Maleah smiled. “God, you’ve profiled me, haven’t you? And yourself, too.”
“Yeah, I guess I have. But can’t you see the weird two sides of the same coin analogy? Male and female. For both of us, it’s all about control and commitment. We both see making a commitment to another person as giving up control.”
“But it is, isn’t it? At least for people who have such a strong need to be totally in control of their own lives. I know other people can make marriage work. My mother and father did. Jack and Cathy have.”
“Nic and Griff,” Derek suggested.
“I’m not sure about those two. I think maybe it’s a constant struggle for control with them.”
“But neither controls the other. They’re both too strong to allow that to happen.”
“I don’t know. Should being in love and maintaining a healthy marriage be that much of a struggle?”
“For people such as Nic and Griff who are aggressive and independent and passionate, I can’t imagine it being any other way. It would be the same for us.” Now why had he said that? “I didn’t mean—”
“For us?” Maleah asked, almost choking on the question.
“Not for the two of us together,” he corrected. “I meant if you or I were married to someone our equal—also aggressive, independent, strong, and passionate—it would take work to make a relationship work.”
“Oh . . . yes, I see what you mean.”
“Hey, it’s past lunchtime,” he said, intentionally changing the subject. Their conversation was becoming too much like true-confessions to suit him. “Why don’t we stop somewhere for a quick bite to eat. You barely touched your food at breakfast.”
“Is food all you ever think about?”
“Ah now, Blondie, that’s a loaded question.”
She groaned. “Forget I asked. You men are all alike. Food and sex.”
“Food and sex. Sex and food. Yeah, that pretty much sums up all of us men.”
Maleah laughed.
God help him, he loved the sound of her laughter.
“Please come in,” Griffin said. “And close the door behind you.”
Sanders did as Griffin had requested.
His old friend stood by the windows, his gaze absently fixed on something outside, his rigid stance expressing the depth of his anxiety. Sanders knew Griffin almost as well as he knew himself. They understood each other in a way no one else did, not even Yvette.
“Who is he?” Griffin asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“I would think he is someone who knew Malcolm York, perhaps admired or even loved him.”
“To our knowledge, York had no family, other than a few distant cousins. His parents were dead. He had no siblings, no nieces or nephews. And no children.” Griffin turned and faced Sanders. “Is it possible that someone could have actually loved a monster like York?”
“Perhaps this person was an admirer, someone who knew York quite well.”
“It couldn’t be anyone from Amara, could it?” Griffin settled his gaze directly on Sanders. “We didn’t leave any of the guards alive and the other prisoners hated York as much as we did.”
“Perhaps he is someone York encountered in his travels? Or he could even be one of the guests who visited him on Amara.”
“Are there any of those special guests still alive?”
“At last count, only two,” Sanders replied.
“How long has it been since Byrne contacted us?”
“More than two years. At that time, he had tracked down Sternberg.”
“Then you’re right, there are two of York’s associates who are still alive. Otherwise, Byrne would have been in touch.”
Griffin went to the portable bar, picked up a bottle of The Macallan, the twenty-five-year-old Scotch whisky his favorite, and poured the amber-red liquor into two glasses, filling each halfway. He held out a glass to Sanders.
“Of the six frequent visitors to Amara, only Bouchard and Mayorga haven’t been found and eliminated,” Griffin said. “Here’s to Byrne finishing his life’s mission sooner rather than later.”
When Griffin saluted Sanders with his glass, Sanders returned the gesture. Each took a hefty sip of the full, smooth whisky that drank like a fine brandy. The combination of smokiness and oakiness gave the aged single malt its unique flavor.
Griffin sat in one of the two large leather chairs flanking the fireplace and continued drinking. Sanders sat across from him, the two men silent for several minutes.
“Is it possible that either Bouchard or Mayorga could be passing himself off as Malcolm York?”
Sanders nodded. “Perhaps, but would either put himself in the line of fire, knowing that Byrne is hunting for him?”
“If I remember correctly, Bouchard was an arrogant son of bitch. He’s the type who would think he could outsmart Byrne while taunting us.”
“And I always thought Moyorga was stupid. Stupid enough to think neither we nor Byrne could find him.”
“We need to find Byrne.”
“He can’t be found, unless he wants to be.”
“Get word out to the proper channels and see what happens.”
“Yes, of course.” Cradling the glass of whisky in the open palm of his right hand, Sanders circled the edge with his left index finger. “There is one possibility that we haven’t discussed,” Sanders said.
Griffin nodded. “Are you referring to Harlan Benecroft?”
“I am.”
“I thought we agreed years ago that the man is harmless. He was terrified of York. He had as much reason to want York dead as we did.”
“He may have feared York and steered clear of you when you were collecting York’s fortune for Yvette, but he was York’s cousin and in his own pathetic way was as mentally unstable as York.”
“Benecroft doesn’t have the balls to pass himself off as Malcolm York.”
“Luke is on his way to London,” Sanders said. “Why not have him check on Benecroft, if for no other reason than to exclude him?”
“You find Byrne. Have Richter get in touch with his Interpol contacts and while he’s doing that, call in some favors with the CIA and MI6. I’ll get in touch with Luke.” Griffin downed the remainder of his Scotch. “Will it ever end? Will we ever be free of York?”
“The evil that men do lives after them,” Sanders paraphrased Shakespeare. “The good is often interred with their bones.”
“There was no good in York. He was evil personified.”
Chapter 24
“I have a lead on Anthony Linden,” Luke Sentell told Griffin Powell. “Someone who knows someone who can verify that Linden is alive, and this person may possibly be able to give us a description of the man.”
“If only they could tell us exactly where Linden is right now.”
“Have Dr. Meng or one of her underlings look into her crystal ball and see if they can locate him,” Luke said sarcastically.
Even though Luke had seen Dr. Meng and Meredith Sinclair work their woo-woo magic, he still wasn’t a true believer. Not the way Griff and Sanders were. He didn’t quite trust anything beyond his five senses, definitely nothing in the sixth sense realm.
“You must be a little psychic yourself to have mentioned Yvette and her proteges just now.”
Uh-oh. Luke got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Why do you say that?”
