Margaret said, "They'll think we were part of it. They'll think we knew."

It took the fear in Margaret's voice to make Riley realize that the little notebook she was holding was the equivalent of a suicide bomb. If she turned it over and things went badly, it could destroy her, Margaret, and Jeff, which would in turn also destroy Emma. The investigators had been so viciously aggressive in trying to spread blame to the family. Would they believe that they hadn't had the notebook and known the whereabouts of the money from the beginning? Would they believe they hadn't been part of the scam all along?

Riley wasn't prepared to bet the rest of her life on it.

"I don't think I could face going to prison," Margaret said in a thin little voice that was like nothing Riley had ever heard from her before. Like Riley and Jeff, Margaret had been threatened with decades behind bars if it could be proved she'd known anything about what George was up to. The prospect obviously scared her to death. If truth be told, it scared Riley to death, too.

As they'd already learned to their cost, innocence was no protection. It was all about what the investigators suspected, and felt they could prove.

Looking down at the notebook, Riley said slowly, "n.o.body knows we found this. We don't have to give it to anyone. We don't have to tell anyone. We can throw the notebook away. Or burn it."

"Maybe the money's not even there anymore. Maybe those accounts are empty." Margaret must have caught a glimpse of the clock sitting on her nightstand, because she seemed to gather herself together as she exclaimed, "Oh my, look at the time! We've got to leave. We can't be late for Emma's exhibition. She's so nervous. She needs us there." They were headed to Tate Gallery, where Emma's paintings, along with those of other talented teens in the area, were being exhibited and judged by some of the most respected artists in the country.

Riley felt like her insides were cramping up. "Okay. We don't have to decide anything about this right now. I'm going to put it back inside here, and we're not going to tell anybody about it until we figure out what to do. Not anybody. Not Jeff."

As she spoke she slipped the notebook back inside the painting, wriggled enough of the staples back into their holes to secure the backing, and returned it to its easel on the dresser.

Margaret nodded agreement.

"Not Jeff," she repeated.

Neither of them had to say anything more. They both knew that with his sporadic drinking sprees and drug use, Jeff was too volatile to be trusted with any secret, much less one as potentially explosive as this.

Throughout the rest of the day, even when Emma won first place at the exhibit and a trip to compete at the international level at the Bermuda National Gallery two weeks later, Riley wasn't able to get the notebook out of her mind for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Neither, as she confessed later, was Margaret.

In fact, over the next few days, their secret knowledge made them both so jumpy that they had trouble concentrating during the day and sleeping at night.

They discussed what to do until they were both sick of the topic.

Riley finally fished the notebook out and, afraid of somehow being discovered with it in her possession, copied down some of the information in a ridiculous code that she alone could decipher. (On paper-by that time she was as paranoid as Jeff, and the idea of copying anything into the notes app on her phone or taking a picture of the pages or doing anything digitally with the information at all spooked her.) Using one of the computers at the library, being oh-so-careful not to disturb anything on the sites she had to navigate through, she checked to make sure that what they'd found were indeed bank account numbers and pa.s.swords and locations.

They were. As it turned out, there were a total of 137 accounts, some numbered, some in the names of various trusts and corporations, in such far-flung places as Singapore, Hong Kong, the Isle of Man, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, the Channel Islands, the Caymans, and Panama.

The total in the accounts was a tad over a billion dollars. More than twenty times that sum was missing, either spent or in other vehicles that George hadn't recorded in his notebook, but still the accounts held so much money that Riley was staggered as she added up the figures.

When Riley told Margaret what she had found, Margaret turned around, walked into the bathroom, and vomited.

Later, after much discussion, they decided that the best thing to do was nothing. Sooner or later, they felt, investigators were bound to find the accounts on their own, and when they did it wouldn't have anything to do with them. They would act as surprised as everybody else.

That's when Margaret had uttered the fatal, wistful, words: "That's so much money. If we had even the smallest sliver of it..." Her voice trailed away. Then she looked at Riley and said, "Could we somehow get hold of a little bit of it, do you think?"

Shades of the apple tree in Eden.

As it turned out, they could. With Riley's background in finance, it was easy, actually, given that they had the account locations and numbers, the log-in codes, the pa.s.swords, and everything else they needed, written right there in George's little black book. As a precaution, Riley bought a refurbished computer at a secondhand store, for which she paid cash. Using it to access an account in Luxembourg, chosen because the amount of money in it was at the middling level for the accounts, Riley authorized a wire transfer from that account to an account she opened in Switzerland to receive it. From there, she quickly pinged the money through various bank accounts until she felt the trail was sufficiently muddied that no one could follow it even if, at some point, the withdrawal was discovered along with the existence of the Luxembourg bank account. Finally she let the money settle, permanently, in a corporate account she created in Bermuda, chosen for its banking secrecy and because, as far as she could tell, George hadn't parked anything in that locale. Then she closed all the accounts she'd used to get it there, making Margaret's "sliver" completely (she hoped) untraceable.

Since everything had been done online, the whole thing had taken less than a day.

"Ten million dollars of that was mine, nothing to do with George or anything he did. I inherited it from my parents before we got married." That's what Margaret had told her, when they were still discussing whether or not they should even think about trying to skim something from the accounts they had discovered.

Ten million dollars was the amount Riley ended up transferring into the Bermuda account.

It was so small, compared to the amount left behind, that taking it to ensure Margaret and Emma's future security wouldn't make any difference to anybody. Riley knew that whatever happened, she could take care of herself. But Margaret and Emma were a different story. Margaret was nearly sixty years old and had spent her entire life in the rarified environs of the superrich. Money had always simply been there for her. Emma was young, with her future still to be provided for. They didn't deserve the circ.u.mstances they were in. They'd had nothing to do with George's crimes.

So Riley had done it. She'd siphoned off a tiny stream of money. For them.

Since then, she'd been as antsy as the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof.

She felt like a criminal. Was a criminal. She could tell herself that the money had originally been Margaret's-no ill-gotten funds involved-all she wanted to, but the fact remained that transferring that money as she had done would get her in big trouble if it was ever found out.

She could go to jail.

"If the man who attacked you didn't want Jeff's phone because he'd found something on that cloud thing linking it to George's files, then why did he want it?" Margaret said, snapping Riley out of her reverie and back to the present.

Riley was glad to leave the past behind. She focused with fierce concentration on Margaret, who was almost as pale as the toilet on which she perched.

"I don't know," Riley said again. "I only got a quick glimpse of a few things that were on it before I shut it down. There were three pictures of a couple of men moving around in the dark that looked like they had been taken right before Jeff died. Maybe they were of Jeff's killers, maybe not. Maybe Jeff did end up downloading some of George's files, and they were on his phone, and the sc.u.mbag somehow knew and wanted it for that reason. But the thing to keep in mind is, the man who attacked me and whoever killed Jeff are not necessarily one and the same person. I was attacked because he wanted Jeff's phone." Riley took a deep breath, and put it out there. "But I don't think Jeff was killed for his phone. It was still on him when he died. I know, because I found his body that night and took the phone off him, just in case there was something on it that could lead back to us, to what we did. What are the chances that his killers would have missed the phone if that's what they were after?"

Margaret stared at her, wide-eyed. "You found Jeff's body?"

"He texted me to pick him up at Oakwood." Riley had hoped to spare Margaret the details, but they were past that now. She told Margaret the whole story, concluding with, "The bottom line is that there's no way Jeff knew that we found the money. n.o.body could have killed him for that reason, because even if Jeff ended up downloading every one of George's files he still would've had to make the connection from the calendar to Emma's painting, and he never did. I'm sure of it. And n.o.body outside the family could possibly make that connection."

For a moment Margaret seemed to mull that over. Then her lips quivered, and her eyes shone with a sudden welling of tears.

She said, "If we had turned George's notebook over to the authorities as soon as we found it, Jeff would be alive right now."

Her words. .h.i.t Riley like a fist to the stomach. That was the truth that had been crawling around the edges of her consciousness and whispering to her in her sleep. That was the truth that had been staring her in the face ever since she'd found Jeff dead, the truth that she hadn't wanted to see, had refused to recognize.

Unable to speak, Riley stared mutely at Margaret, aware that the dawning horror of realization was probably visible in her face. The tears that were now sliding down the older woman's cheeks broke her heart at the same time as they brought tears to her own eyes.

"We didn't know. We couldn't have known." The words forced their way out of Riley's constricted throat even as Margaret covered her face with her hands. Heart breaking, Riley sank to her knees and put her arms around Margaret.

Holding on to each other, they cried.

Finally, when they were spent, when Riley sank back on her heels and they were both wiping their eyes with folded squares of toilet paper, Margaret gave a deep, shaky sigh.

"There's something you don't know." Margaret's voice was thick in the aftermath of her tears. Still on her knees on the hard tile floor, Riley looked a question at her, and saw that Margaret's hands were clasped together so tightly her knuckles were white. Riley's internal alarm-o-meter immediately started screeching at about a thousand decibels. "When I was in Bermuda with Emma, I went to the bank and withdrew some of the money. I know we agreed not to touch it for years, but-I took out thirty thousand dollars: I thought I might use it to pay Emma's tuition. Because it's her senior year, and-well, I don't have to tell you. It's in the suitcase in my closet right now."

- CHAPTER -

FOURTEEN.

The Palm Room was one of those places Finn would never have gone to voluntarily. It was dark and smelled of booze and perfume and he had no doubt at all that any cop with the inclination could make a dozen drug busts within his first five minutes inside. The pounding beat of the music a.s.saulted his ears as soon as he cleared the second set of heavy steel doors through which customers had to pa.s.s to join the ranks of those privileged/connected/rich/good-looking enough to be admitted to the converted warehouse just off Katy Freeway. It was Friday, or rather Sat.u.r.day now, almost 1 a.m., and the line to get in stretched around the block. The quartet of burly bouncers guarding the doors had to be persuaded to let him in by a flash of his creds.

Once inside, Finn prowled through the various rooms the 25,000-square-foot, two-level s.p.a.ce had been divided into, a predator in search of a very specific prey. He was all but deafened by the blasting music and the underlying combined roar of clinking gla.s.ses and laughter and the voices of hundreds of people all talking at once. Out on the huge dance floor that was the centerpiece of the s.p.a.ce, boots scooted and short skirts twirled as laser beams of colored light sliced through the darkness to highlight various couples getting down. A live band played on a dimly lit, raised stage. Fake palm trees pulsing with green Christmas lights filled the corners.

The mezzanine overlooking the dance floor was lined with people leaning against the rail watching the action below.

"Can I get you a drink, sir?" a waitress asked, her voice raised to be heard over the din. She looked to be barely of legal drinking age, a pretty, dark-haired girl with a lithe, tanned body all but bared by a tiny pair of black shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt that failed to provide her with any degree of modesty because it was unb.u.t.toned, rolled up as high on her torso as possible, and tied in a knot between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Finn shook his head. He could have used a beer-he could have used several beers-but he was working.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Cowan." He had to raise his voice to be heard, too.

"Riley?" She swept a speculative glance over him. Her name tag read Katie, and she was carrying a round tray with a couple of bottles of Lone Star beer on it, which was probably what had made him think of the beverage in the first place. "She's probably over there in the Sports Bar." She pointed across the dance floor. "That's where the big spenders hang out."

Finn nodded, tucked a couple of singles into the squat, heavy highball gla.s.s that was already br.i.m.m.i.n.g with them on the tray, and, skirting the dance floor, headed in the direction Katie had indicated.

She-meaning the object of his search-hadn't really said anything incriminating, Finn reminded himself in an effort to retain the necessary degree of objectivity.

Ah, but it was what she didn't say.

His gut had been telling him all along that she was involved in this thing up to her eyeb.a.l.l.s. What he'd heard tonight had confirmed every twinge of instinct he'd had.

After a long, exhausting, and ultimately fruitless day of running down all the intelligence he could get his hands on concerning the recent activities of the men whom Riley's confessions had pushed to the top of his. .h.i.t list, he had returned with Bax to their hotel rooms about two hours previously. Leaving an out-of-the-loop Bax securely tucked away in his own room for the night, Finn had headed downstairs again to collect an envelope waiting for him at the front desk. The envelope had contained the CD from the sound amplifier recorder that he had affixed to the roof of the police cruiser that had spent the night in Margaret Cowan's driveway. Voice activated, it had served as a supplement to the bug in Riley's phone, the effectiveness of which was hampered by the fact that it covered only its immediate vicinity. The sound amplifier recorder captured everything that had been said in Margaret's house from the time the cruiser had arrived until it had left that morning after the ladies were all out of the house. The cruiser was there again tonight, with the recorder busy doing its thing.

The CD had contained maybe forty minutes of actual conversation. He had kicked back in the armchair in his room and listened.

The lawyer left; Emma had a breakdown; Riley and Margaret talked, but revealed nothing he didn't already know; Margaret talked to Emma, presumably in the teen's bedroom, again revealing nothing new; then, at 2:07 a.m. according to the voiceover on the recording, Riley and Margaret talked once more, with Margaret saying, "Was Jeff killed because-?" and Riley answering with, "Shh."

That had been followed almost immediately by the sound of a door closing. After that, the recorder had picked up a few barely intelligible words masked by a muted roar. There'd been more talk in the morning when they'd gotten up, typical getting-ready-to-go conversation, but it was Riley's middle-of-the-night exchange with Margaret, coupled with that masking roar and underscored by some information he'd received earlier, that had brought him out to the Palm Room in search of her.

He knew what that muted roar was: running water. He knew what its purpose was: to mask a conversation. It was a guess, but he thought it was a good one: Riley and Margaret had continued the conversation that had been interrupted by Riley's sharp "Shh" in the bathroom. With the water running-the purpose of which could only have been to foil any listening devices.

Given Riley's propensity for messing with electronics, he did not imagine that the running water had been Margaret's idea.

And there would only have been a need for running water if the conversation was something Riley absolutely did not want anyone to overhear.

In his experience, people weren't that wary without a reason.

"Was Jeff killed because-?"

The answer he did not hear tantalized him. It also p.i.s.sed him off.

His anger was directed more at himself than her.

He'd known from the moment he'd watched her take that phone off Jeffy-boy's body that she had something to hide.

But he'd let the fact that she was a woman-a young, beautiful, s.e.xy woman who seemed to possess the effortless ability to turn him on to his back teeth-influence him.

Which was why, even before he stepped through the garage-sized open door of the Sports Bar-the name hung in neon over the opening-he was feeling grim.

He glanced around. It was a smallish s.p.a.ce, maybe twenty two-person tables, most of which were occupied, with half a dozen big plasma TVs fastened to the wall-all tuned silently to various sports games; headsets for anyone who wanted to listen hung on hooks beneath the TVs-and a long mahogany bar with a mirrored wall behind it, a green gla.s.s lighting fixture hanging above it, and a dozen bar stools in front of it. Another of the scantily clad waitresses flitted from table to table, serving drinks and what looked like tiny bags of popcorn. The bar stools seemed to be all occupied, mostly by men. Two bartenders, one male and one female, were busy pouring drinks.

His quarry leaned against the far end of the bar with her back to him. Standing as she was under one of the lights, there was no mistaking the bright blaze of her hair. It hung loose around her shoulders in a profusion of waves. Her dress was black, short, sweater-girl tight, and glittery with sequins. The way it clung to her a.s.s should have been against the law. She was wearing sheer black stockings, mile-high heels. The burly older guy in a business suit and a cowboy hat who was spilling over the bar stool beside her was running his hand up and down her bare upper arm as they talked.

Watching that, his grim got a whole lot grimmer.

He walked over, leaned against the bar beside her. Close, so she'd know somebody was there.

She turned a little, glancing his way, and met his eyes. The sooty black of her lashes framed big green-hazel eyes as they widened. Her lips parted in transparent surprise.

Then she smiled, a dazzlingly genuine I'm-so-glad-to-see-you smile that hit him with the approximate incendiary effect of a surface-to-air missile.

If he'd been standing upright, it would have rocked him back on his heels. As it was, his heart kinda jumped. His b.a.l.l.s definitely tightened.

And his grimmer grim morphed into something way hotter and more dangerous.

She'd been about to say, Thank you for the ice cream.

Then he smiled a not-nice smile and said, "I don't like it when people lie to me, Mrs. Cowan."

His gray-blue eyes were hard as steel. His posture appeared deceptively casual as he rested one elbow on the bar, his big body seemingly at ease, his heavy shoulders wide enough to block most of her view of the goings-on on the dance floor in the main room beyond him. In his FBI-typical dark suit and white shirt-tonight he was minus the tie-he looked exactly like what he was: a federal agent. He also looked tough and in a bad mood and not like anyone you wanted to mess with.

He was so close his arm brushed hers. Looking at his expression, she knew he'd gotten that close on purpose.

And that purpose wasn't to try to make her little heart go pitty-pat.

His words made her stiffen. On her other side, Don Osborne was, thankfully, talking to Chip the bartender as Chip set Don's third scotch on the rocks in front of him. That, plus the pulsing music, was almost certainly enough to keep him from overhearing.

Unlike Finn's smile, her answering one was sweet as sugar. "I don't like it when people try to intimidate me, Agent Bradley."

His eyes narrowed. Her smile sweetened.

"So you want to tell me how that phone really got in the bathwater?"

Her heart skipped a beat. She prayed her sudden spurt of alarm didn't show.

Just because she kept her voice necessarily low didn't mean it was any less hostile. "I don't want to tell you anything at all. In case you haven't noticed, I'm at work. Excuse me."

As she turned away from him, he straightened to his full height and caught her arm.

"You took the SIM card out. Don't deny it."

Her stomach clenched, but she wasn't about to show it if she could help it. Even as she flashed a let-go-or-die look at him, Don swiveled his stool in her direction and frowned.

"There a problem, Riley?" he asked, glancing from the hand on her arm to Finn. What he saw in Finn's face made his weather-beaten features harden.

Riley shook her head.

"I'm an FBI agent," Finn said. His tone had a you want trouble, I'm it edge.

It was all she could do to resist the urge to kick him.