Through the fog of sleep, Nicole could hear the sound of someone tapping. At first she thought it was Alice knocking at the kitchen window. When she opened her eyes, she remembered she was on the train to Glasgow. The conductor was tapping on the window of her compartment. “Train’s in, miss,” he called, as he moved along the passage. “Time to wake up.”
Apparently the train had been in for a while. Except for Nicole and the conductor, it appeared empty. Above, through the station’s vaulted glass ceiling, daylight had almost vanished, and she could see a faint sprinkling of stars. Below the glass, a bright array of flags announced an upcoming exhibit at a local museum.
Earlier, at Euston Station, the woman in the visitor’s information booth had explained that the Glasgow train station featured a hotel on top. “It’s a very convenient location for a woman traveling on her own,” she had said. “Would you like me to make a reservation for you?” Without giving it much thought, Nicole had agreed. Now, groggy from the long nap, she was grateful she wouldn’t have to hunt down a cab and look for a place to stay. She easily found an elevator that carried her up into the hotel; the desk clerk was expecting her. The hotel wasn’t up to the standard of a Hyatt or a Doubletree. Her room, on the second floor, was a dismal combination of brown and yellow that seemed to match the lingering smell of Pinesol and old cigarette smoke. Okay, she told herself. It’s only for one night.
She locked the door and checked the small clock radio on the night table. It was just past 9:00 p.m., which meant it would be around 1:00 p.m. in L.A. She thought of her burglarized condo and decided to put a call in to her sister. Reaching Stephanie’s voicemail, Nicole left a message, along with the number of the hotel and her room. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Everything’s fine. But please call me back.”
She was up and dressed before 8:00 a.m. Before leaving the room, she called Keaton’s office and left a message canceling her appointment to finish looking at the mug shots. She didn’t give a reason but promised she’d call soon to reschedule.
Remembering that Stephanie hadn’t returned her call, she checked her phone for messages or email. Nothing. She reminded herself that her sister was always overextended, running late, neglecting messages.
The dining room offered the complete Scottish breakfast (included with the price of a room). The huge buffet spread featured warming trays of scrambled eggs, kippers, bangers, thick slices of what she’d always regarded as Canadian bacon (but was just called bacon here), hot oatmeal, and dark unappetizing slabs of something a waiter identified as blood pudding. There were also trays of small Danish pastries, soft rolls, and whole grain bread. There was cold cereal, too, and bowls of figs, cooked prunes, orange and grapefruit sections. She drank lots of hot coffee and sampled everything but the kippers and blood pudding.
In front of the hotel, the sun was no match for the chilly breeze. Waiting for a taxi, she buttoned her jacket, pulled up the collar, and considered the task ahead. Now that she was here, she had a feeling this excursion was a waste of time. On the other hand, if she did find Sean’s journals, it would be an easy matter to ship them to the address Alice had given her. What worried her was the possibility that, despite all her precautions, she was being followed.
She kept turning around to check the rear window as the cab headed toward the outskirts of the city and began to pick up speed. The buildings grew seedier by the block. Even though she didn’t see anyone following her, she couldn’t seem to shake her uneasiness.
They turned onto a street where shabby Victorians alternated with newer two- and three-story brick structures in an equal state of decay. The cabby stopped at the address she’d given him. The building was in slightly better shape than its neighbors and appeared occupied; even so, it had a strange anonymity, lacking any signs or placards to identify the businesses inside.
The lobby was chilly and deserted. To locate the building directory, Nicole had to walk down the hall and turn a corner. The MacLowe Removal & Storage Company occupied floors four through seven. When the elevator opened on the fourth floor, the dim hallway gave her a feeling of déjà vu. She held down the “open” button and called a wary, “Hello!” into the gloom. Then louder, “Is anyone there?”
“Come all the way down the corridor and then turn left!” a man shouted from the distance.
The owner of the voice was a thin, balding man with red-rimmed eyes. He looked frail, and his skin had a pallid glow that suggested a lifetime avoiding the sun. He pulled out a ledger and slapped it down in front of him. When Nicole reached the counter, he twirled the book around to face her and thrust a pen into her hand.
The page contained only a few signatures, the most recent dated two days earlier. Nicole had already decided to sign it as Alice and explain that she was Sean’s sister. When she finished, she handed back the pen.
Without a glance at what she’d written, much less any questions, the man slammed the ledger shut and shoved it back under the counter. Then he produced a dented metal flashlight and passed it to her. As he started toward the door behind him, she said, “I’ve forgotten exactly where the locker is. Could you…?”
“Here, show me your key,” he said. After giving it a cursory glance, he gestured toward a dark alcove about twenty feet away. “You can use the stairs,” he said. “Your unit is one floor up. At the head of the stairs, turn right and walk along the corridor.” He gestured with a wag of his head. “Then left. Number’s on the door.” He turned and disappeared through the doorway.
Nicole climbed the stairs; using the flashlight to read the numbers, she passed dozens of storage spaces that resembled small rooms rather than lockers. At last, she came to 571, which appeared to be the number on the key. She attempted to unlock the door, but the key didn’t work.
Back in the hallway, she trained the flashlight on the key and took a closer look. This time, she saw that the etched numbers were so worn they might as easily be read as 577 or 517. She tried 577. No luck. Finally, at 511, the key fit.
The room was small, lit by a single dim bulb. An attaché case was sitting on the floor and three cartons were stacked against one wall.
Nicole squatted down and took a close look at the attaché case. It was brown leather, new, and well made. It might have been the one Alice had described except for a distinguishing feature she hadn’t mentioned. Dangling from its handle was a solid-looking brass chain with a manacle meant to be worn around the wrist to prevent theft. Why, she asked herself, would anyone go to such lengths to protect some old diaries? Obviously, Alice hadn’t given her the whole story.
After determining the case was locked, Nicole picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy. When she gave a gentle shake, it didn’t rattle; the solid weight told her it was full. She set it down and went over to the cartons. Two were empty, and the third was sealed with heavy strapping tape.
Nicole knew she should simply take the attaché case and walk away, but there were too many unanswered questions. Before she decided what to do with it, she’d have to find out what was in it. And what about the sealed box?
She gave the carton a shake, and several objects rolled about, like a pair of tennis shoes. Next, she tried peeling off the tape. When this failed, she dug around in her purse; finding nothing equal to the job of cutting the tape, she left the room and went down to the desk.
The man was nowhere in sight. She hesitated a moment, then went behind the counter and knocked on the door. After a brief pause, it opened, and the man peered out. Behind him, she caught a glimpse of a room lit only by the flicker of a small TV.
His eyes were even redder than before, and his breath so reeked of whiskey that it forced her to step back. “I wonder if I could borrow a letter opener or a pair of scissors,” she said.
He emerged from his room as she retreated back into the hallway. Without a word or even a glance in her direction, he began rifling through drawers and cupboards. At last he produced a pair of scissors, which he slapped down on the counter before disappearing back into his room.
“Thanks,” she called after him. Scissors in hand, she hurried away, taking the stairs two at a time. Once inside 511, she relocked the door and began on the sealed carton, using the scissors to slit the tape and pulling back the flaps. Once it was open, she sat back on her heels and stared at the contents.
The box held three clear plastic bags of white powder. They were about the size of two-pound sacks of powdered sugar. In fact, the contents might have been powdered sugar or flour or cornstarch, but something told her it wasn’t. As she closed the box, she wiped it with the inside hem of her skirt, in case she’d left fingerprints.
Next, she turned her attention to the attaché case. Crouching beside it, she jammed the point of the scissors into the lock, then tried to force it with a quick twisting motion. When nothing happened, she did it again. This time, the scissors jerked away from the lock with a loud snap. Taking a closer look, she saw that the tip of the blade had broken off and was now wedged in the keyhole. It took considerable pulling and tugging to extract the piece of metal, but the case still wouldn’t open.
She stood up again and considered what to do. One possibility would be to take the attaché case back to the hotel where she’d have the time and resources to deal with the lock. But this might present other problems. What would she do, for example, if the briefcase contained more of the incriminating white powder?
On the other hand, she felt an enormous need to see justice done in the deaths of Alice’s brother and poor old Mr. McGiever. If there was a chance Sean’s journals were in the attaché case, how could she just walk away and leave it?
With the attaché case and broken scissors in hand, she headed back down to the desk and was somewhat relieved to find it still unattended. She left the scissors on the counter, along with a £10 note to cover the cost of replacement.
Outside, no cabs were in sight. After walking a block and a half in search of a taxi, she noticed a hardware store. Inside, she placed the attaché case on the counter and explained to the clerk that the lock was broken. “I’m leaving for the airport in an hour,” she said, “and my plane ticket is inside. I need something to pry it open.”
The clerk, a burly man with a beard, stared at the attaché case with its gleaming chain and manacle, then gave her a funny look. “That’s a job for a locksmith, young lady,” he said. “Or a luggage shop.”
“I don’t have time!” She was running out of patience. How hard can this be? “I’ll miss my plane if I don’t leave soon. You must have some kind of pick or chisel I could use on the lock.”
“It would be a crime to ruin a fine piece of luggage like that.” He gave her the odd look again, then reached out and picked up the attaché case. “Why don’t you let me try to coax it?”
“I’ve already tried everything,” she said. “Look, my husband is waiting out in the car. We’re in a terrible hurry.”
The man shrugged and pursed his lips. Then he reached into a cubbyhole behind him and pulled out a gadget that looked like a cross between a small crowbar and a medium sized screw driver. “Here,” he said. “You may be able to do something with this.” He came from behind the counter to get a hammer out of a bin. “If the lock still won’t give, you could do this.” He demonstrated, wedging the tool under the lock and waving the hammer at it. Then he shook his head and turned down the corners of his mouth. “It would be a sin to ruin such a fine leather case.” His expression was so doleful it almost made her want to apologize.
Back in her room, Nicole lay the attaché case on the bed, stuck the tool in the lock and went to work with the hammer. The lock was stubborn, requiring half a dozen blows before it broke open.
She lifted the lid of the attaché case and then stood there, gaping. There were no journals, no bags of cocaine. Only money: banded stacks of lavender-colored bills. They were a currency she’d never seen before. Nicole pulled one out so she could read the print. It said “1000” and, in smaller letters, “Banque National Svisse.”
She studied it a long time before she reached out and ran her hand over the cool, flat surface of tightly packed bills. There were ten stacks. She pulled out one of the stacks and counted. It held 100 notes.
She returned the bills to the case, then got out her phone to look up the currency exchange rate. The phone was dead—the battery drained again. She’d left her charger at the house and made a mental note to pick one up.
She went over to the phone on the night table and dialed 0. “Can you connect me with a bank?” she said.
“What bank, miss?” the operator said.
Nicole stepped to the window and looked out. Scanning the surrounding buildings, she spotted a sign and read it aloud. “The Bank of Caledonia.”
At last she was connected to the foreign currency department. “Can you tell me how much a 1,000 Swiss francs is worth in dollars?” she asked.
After a pause, a man at the other end of the line said, “Approximately $1,108, minus our commission. That’s the fee we charge for changing one currency into another.”
After she hung up, she counted the stacks and calculated the total number of notes: 1,000 in all. When she did the math, the sum came to $1,108,000. How could it be that much? she wondered. It fit in a briefcase and seemed to weigh no more than seven or eight pounds, counting the case.
As much as the amount terrified her, she knew she wasn’t going to return it to the storage space, or ship it to Alice, as she’d promised. Alice had lied to her. She’d known all along what was in the attaché case. Besides, the money was evidence in a murder investigation. It had been the motive behind the car bombing, and she had a duty to turn it over to the police.
Nicole also understood that the police would ask her a lot of embarrassing questions. They’d be especially interested in her secret meetings with Alice. Even so, she doubted they’d make any real trouble for her. Keaton herself had said the police didn’t have a warrant out for Alice. More recently, of course, the detective had even told her Alice was dead.
One thing was clear. She couldn’t carry this huge sum back on the train, nor was she willing to hand it over to the authorities in Glasgow. She’d read about too many cases in which the LAPD had mishandled evidence. In a number of instances, they’d lost the evidence altogether. Her recent experience with the British police made her suspect they weren’t much better. She decided that if she wanted the car bombing case resolved, she’d have to turn the money directly over to Keaton or, better yet, to the team investigating the case.
She had an idea: There wasn’t any reason she and the attaché case couldn’t make their way back to London separately. She could ship it overnight by Federal Express. She remembered seeing a FedEx office on her cab ride that morning, just a few blocks from the hotel.
Then something else occurred to her. Someone had left over a million dollars, along with a sizable stash of cocaine, in that locker. It had to be Lowry’s profit and leftovers from the drugs Hayes had given him on credit. For the first time, she began to wonder if he’d made it out of the country after all.