Brooke St. Vincent crossed her long, sleek legs at the knee as she sat on the sofa. There were photographs mounted on the wall behind her. Brooke cradling a rifle, a dead deer hanging from the branch of a tree between her and a man I assumed was her father. Brooke holding a shotgun and a looped bird carrier with her limit of ducks. Brooke in a Minnesota Twins T-shirt and a floppy hat displaying a record-sized walleye. Brooke with another rifle, this time dressed for a shooting competition.
She’s an outdoor girl, I told myself. Of course she is, the way she looks, all that blond hair and those sharp blue eyes. The Office of Tourism should use her in its ads. Explore Minnesota.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Taylor?” she asked.
I dismissed the adolescent answers her question inspired and spoke bluntly. “How well do you know Hayley O’Brien?”
“Is she in trouble?”
“I think so. A little bit.”
I explained what had happened an hour earlier.
“Those men were trying to kidnap her?” Brooke said. “Do you think they worked for Robert Paul?”
“I don’t know, but she clearly knew who they were. Would he resort to kidnapping his own stepdaughter?”
“The way the old man looks at it, Hayley is his property the same way that I was Kurt’s property. What kind of man would he be if he couldn’t keep what’s his?”
“I’d like to speak to him.”
“Good luck with that. He never leaves Axis Mundi. Hasn’t for years, anyway.”
“If I call, do you think he’ll answer the phone?”
“I’d be surprised if you could get their home number. The Guernseys are very private people. Very secretive. Ahh, now I understand why you came to me.”
“Do you have the number?”
“Unless they changed it after I divorced Kurt because they were afraid I’d give it out.”
“Seriously? Would they do that?”
“Of course.”
Brooke lived in a corner apartment on the top floor of a building in Edina. Half of her windows faced I-494, and the other half gave her a bird’s-eye view of the luxury shops located in the Galleria. She left the sofa and moved to the picture window facing the shopping center. She was wearing white shorts and a filmy off-white blouse that caused me to once again question my rule against becoming involved with a subject of an ongoing investigation. I reminded myself that Dr. Alexandra Campbell had been a witness for the prosecution whom I had been hired to discredit, and that worked out. A woman named Caroline who had been a witness for the defense actually seduced me and not the other way around. I quickly flashed on Cynthia Grey, though, and asked myself, do you want to go through that again?
“I can’t,” Brooke said. “I can’t give you the number for Axis Mundi. It would be a violation of trust—no, I can’t do that.”
“I understand. Can you put me in touch with Hayley?”
“I haven’t spoken to Hayley since the day I walked out on Kurtis. When I met her … Kurt and I had dated for about eighteen months before we married, so at the time Hayley must have been what, twelve? Thirteen? Every time I went over there she would attach herself to me because I was the only one besides her mother who would actually talk to her, ask her about school, ask about her friends. The others—most of the time they didn’t seem to acknowledge that she existed. I felt sorry for her. I told Melissa she should treat her better, that Hayley was family. Lissa’s answer—‘She’s not my family.’
“It all goes back to Robert Paul. He taught his children to think that there were two kinds of people in the world. You’re either a Guernsey or you’re a loser, and Hayley wasn’t a Guernsey. She was the daughter of a father who committed suicide and a mother who married a man forty years older for money.”
“What about the piercings, the ink?” I asked.
“Are you asking me to play psychologist? I’d say they’re cries for attention. They started at about the same time my marriage was disintegrating. I wish I had been there for her, but I was too concerned with my own problems. I feel bad about that. On the other hand, I wasn’t her mother.”
“Tell me about her mother.”
“First thing you notice about Maura—she’s stunning. She makes me look like trailer-park trash. Makes me feel that way, too. She’s Robert Paul’s third wife. The first wife, Catherine, she was Kurt’s mother, and Lissa’s and Robert Jr.’s, too. She died young. Cancer. Apparently all the money in the world couldn’t save her. The second wife—Robert Paul married her about a year and a half after Catherine died because he thought his kids needed a mother. The oldest son was six at the time. They divorced a year and a half later. The family never talks about her, but I got the impression that she’s the reason it’s so obsessed with prenuptial agreements.
“Robert Paul waited thirty-five years before he married again. The children were not happy about it, either. Kurt once asked me, ‘How would you like to have a stepmother who’s two years younger than you are?’ Maura and Melissa were born three months apart, both of them thirty years old when Maura married Robert Paul. That was ten years ago. Eleven. From what I’ve seen, Robert Paul has become dependent on Maura, especially now that his health is deteriorating. He’s eighty, after all. The kids don’t like that, either.”
“Did she sign a prenup?”
Brooke thought that was awfully funny. She was laughing when she returned to the sofa and curled her legs beneath her.
“Of course she did,” Brooke said. “I’m guessing it’s just as bad as mine or Maura would have left years ago. Either that or she’s betting on the fact that Robert Paul doesn’t have a last will and testament.”
“He doesn’t? You’d think a man in his position would know better.”
“Yes, you would. But that’s not my problem anymore.”
“Was it ever?”
“Kurt would talk about it constantly. Who’s going to inherit what? It would have been a big topic of conversation over dinner except every time someone mentioned it, the old man would get angry and threaten to leave the entire estate and all his businesses to charity. The kids think its Maura’s doing. I spoke to the man, though, during those few times when he wasn’t treating me like something you wipe off the bottom of your shoe with a stick. I’m an economist, after all, and I love to talk about money. Robert Paul doesn’t have a will because he doesn’t want to go to the trouble of divvying up the estate, giving one child one thing and the other child something else. He said he tried and it was too hard. He said it was impossible to make it fair to everyone and he didn’t want his family to think he loved one person more than the other. At least, that’s what he told me. He’s such a detestable human being, it’s hard to think that love is a factor in anything he does.
“Under Minnesota law, if Robert Paul dies without a will, his wife is guaranteed to inherit half of his estate and his children will split what’s left. Let them all work it out like adults, he decided. So unless his kids can convince the old man to disinherit Maura for being an adulterous whore, which she isn’t—Robert Paul had her investigated once just to be sure. He actually hired a private eye, I don’t remember his name. Walter something. I think he periodically investigates all of his children. He’d make announcements at dinner, ‘I hear you saw so-and-so, I see you met with such-and-such,’ and demand an explanation. He never called out Maura, though, at least not while I was there. I guess she hadn’t strayed an inch since she married the old man. With seven hundred million dollars on the table, would you cheat?”
“How did Guernsey and Maura meet?”
“From what I was told—I’m getting this secondhand, you have to remember. From what I was told, Maura’s first husband had worked for Robert Paul for many years. At least a decade. His name was Charles O’Brien, everyone called him Charlie, and he owned a highly regarded landscaping company. If you ever get a chance to visit Axis Mundi, the landscaping, the elaborate gardens, the arboretum, the maze, that’s all Charlie’s doing.
“Even though he ran the business, and I think he had twenty employees, Charlie enjoyed getting his hands dirty, literally digging in the dirt to plant the flowers and trees and do what had to be done. Robert Paul admired him for that. Also, the wealthier Robert Paul became, the more isolated he became. Like I said, he almost never leaves Axis Mundi now, instead making Fisk or his kids run any errands for him that need to be run. The old man enjoyed hanging out with Charlie and his gardeners. Of course, he spent time with Maura, too. She was an accountant, but she often worked with Charlie. I know the old man sent them an elaborate gift when Hayley was born. Melissa told me that Maura reminded Robert Paul of Catherine, so there was that, too.
“Anyway, Robert Paul would send Charlie and his people on his private jet to take care of his properties around the country, his business campuses, second houses. It was while he was in San Francisco that Charlie killed himself. From what I was told, he seemed like the happiest guy in the world, both friendly and considerate. People who knew him were shocked when he put a gun in his mouth. His death had a profound effect on Robert Paul, too. He was over seventy at the time, growing more and more isolated, and he started worrying about his future, about dying alone. He actually told me that once. After Catherine died, he said, he was always afraid of dying alone.”
“What about his three children?”
“It wasn’t the same as having a good woman at your side, that’s what he told me. Anyway, after Charlie died, the old man became very solicitous toward Maura, and one thing eventually led to another. They married in a quiet ceremony six months later. The kids weren’t invited to the wedding. They didn’t even know it was taking place until after it was done. The only people invited were a business associate of Robert Paul’s—he and his wife served as best man and bridesmaid, witnesses. Hayley, too. She was six years old.”
“That must have been hard on her. Did she even understand what was happening?”
“I don’t know. Hayley is ungodly smart. She also has great pride and terrible anger, a bad combination. I thought she might be bipolar the way she’s so easily offended, but then everybody at Axis Mundi seems a bit off. Was she really involved in the computer hacks?”
“In my business, you never accept a coincidence. We know that the emails—did David Helin tell you about the emails that were supposedly sent by NIMN?”
“Yes.”
“We know they were composed on a computer at the Library in Mound. Somehow that doesn’t strike me as NIMN HQ. We were checking it out when Hayley walked in and someone tried to snatch her. So, yes, I’m going to say she’s involved. I just don’t know how or why.”
“You said you want me to arrange an introduction?”
“Or at least put us in touch.”
The hiss that came from Brooke reminded me of a slowly deflating tire.
“I just want to ask some questions,” I said. “You’re welcome to be there when I do. In fact, I wish you would be. Tell Hayley she can pick the location and bring as many friends as she wants to make her feel comfortable.”
“If she’s responsible for the computer hacks, then she’s the one threatening to terminate my three-point-seven-million-dollar divorce settlement with her stepuncle.”
“I admit there’s a certain amount of irony to what I’m asking.”
Brooke laughed loud and heartily. “Is that what you call it?”
Once again I found myself challenging my rules about fraternizing with subjects of an investigation, reminding myself that they weren’t rules so much as guidelines.
“I’m going to phone Dave Helin and ask what he thinks,” Brooke said. “If he says it’s okay, I’ll try to contact Hayley. I’ll call you later to tell you what she says.”
“I appreciate it. Do you still have my card?”
She nodded and stood up. I stood with her.
“This reminds me of a story,” Brooke said. “I don’t know how true it is. A teenager in California, I think, was left home for the weekend by his parents. Naturally, he threw a party even though his parents told him not to. The party got way out of hand and there was a lot of damage. The teenager panicked. Apparently his parents were ultraconservative, ultrastrict. To cover up what he had done, the teenager set the house on fire.”
“He did what?”
“’Course, the fire department quickly discovered it was arson, and the insurance company refused to pay damages. What I never heard and always wondered—what did his parents do?”
I returned to the office. Freddie was preparing to call it a day.
“What did the divorcée say?” he asked.
“She’ll get back to us.”
I gazed at the bulletin board. Freddie had been busy with his red yarn, connecting an index card labeled HAYLEY directly to HACKER and a card labeled THUGS to HAYLEY. He’d also run a length of yarn from HAYLEY to GUERNSEY FINANCIAL INC.
“It’s starting to resemble postmodern art,” I said. “Something you’d see at the Walker Art Center.”
“Never been there,” Freddie said.
“You’re not missing much.”
Freddie held up four pink message slips.
“While you were out,” he said. “Calls from Scott Mickelson, Doug Jernigan, John Kaushal, and Cormac Puchner’s secretary.”
“What, no David Helin?”
“They’re all anxious to know what progress we’ve made.”
“I’m surprised they aren’t constantly calling our cells.”
“I think they’re trying to keep it professional.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That we have it under control.”
I gazed at the bulletin board some more and laughed.
“Sure we do,” I said.
“I got a question. If this Hayley O’Brien girl, Guernsey’s stepdaughter, if she’s responsible for the hacks, what do we do about it? Stop the hacker any way you can, the lawyers said. ’Cept Hayley ain’t some antisocial punk livin’ in her parents’ basement, you know? Well, maybe she is. The thing is, if we lean on her, the whole damn world could fall on us.”
“If it’s her and we can prove it, I say we tell the lawyers and let them figure it out. Half of them work for the Guernseys in one capacity or another anyway.”
“What about the guys who tried to snatch the girl?”
“I don’t know. Brooke St. Vincent wondered aloud if they might not be working for old man Guernsey.”
“If they do, it’s another reason to be thinkin’ about an exit strategy.”
“What if they don’t, though?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least we’re consistent.”
I drove to the apartment. My cell phone rang. I answered it.
“David wasn’t thrilled with the idea,” Brooke said. “In fact, he told me not to do it. I contacted Hayley anyway. I’m worried about her. I told her who you were and that you wanted to meet. Should I quote her?”
“Please do,” I said.
“‘Screw that old man.’”
“Old?”
“She seemed genuinely happy that I called, though. She said she’d love to spend time with me. She even made suggestions where we could meet. If you want—”
“I know what you’re going to say, Brooke, and I appreciate it. But I won’t ambush her. At least not yet. I think Hayley and I need to have a conversation eventually, whether she likes it or not, only I’d just as soon we not be enemies when we meet if I can avoid it. Besides, she’ll think you betrayed her. I don’t want that, either.”
“Thank you, but what I was going to say—should I ask her about the computer hacks?”
“Did you tell her that you knew about what happened outside the Library?”
“Yes.”
“I bet a nickel it’ll come up in conversation again. Let it. Then take it where it goes.”
“I’ll call you afterward.”
“Whether she agrees to speak to me or not, she’s in danger. The guys who tried to force her into the van—Hayley needs to talk to somebody about that. Make sure she understands, okay?”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Brooke?”
“Yes?”
“Your ex-husband is an idiot.”
“Yes, he is.”
After hanging up the phone, I carried it to my front window and looked down on the street. Claire Wedemeyer was waiting dutifully at the curb for her daughter to return from soccer camp, and I thought, damn she’s pretty. Not that I hadn’t thought so before. Seeing her caused me to flash on Laura, followed by Anne, Caroline, Cynthia Grey, and, for just a moment, Brooke St. Vincent. It occurred to me that I’ve been intimately involved with a statistically improbable number of attractive women. Lucky me.
My cell phone rang in my hand, startling me for a moment. I glanced at the caller ID. Dr. Alexandra Campbell.
“Hell yes, I’ve been lucky,” I said aloud.
I stepped away from the window and answered the phone.
“Are you coming over?” Alex said.
“I was just going to call and ask if you wanted to get something to eat and maybe catch that new Denzel Washington thing.”
“Dinner and a movie? You know, Taylor, you don’t need to work that hard. I have Netflix and the phone numbers of every decent take-out joint within a two-mile radius.”
“I’m fond of ritual.”
Alex thought that was funny.
“Okay,” she said. “’Course, that means I’ll have to put some clothes on.”
“Let me take a quick shower and I’ll be right over.”
“You could come over right now and take one with me. The average shower uses seventeen-point-two gallons of water. You know I’m big on conservation.”
“I doubt we’d conserve much. Besides, this is the land of 11,842 lakes. Water’s not an issue here.”
“That’s a very narrow-minded attitude, Taylor. Must I give you a lecture on environmental consciousness?”
I drifted back to the window and gazed out again. Claire was still standing there, only now her arms were draped over Amanda’s shoulders in a protective embrace.
Clark Peterson was standing in front of them.
“I’ll call you back,” I said.
Claire was the first to see me coming out the door. She smiled slightly and her body seemed to relax, and I thought, that’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received. Peterson turned his head. He smiled, too. A disarming smile. If I hadn’t known him I would have liked it.
I moved casually to where the trio was standing—casually, dammit—and worked hard to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
“Hey,” I said. “How was camp?”
“Exhausting,” Amanda said. For emphasis, she slumped her shoulders and dropped her equipment bag on the ground as if it weighed ten thousand pounds. “Kicking a soccer ball is hard.”
Claire saw her chance to escape.
“Let’s get you upstairs,” she told her daughter. She nodded at the man standing in front of her. “Mr. Peterson.”
“Clark, I said to call me Clark.”
She didn’t. Instead she retrieved Amanda’s equipment bag and walked around him, making sure that she was between Peterson and Amanda as they headed for the building.
“Friends?” Peterson asked.
“Neighbors,” I said.
“Very pretty. Both of them. The mother doesn’t seem very trusting, though. I merely inquired if this was where you lived, if she knew you, and all of a sudden she starts cross-examining me. Who am I? Why am I here?”
“Let’s walk to your car and you can tell me all about it.”
“Do I make you nervous, too, Taylor?”
“Isn’t that why you came to my home without calling first, to make me nervous?”
We started down the street.
“I don’t know why people get jumpy when I’m around,” Peterson said. “There’s only one person I wanted to kill, and she’s dead, so…”
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to know if you’ve made any progress finding our little hacker, if you have any names you’d like to share.”
“Not yet. In any case, I don’t work for you, Peterson. I don’t report to you. I work for John Kaushal.”
“Way I look at it, since I’m paying Kaushal’s bills, yes, you do work for me.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“I don’t care how you see it.”
We reached a purple Bentley Continental GT convertible, the top down. I estimated the retail value in excess of two hundred thousand dollars.
“Is this your car?” I asked.
Instead of waiting for an answer, I yanked open the door and held it for him.
“Why are you being like this?” Peterson didn’t give up his smile, but his eyes had a put-upon look as if he were a puppy that had been kicked for no apparent reason.
“I’m antisocial,” I said. “Ask anyone.”
“You can see why I’m anxious, though, can’t you?”
“Whatever the hacker reveals, if he reveals anything, can’t be used against you in a court of law. As far as the state is concerned, you got away with murder. So, no, I don’t see why you’re worried.”
“You should have my problems, Taylor. You really should.”
Peterson slipped into the driver’s seat. I closed the car door and leaned against it.
“Is this the part where you threaten my life?” he asked. His eyes brightened as if he were looking forward to the prospect.
“Funny you ask. A guy called the other day and threatened my partner and me. It wasn’t the first time that happened, or even the twentieth, and we joked about it. See, if we wanted to kill someone, we would never warn them first. I bet you didn’t warn your wife, did you? One day, though, you could be walking down the sidewalk and hear footsteps behind you and start to turn, or a car might pull up next to you at a stoplight and you’ll lean over to look at the driver, or someone holding a clipboard will knock on your front door and you’ll open it and say, ‘Can I help you,’ and—boom. It’s that simple, that easy. You of all people should know that.”
“Don’t try to scare me, Taylor.”
“I’m not. I’m telling you, Peterson, that you’re scaring me. See, I don’t care if you live or die or move to New Orleans like you said. You mean nothing to me. Unless you threaten the people I care about. Then you’ll become the most important person in my life. Are you threatening the people I care about?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Cuz it’s not in your best interests.”
“All I want is to collect my inheritance and get the hell out of here with as little muss and fuss as possible.”
“I don’t blame you a bit.”
Peterson started the Bentley. I stepped back.
“Very nice car,” I said. “A little flashy for my tastes, though. It’s easy to spot from a long way off.”
Peterson put it in gear.
“It’s why I like it,” he said.