“Some detail that will prove Tremayne murdered all of them?”
“Yes. It’s horrifying to know that I’ll have to wait until another woman dies before I’ll have a chance to find a fresh angle or a new source.”
“I understand.”
She reached up to grip one of his hands. “I know you do.”
They stood quietly for a time.
“Sooner or later another woman will die,” she said after a while.
“You’re sure of that?”
“There’s a pattern.”
“One of the things I learned as a magician is that the mind can play tricks when it comes to seeing patterns. If we want to see them, we can usually find a way to do it. It’s human nature. There are a lot of illusions and effects that rely exclusively on that fact.”
She turned to face him. “Four women are dead. They’re all connected to Nick Tremayne in one way or another. That’s not an illusion, that’s a pattern.”
“You’ve been a little distracted lately.”
“That’s for sure.”
“Maybe it’s time to go back to the beginning and try to view everything in your notes with clear eyes,” he said. “Stop looking for the pattern you think you see.”
“What should I look for?”
“A new pattern.”
She thought about that. “Maybe you’re right. It’s not like I’ve got a better idea. I keep circling back to the question I’ve had from the beginning. Maybe starting over will give me a fresh perspective.”
“What’s the question?”
“Nick Tremayne’s name has been linked to several women in the two years he’s been in Hollywood. But only four of them have died under mysterious circumstances. My question is, what did they know that got them killed?”
“Good question.”
She put her arms around him. He wrapped her close and held her very tight.
Chapter 59
They ate breakfast on the patio—fresh melon, scrambled eggs, toast, and a large pot of coffee—all delivered as if by magic.
“I could get used to room service,” Irene said.
“It has its advantages,” Oliver said.
“So now we wait until the police confirm Enright’s identity and notify his family,” Irene said. “What if it turns out he was a fraud?”
“It’s possible that the man who went over the cliff in my car stole Julian Enright’s identity, but I doubt it,” Oliver said. “It would have been too risky, for one thing. There was always the chance that he would have run into someone from the Enrights’ social circle on vacation out here in California. But that aside, I’m sure the bastard was who he claimed to be.”
“Because of his arrogance?”
“He was a man born to wealth and privilege who thought he could get away with murder.”
“And espionage. He was willing to sell vital national secrets to some foreign interests. That makes him a traitor, as well as a killer.”
“Yes, it does.”
Oliver finished his coffee, kissed her lightly on the mouth, and levered himself to his feet.
Just like a comfortably married couple, Irene thought. Except that they weren’t married.
Details.
“I’ve got to take care of some business in the office,” Oliver said. “Security is keeping a close eye on Tremayne around the clock. In addition, I’ll make sure one of the guards is stationed outside of this villa. Promise me you won’t leave this place alone.”
“I promise,” she said.
She waited until he left, and then she went back inside the villa to collect her notes. She took them outside onto the patio, determined to start at the very beginning.
She would begin the way Peggy Hackett had taught her—by setting down every hard fact she had in her possession, regardless of how ephemeral it seemed. She would follow every loose end. She would ask the question that she had been asking from the very beginning—why the four women had died.
They had each known something, she thought, or discovered something that threatened Nick Tremayne. It was the only explanation that made any sense.
An hour later she sat back and looked at her notes, searching for some pattern that she had not noticed previously. Nothing. The only thing that stood out was the fact that all of the victims except the first one had lived in Los Angeles.
She returned to the short, cryptic note that she had found when she cleaned out Peggy’s desk. It included the name Betty Scott, the woman found dead in a bathtub in Seattle.
And there was a phone number.
Peggy’s advice whispered through her. When you’re stuck, go back over every detail. Find one more detail—because there is always one more detail.