“Unless you are a considerably better actor than I think you are, I would say it’s a surprise to you,” Vos said. Glancing at a piece of paper he dug from his pocket, he began to dial in the combination. When the door of the safe opened, he grabbed a plastic bag from inside and tossed it to the floor. Bundles of bills tumbled out.
“That’s it,” Matthews said, his eyes bright with greed.
“That’s only part of it.” Digging further back Vos brought out a second bag. He looked in and smiled. “Ah, here’s what I was looking for.”
“Not money?” Amanda asked.
“No, Webster was not only stealing money from us but skimming drugs, too.” A third bag came out, and a fourth. “Until Mr. Matthews showed me that letter, I thought the cops had found it all. But here it is and it’s all ours.” Vos reached into the back of the safe, checking to make sure he had everything. “That should do it. We’re out of here, Beal.”
• • •
Sam had started looking for Amanda at her studio but she wasn’t there. Before heading for her house, he stopped at a Starbucks to brood over a cup of coffee. He really didn’t like this assignment. Tracking her down to her house was probably the worst thing he could do. Something was wrong and he didn’t know what. All he knew was it related to the two murders. But he didn’t know how. He knew she was no more guilty of murdering two people than he was. He also knew she was hiding something. Lying to him.
If he had any chance of getting them back to where they were before this all blew up, it depended on finding out what the fuck was going on. He figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of getting her to talk to him so he could figure it out. Same odds for pissing her off so badly, she’d never see him again. He gulped down the remains of his lukewarm coffee and headed out to see which way luck was breaking for him.
When he arrived at her house he was relieved to see her SUV in the driveway. Until he saw what was parked next to it — an old brown Toyota hatchback like the car they thought Beal Matthews drove. And parked at the curb in front was a black Mercedes. Drake Vos’s car, if he remembered right. What the hell was going on? Both Vos and the killer inside with Amanda?
He parked down the hill, out of sight of the house, and after calling for backup walked up to her side yard gate. Quietly, gun drawn, he went round to the back, hoping he could get the door to the basement open without any problem. He’d wait in the basement until backup arrived.
But as soon as he turned the corner into the yard, he was met with a bigger problem — Chihuly, so happy to see his friend, he barked and barked and barked to let Sam know he was ready to play.
• • •
Amanda heard the noise. “Something’s wrong. Chihuly never barks like that.”
“The hell with the dog,” Matthews said. “We’re out of here.”
Chihuly kept barking, coming closer to the door to the basement.
“Matthews, go outside and see what’s going on,” Vos said. “We can’t afford to get the neighbors curious. One of them already recognized me when I got out of my car.”
Reluctantly, Matthews went to the back door. Amanda’s dog was standing on the other side of the wall of rhododendrons, apparently intimidated by the thorns on the wildly growing rose bushes. The object of his attention hadn’t been afraid of the thorns but his gun hand had gotten caught on a rose cane when he worked his way behind the bushes. Matthews took advantage of Sam’s predicament, chopped at his hand to disarm him and, ripping him free of the thorns, dragged him into the basement.