“Are you sick?” he said.
“No.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Aw, jeez. You’re a horrible liar, you know that? Is it something about Mia?”
“No, I need to talk to someone, that’s all.”
“Lucie,” he warned. “Don’t con me.”
“I’ll call you later. Word of honor.” Then I hung up.
First I had to see Mac. Right before I left, I woke my sister.
“I’ve got some errands to do. Middleburg and Leesburg. I’ll be back later,” I said. “You know the drill.”
She sat up sleepily and scratched her head. “Yeah, no booze for breakfast.”
“Very funny.”
“You still trying to figure out who cut the pages out of that book?”
I had tucked it under my arm. “Not anymore. See you later.”
I got to Macdonald’s Antiques just after ten. I found Mac straightening a painting of someone’s ancestor that hung next to an antique barometer. His eyes fell on the book.
“What have we got here? Don’t tell me you’re not happy with that gorgeous book?” His smile was strained. “I don’t understand why something as beautiful as that keeps coming back here like a boomerang.”
“I’m not returning it, Mac,” I said, and watched him relax. “I’m just wondering if the reason Ross returned it was because of the pages that had been cut out of it.”
“Oh, so he told you he had it on trial?” Mac said. “And, sugar, no pages were cut out of it. I checked it over myself. That book is in absolutely pristine condition.” He held out his hand. “May I?”
I clutched it to my heart. “No, that’s okay. I’m going to take it apart anyway, for the wine labels. Thanks so much. Sorry to bother you. I’ve got to go.” I was babbling, but I didn’t want to hand the book over, now that he’d confirmed my suspicions.
“Something wrong, Lucie?” He straightened a lace doily on a small oak table. “I know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s been rough. Thanks, Mac. See you later.”
Then I drove to Leesburg.
If Ross was the forger, then this wasn’t the only document he’d faked. What about his collection of Civil War papers? Were they all phony, or just some of them? Lord, he’d sold dozens of items he’d turned up over the past few years, earning himself a respected reputation among historians. Had he duped everyone?
And if he could fake Jefferson Davis’s signature well enough to fool the experts, then how hard would it have been to fake someone else’s handwriting, who was less well known?
Randy.
What about that note that supposedly came back with Georgia’s dry cleaning? And the suicide note? Dear God.
I went to the clinic. They didn’t have visiting hours until the afternoon. Hopefully no one would be there except Ross, and maybe Siri. What was I going to do or say when I saw him? Accuse him of forgery…and murder? Two deaths? I’d helped him get off, hadn’t I? He had relied on my loyalty, my faith in him, my devotion—and I’d delivered.
I parked by the side entrance next to the black Explorer. The only other car in the lot. He was alone.
I tried the door, though I knew it would be locked. Then I banged on it until finally he opened it. He seemed surprised to see me.
Bobby told me once that the hardest thing about being a cop was seeing the look of betrayal flash in the eyes of a criminal when you slap handcuffs on them because they really believed you meant it when you said, “If you put down that gun nothing’s going to happen.”
“They give you this big, dumb look,” he’d said. “Like cows. And they say, ‘You promised.’”
I held up the book of prints. Ross’s eyes met mine—which I know were filled with fury—and that look of betrayal came into his.
“You want to tell me about this?” I asked.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said. “Where’s the letter Jefferson Davis wrote to Judah Benjamin, Ross? Can I see it again?”
“I don’t have it anymore,” he said. “I dropped it off at the auction house yesterday.”
“Well, I guess there’s hope that one of their experts will figure out it’s a forgery before they sell it,” I said. “If I can do it, it can’t be too hard. Though I wonder how you fooled whoever vetted it for you.”
His eyes grew dark and hard then, and I knew. “Oh,” I said. “Your expert gets a share of what you sell it for, is that it?”
Ross took my arm. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?”
I shook my arm free. “Don’t touch me. I can walk fine by myself.”
“No,” he said, still my doctor. “You can’t. You need a brace for that leg and you’re in denial about it.” He shoved me into his office and closed the door. I heard the sound of a deadbolt. “I need you to be reasonable, Lucie. The money is going for the clinic.”
He walked around to his desk and indicated that I should sit down in one of the two chairs facing him, just like we were going to have a little chat about my blood pressure. He sat. I did not.
He straightened up some papers and, though I’m not good at reading upside down, I know a prescription pad when I see one. It looked like he’d been busy writing prescriptions, too. I felt sick. Where did it stop?
My voice shook. “You forged those notes from Randy, didn’t you?”
“He wrote that note that came back with her dry cleaning,” he said calmly. “But I knew he was screwing Georgia before I saw it.”
“So you killed her.”
“You can’t prove that.”
God, I was right. “You killed her because she was having an affair?” I was incredulous. “Wouldn’t a divorce have been less messy? You won’t go to jail for that.”
“I won’t go to jail for anything,” he said in that same even voice. “I had no choice. She knew too much.”
Now I was confused. “About what? The historical forgeries?”
If his eyes hadn’t strayed to the prescription pad before meeting mine, it would have taken me longer to work it out.
“All those pills,” I said. “They’re not all from dead people, are they?”
“Lucie.” He stood up and put his hands on his desk, leaning toward me. “Don’t screw up something you don’t understand. I am trying to
“So you forge prescriptions for drugs? Someone still has to pay for them,” I said. “Don’t they?”
He cleared his throat. “They are paid for by the generosity of other patients, who can afford them.”
“In return for what?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Certain controlled medications are just that—controlled. I can help someone who’s suffering unnecessarily get around those limitations. It’s about helping, Lucie. It’s always been about helping.”
“Hugo Lang is one of your suppliers?”
That caught him off guard. “No.”
“You’re lying, Ross. He’s on some kind of medication, isn’t he? And he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. He never did get over his wife’s death. What is it? Antidepressants?”
“None of your damn business.”
“So Georgia found out about the fake prescriptions? What was she going to do, turn you in? Though that doesn’t sound like Georgia. No offense, but she didn’t have much of a conscience.”
“She was a lying, scheming little bitch,” he said, and this time the calm façade cracked, and I saw contempt and hatred. “She was going to blackmail everyone. I couldn’t let it happen.”
