STOLEN NECKLACE FOUND IN DEAD WOMAN’S SAFE.
Shock iced Anna’s blood. She was now a suspect in the murder of Helen Spencer. Helen’s warning came back to her: You must not trust anyone—not the police, not the FBI. Above all, never trust a lover.
The last bit, at least, was easy enough, Anna thought. She did not have a lover. She had not had one since Bradley Thorpe. That humiliating debacle was the last occasion on which her intuition had failed quite spectacularly.
She pulled herself back from the cliff-edge of panic. She was a proud graduate of the Gilbert School for Secretaries. Gilbert Girls did not panic. She had been trained to exert control over chaos. She knew how to set priorities.
First things first: It was time to choose a destination. She could not continue to drive aimlessly up and down the East Coast. The very thought of spending weeks, months, or years on the run was enough to shatter her nerves. Besides, the money would not last forever. Sooner or later she would have to go to ground. Catch her breath. Get a job. Invent a new life.
She was not the only person who had spent the night in the autocamp. The others gathered around the table for breakfast, eager to get back on the road. They chatted easily, sharing travelers’ tales. All of the conversations started the same way. Where are you headed?
There were many answers but one in particular stood out because it sparked curiosity, wonder, and several nods of agreement around the table.
By the time she finished breakfast she had made her decision. She would do what countless others had done when they were forced to build new lives. She would head for that mythical land out west where a vast blue ocean sparkled beneath a cloudless sky, and orange trees grew in people’s backyards. A land where glamorous people created magic on the silver screen and got involved in titillating scandals in their spare time. A land where everyone was too busy inventing the future to care that she had no past.
She got back behind the wheel and started driving west.
Somewhere along the line she came up with a new name for herself: Irene Glasson. It had a Hollywood ring to it, she thought.
She found the highway to her future right where the other travelers had said it would be—in downtown Chicago.
Route 66 would take her all the way to California.
Chapter 2
“You failed.” Graham Enright folded his hands on top of the desk. “In addition to terminating Spencer, you were supposed to acquire the notebook.”
Julian was standing in front of the art deco portrait on the wall, examining it with the intent expression of a connoisseur. He could have passed for one if necessary. Not only had he received an excellent education that included an appreciation of the fine arts, but he was a born actor.
From his artfully cut blond hair to his fashionable suit with its perfectly knotted tie and elegant pocket square, he looked as if he played polo in his spare time. The accent and manners were pure East Coast Old Money, and it wasn’t an act. Julian’s ancestors had not actually arrived on the Mayflower, but they had been on board a yacht that docked soon thereafter.
“I assumed the notebook would be in Spencer’s safe,” Julian said. He looked and sounded bored by the conversation. “It was the logical place to look so I cracked it. Took me several minutes, by the way. When I realized the damned notebook wasn’t inside, I searched the study and Spencer’s bedroom. It would have been impossible to go through the entire house. The old mansion is huge.”
“Spencer probably had a second safe, maybe one hidden in the floor.”
Julian inhaled deeply on his cigarette. The brand was French. Very expensive. Very exclusive.
“What did you expect me to do?” he said. He did not take his eyes off the portrait. “Pry up every floorboard in search of a hidden safe? Sorry, I’m not a carpenter. I don’t do household remodeling work.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten rid of Spencer until you had that notebook in your hands.”
“Spencer kept a gun in her bureau drawer. At some point she became suspicious. She went for the weapon. I had no choice. It’s not my fault I couldn’t find the damned notebook.”
“The client is not going to be pleased.”
“That’s your problem, not mine. You’re management. I’m just a field agent, remember? True, I’m your only field agent but, nevertheless, I’m just hired help.”
Graham ignored the barb. “Enright and Enright has a contract to recover the notebook and get rid of anyone who might have had access to it. I expect you to complete the assignment.”
Julian turned around. “I’ll be happy to make further inquiries but I want something in return.”