The Lincoln Myth(26)

They stayed toward the mansion’s rear, where an expansive terrace faced the blackened sea fifty yards away. A row of French doors and windows opened into the house.

Luke tried the latches. Locked.

A light came on inside.

Which startled them both.

Malone darted left into a shrubbery bed, where darkness and the exterior wall offered protection. Luke found refuge in a similar spot on the terrace’s opposite side, the French doors and windows between them. They both peered around the edge into the lit space beyond the glass and saw a red-walled parlor dotted with elegant period furniture, gilt mirrors, and oil paintings.

And two people.

One face—a man’s—he did not recognize. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know his identity.

Josepe Salazar.

The other, though, was a shock. No one had said a word about her involvement.

Not Stephanie. Not Frat Boy.

Nobody.

Yet here she was.

His girlfriend.

Cassiopeia Vitt.





SIXTEEN





CASSIOPEIA VITT ADMIRED THE MANSION’S INTERIOR, WHICH reflected the elegance she recalled of Josepe’s mother. She’d been a quiet, refined woman, always respectful toward her husband and mindful of her family. Cassiopeia’s own mother had been the same, and watching what she took to be both women’s passiveness was one of the reasons she’d fled both the relationship with Josepe and the family religion. Those precepts may be good for some, but dependence and vulnerability simply were not part of her character.

“I’ve left the furnishings close to how my mother arranged them. I always liked her style, so I saw no need to change. I remember her so clearly when I’m here.”

Josepe remained a striking man. Tall, squarely built, his Spanish ancestry showed in his swarthy complexion and thick black hair. His imposing brown eyes cast the same confidence, the same quiet intensity. Highly educated and with a colloquial command of several languages, he’d enjoyed immense success in business. His family’s concerns, like her own, stretched across Europe and Africa. And, like herself, he led a life of wealth and privilege. But unlike her, he’d decided to devote himself to his faith.

“You spend a lot of time here?” she asked.

He nodded. “My brothers and sisters are not fond of the place. So I enjoy summers here. Soon I’ll head back to Spain for the winter.”

She’d never visited the Salazar family in Denmark. Always in Spain, where they lived only a few kilometers away from her family’s estate. She stepped toward a row of French doors that opened to a darkened terrace.

“I imagine there’s a lovely view of the ocean from here.”

Josepe came close. “A magnificent view, actually.”

He walked over and yanked the cantilevered handles down, throwing open the panels and allowing cool air to rush inside.

“Feels wonderful,” she said.

She was not proud of herself. She’d just spent an evening lying to a man she’d once cared about. There’d been no reawakening inside her. She’d not recently read the Book of Mormon. The only time she’d ever tried, as a teenager, she stopped ten pages in. She’d always wondered why the philosophies of the lost peoples described in the book were so revered. The Nephites wiped themselves out—no survivors, no trace left of their entire civilization. What was there to emulate?

But she told herself that deceit had been necessary.

Her old love, Josepe Salazar, was involved with something significant enough to have drawn the attention of the U.S. Justice Department. Last week, Stephanie had reported that Josepe may even have been involved with the death of a man. Nothing definitive, but enough to arouse suspicion.

She found it all hard to believe.

“Just a little recon. That’s all I need,” Stephanie had said six months ago. “Salazar might tell you things he would not tell anyone else.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Did you know there’s a photograph of you two in his Spanish house? It appears to have been taken years ago. Right there, near his desk, among other family pictures. That’s how I knew to approach you. A man doesn’t keep a picture like that around without a reason.”

No, a man doesn’t.

Especially one who’d been married and lost his wife.

Then last week Stephanie asked if she could accelerate her contact.

So she’d arranged for the trip to Denmark.

She’d once thought she loved Josepe. He’d clearly loved her, and seemed to still harbor some feelings. His hand on hers at dinner, which lingered longer than necessary, provided a hint of that. She’d continued the charade to prove to both Stephanie and herself that all of the allegations were wrong. She owed that to Josepe. He seemed utterly at ease with her, and she hoped that she wasn’t making a mistake leading him along. When they were younger, he’d been nothing but kind. Their relationship had ended because she refused to accept what he, his parents, and her own all believed to be true. Thankfully, he’d found someone to share his life with. But that person was now gone.