Triple Cross

Several men in business suits left the gym. Rainy took a few steps toward her, glanced at them, smiling, and hissed to her softly after they’d moved on, “I know who you work for, Ms. Stone. What are you doing here?”

“Tying up loose ends,” Bree said.

He gazed at her a moment, the barest of practiced smiles on his lips. “I told Elena that, given the terrible events in New York, we considered the private investigation complete. Let the police take it from here.”

“You know I used to be police,” Bree said.

“But you are no longer. You are a gun for hire. I hired you. You did your job. Events overtook things, resolved them. Now your job is done.”

“Is everything resolved? Frances Duchaine is still alive.”

“So she is,” Rainy said.

“She claims she knew nothing about the sex trafficking.”

The attorney wiggled his fingers while raising his hand dramatically. “Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she does. My client and I are sure, however, that our involvement is no longer needed. As I said, the police will take it from here.”

Bree studied him. “What about going to Sixty Minutes?”

“What would be the point now? Whatever the truth is, it will come out in court. And, seeing that, my client has decided it would be in her best interest to keep her family’s name out of it if possible.”

“Why’s that?”

Rainy’s practiced smile disappeared. “Because the loss of her grandchild’s life is enough pain. She doesn’t have to drag the girl’s memory through the mud if it isn’t necessary. Are we done, Ms. Stone? I have an appointment.”

“Just one more thing,” Bree said. “How did you come to hire Bluestone and why did you ask for me in particular to work the case?”

For the first time, the attorney looked the slightest bit flustered. “Did I?”

“According to Elena.”

“I don’t know. I must have seen Bluestone and then your bio.”

“We don’t post bios.”

“Google, then. I don’t know.”

“No outside referral?”

“No. Not that I recall.”

“Not even from your client?”

The practiced smile returned to Rainy’s lips. “I don’t remember it that way, and in any case, that information would be privileged. Good day, Ms. Stone. Have a nice flight home. And give my best to Elena.”

With that, the attorney pivoted again and strolled quickly off. She watched him until he’d rounded the corner and was out of sight.

For a moment, Bree thought of taking his advice and heading to the airport and a plane home. But given that she’d taken the time and spent the money to come all the way to Cleveland, she felt she should leave no stone unturned before her departure.

CHAPTER 63

Hunting Valley, Ohio

THE RICH ARE VERY different from you and me, Bree thought when, through a glen of budding hardwood trees, she caught sight of a sprawling mansion on a grassy knoll. She drove past the gate and around the perimeter of the twelve-acre estate off the Chagrin River Road, glimpsing a tennis court and then a pool still covered for winter.

Her cell rang. Elena Martin.

“Boss,” Bree said.

“Explain why you are in Cleveland.”

“Gerald Rainy called you.”

“Uh-huh. And he was pissed.”

“Can’t help that, I’m afraid.”

“Bree, he pulled the plug on us yesterday. I told you that.”

“I know. After a mass murder that occurred after I wrote a report.”

Martin paused, then said, “Meaning what?”

“Meaning that until I understand exactly how I’m involved with a billionaire and a fashion icon and eleven dead people, I am still looking into this case. On my own dime and my own time.”

After a longer pause, her boss said, “I can understand that. But be discreet, Bree. Tread lightly. People with that kind of money can be terribly dangerous if provoked.”

Elena hung up. Through a hedge of rhododendrons, Bree spotted the roof of a greenhouse and decided she had to take the chance.

On the plane, she’d read an article in Architectural Digest about Theresa May Alcott’s renovation of her Hunting Valley home and a piece in Better Homes and Gardens featuring her Wyoming ranch house. According to the second article, Alcott was a die-hard horsewoman out west. According to the first article, she spent an equal amount of time tending her gardens back east.

“Gardening in Jackson is like doing combat with the elements,” Mrs. Alcott was quoted as saying. “And you nearly always lose. If I want to see something grow out of the ground under my care, I retreat to my gardens in the humidity of Ohio.”

Hunting Valley was one of the six wealthiest towns in the United States, a quiet, wooded village that billionaires and society matrons called home. Bree knew that leaving a rental car behind the property of one of the richest women in America was bound to attract attention.

Have to accept it, she thought, and pulled off the road by a thick grove of pine trees. She put on a tiny but sensitive Bluetooth microphone disguised as a small ebony carving hanging from a thin gold chain around her neck and connected it to her cell phone and a voice-activated recording app.