“There was no traffic on Miramar Road.”
“You never know. If a couple of kids out for a late-night cruise happen to see the lights, they might get curious.”
“All right,” she said.
“Remember, stay in the car until I wave you in. If anything looks like it’s not going well, get the hell out of here, understand?”
“Yes, yes, I’ve got it. What about you?”
“Appearances to the contrary, I can take care of myself.”
He did not wait for her to acknowledge the order. He was accustomed to people doing what he told them to do. He’d had a lot of experience in the role of boss, first onstage, where even small mistakes in a carefully staged illusion could destroy a career or get someone badly injured, even killed. Now, as the owner of a hotel that catered to a fickle and often bizarre clientele, he’d managed to keep a lot of people employed during the worst of the hard times.
The country was finally emerging from the aftermath of the crash, but his staff was loyal. No one had left to seek other opportunities.
So, yes, he’d become accustomed to people doing what they were told.
He reached inside his jacket and took the gun out of the holster.
Cane in one hand, weapon in the other, he continued toward the warehouse, hugging the deep night just beyond the headlight beams. He knew from his experience establishing lines of sight on a brightly lit stage that the audience never noticed the assistants dressed in black who worked in the shadows.
When he got close to Daisy’s car, he saw that Irene was right. There was no one sitting in the vehicle. He took a chance and moved to stand next to the driver’s door. Nobody was hiding in the rear seat.
He eased his way around to the rear of the warehouse. The full moon, combined with the lantern light spilling out through the open freight door, allowed him to see the old dock and the squat shape of the boathouse.
He flattened his back against the wall at one side of the freight door.
“Daisy Jennings?” he said.
There was no response.
He raised his voice a little but kept his tone cool and unthreatening. “I’m Oliver Ward. We’ve met. I insisted on accompanying Miss Glasson tonight. I didn’t want her to take the risk of coming alone. I’m sure you can understand. Sorry for the change of plan but I brought a hundred bucks with me. I hope that will serve as an apology.”
Nothing.
Gun extended, he leaned forward slightly and took a quick look around the interior of the warehouse. The lantern provided enough light to reveal that there was no sign of anyone inside. It also revealed the handbag sitting on a wooden crate.
Not good, he decided. Daisy Jennings should have been greeting him and his hundred-dollar apology with open arms.
Time to leave.
He grabbed his cane and started back around the warehouse. His only goal now was to get Irene as far away as possible.
The moonlight glinted on a small object on the dock. He had not noticed it earlier. He told himself it wasn’t important but he paused anyway, hooked the handle of the cane over his arm, and took out the flashlight. He switched it on and pinned the object in the beam.
A woman’s shoe lay on its side.
He went a little closer and aimed the light at the water.
The body bobbed just under the surface.
Daisy Jennings.
A setup, just as he had feared from the start, but the victim was Jennings. Evidently she really had known something that could have hurt Tremayne.
He turned off the flashlight and dropped it into the pocket of his jacket. Cane in one hand, gun in the other, he made his way as swiftly as possible around the side of the warehouse.
The growl of heavy motorcycle engines approaching at speed on Miramar Road reverberated through the night.
There was no good reason for motorcycles to be prowling the empty stretch of road at that hour.
It looked like the cleanup crew was about to arrive.
Chapter 26
Irene heard the thunder of motorcycle engines on Miramar Road and knew that Oliver had been right. It was a setup.
She did the first thing she could think of—she killed the headlights. She kept the Ford’s engine running, ready for a fast getaway, and watched the shadows around the front of the warehouse, willing Oliver to appear.
He did. She could see him silhouetted against the lantern light. But he wasn’t coming toward her. He was signaling her to get out of the vehicle.
Light sparked in her car mirrors. The motorcycles had reached the entrance of the dirt road that led down to the warehouse. She realized that her Ford was directly in their path.
She turned off the engine, grabbed her handbag, jumped out of the front seat, and ran toward Oliver. She stumbled a little on the uneven road.
“Careful,” he shouted.
By the time she reached him, he had the front door of the warehouse open. She rushed inside. Oliver followed.