are the criminals going to do with you gone for a week? Most likely the city will be overrun by the time we get back.”

  “Most likely.” His job heading up a task force liaising between the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency and the Financial Crimes Agency was demanding, but he didn’t mind the pressure or the hours. Not only did he find the work absorbing, but most of the time it kept his mind off other things he didn’t want to think about. Even so, he hadn’t needed the complication of a dead witness right now. Had Von Zandt really killed Pooley because he refused to make good the investment losses? If so, why hadn’t Von Zandt waited until after the deadline he’d given Pooley?

  Miranda yawned. “I didn’t do anything but pack this morning. We don’t have any events until February, though, so nothing’s urgent for me at work.”

  “Don’t gloat. Your time will come soon enough.” He knew her job organizing donor events at the museum got crazy when she had an imminent event.

  “I have the February event under control—a sponsor with money to underwrite the catering and good connections. I’m expecting record donations. Maybe I should gloat.”

  “Sounds like it. What’s the event?”

  “A casino night with fancy dress. One of the big partners at Rodney’s firm is my sponsor. His guests will come for free, of course, and he’s got quite a list already. I got the commitment months ago, so it’s all set.”

  “Fancy dress? You mean costumes?”

  “Don’t give me that look. I expect you to buy tickets. Lots. Bring a table of people.”

  “I detest wearing costumes.”

  “Don’t be so stodgy. You can wear black tie and a little mask. It’ll be fun.”

  “I’ll make a respectable donation to ransom myself out of having to attend.”

  “I’ll take you up on the donation, but you still have to come.” She twisted around to look into the back seat. “You’ve brought work.”

  “Had to. It’s a long time for me to be away. Especially after just having been in Paris for that conference.”

  “Tough job—Paris is such a hardship.” She took a little bite of her sandwich. “How are you doing with the prospect of this visit? You must be anxious to see the baby again.”

  He nodded, looking over at her, a pretty woman in her late twenties with dark chin-length hair. She was dressed, characteristically for her, all in black. Sh
e looked a little feline, like a cat who knew more than she let on. A feminine, attractive cat.

  Miranda asked the obvious. “And about seeing Anne?” Her gaze appraised him, watching for his reaction.

  He shrugged and kept his face from showing any expression. Truth be told, he was completely undone at the prospect of seeing his estranged wife.

  He could feel Miranda’s eyes on him. “What?” He forced a smile.

  “I was wondering what you were thinking.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing my son again. It’s hard to have him living so far away. I don’t ever want him to feel like I’m not there for him.”

  Miranda took another bite of her sandwich, washed it down with coffee. “He’ll be fine.”

  “I expect so.”

  “Do you want your sandwich now?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You don’t think she’ll try to keep him away from you?”

  “No, she lost her father when she was young. It affected her a great deal. I don’t think she’d ever purposely inflict that on a child.”

  Miranda looked skeptical. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “I’m going to ask her if she’ll let him live with me part of the year when he’s a bit older. I don’t want him to grow up without having his father around.”

  Miranda waved his concerns away with an airy hand. “I grew up without my father around, at least for a lot of the time. I was fine.”

  “You were in the same country. The same continent. And I know you missed your father.”

  “I was older when my parents divorced, so I was used to having him around. Maybe it’s easier if you never have it, so you don’t know what you’re missing.” She sipped her coffee. “After you get the annulment, you can both remarry. Maybe her new husband will want to adopt Michael, and you could just give him up and have children with your new wife.”

  He looked at her, unable to believe he’d heard her right. “I would never give him up.” Would Anne expect him to offer to do that? Reid had no doubt Andrew Grainger would want to adopt Michael, even if only to ensure Anne never had reason to see Reid again. Too bloody bad. Grainger would have to have his own children with Anne; he wasn’t going to get Michael. Just thinking about Anne having Grainger’s children made him feel sick.