him, and also the file on the inquiry that Shar had handled last year for Amanda Teller. The one Derek had retrieved for Hy on Monday.
No reason for D’Angelo to have that file.
Next job: find out about the woman.
Mick’s fingers tapped over the keyboard as he moved from one search engine to another. What he discovered didn’t surprise him.
She wasn’t who she claimed to be. Diane D’Angelo, formerly of San Francisco and then of New York City, had died in a boating accident off the coast of Maine five years ago.
So who was this imposter? And why hadn’t Shar run a routine background check when she hired her? Or asked Derek or him to do it?
He began searching again.
JULIA RAFAEL
She arrived at the Peepleses’ winery at a quarter to one. It was hot in the Valley of the Moon, the surrounding vineyards still on this windless day. A couple of men in work clothes and sun-shade hats were out, doing whatever people did to tend vines, but they moved in slow motion. Julia parked in the driveway and went down a path at the side of the house to the stables, where Judy Peeples had told her she’d be. The tall, frail woman was grooming a big black horse that, to Julia, looked mean and dangerous.
When she called out, Mrs. Peeples turned and greeted her. She set down the brush she’d been using on the horse and put him in his stall, then came over and shook Julia’s hand.
“I’m sorry my husband can’t be here,” she said. “He’s at a wine-makers’ luncheon in town. A regular monthly event. I didn’t want him to miss it; he’s had so little diversion since he discovered that money.”
“And you? How’re you holding up?”
“Oh…” She made a dismissive gesture. “I have my diversions. I ride and I consult with our accounting personnel and I look after Thomas.”
Julia bit back the question, asked, “Could I take another look at the money and the bag that it was in?”
“Oh, dear. You came all the way up here for that?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“Well, the money is still in the safe, but the bag-Thomas disposed of it.”
“Why? It was evidence!”
“Evidence of our son’s wrongdoing, Thomas said. He didn’t want it in the house.”
“
Mrs. Peeples looked conflicted. After several seconds she said, “It’s true that the bag isn’t in the house any more. But I removed it from the trash and put it back where he found it, under the floor of the tack room. It’s evidence, but I don’t care what my son did. I just want to know what happened to him.”
They went into the tack room and Julia pried up the floorboard. The bag was newish black leather with a plaid lining. No initials, nothing distinctive.
“Mrs. Peeples, had you ever seen this bag before your husband found it?”
“No, never.”
“Has he?”
“I don’t think so.” But doubt flickered in her eyes, indicating the opposite.
“Can I take it with me? A laboratory my agency uses might be able to tell me more about it.”
“Please, take it. I want it out of here. It’s been on my conscience, going against my husband’s wishes.”
Julia drove back to the city, the duffel bag a silent passenger beside her.
RAE KELLEHER
Hot Shots was located in a former auto-body shop on Howard Street near the Highway 101 on-ramp. Its facade still bore the weathered name-Don’s Fix It-but the overhead doors had been boarded up. A small entry opened off the space between the building and the one adjacent to the south. It was blocked by a grille, an intercom beside it.
On the way Rae had debated what approach would most likely get the people there to volunteer information. She put the one she’d decided on into operation as soon as a male voice responded to her ring.
“Hi, I’m Rae Kelleher. My husband, Ricky Savage, and his partners own Zenith Records.”
“Yes?” the voice said.
“We’ve seen some of your films, and we’re interested in speaking with one of the directors.”
“Wait a minute-Zenith Records. What’s that got to do with our films?”
“We’re diversifying. Are you interested?”
Long pause. “Call back tomorrow.”
“Onetime offer. Are you interested?”
“… Come on in.”
“Nick Carson,” the slender, trendily dressed man said, holding out his hand. He looked like an Internet entrepreneur, not a porn-flick maker.
She shook the hand. “Rae Kelleher.”
“We can talk in my office.” He motioned to a short hallway.
Rae looked around. A pair of closed doors, red lights burning above them.
“Shooting today?”
“Yes.” Tersely.
Carson led her down the hallway to an office that might have housed a busy accountant-spreadsheets on the desk, an adding machine, a computer. The computer was on, but Carson blocked her view of it and closed the file displayed there. He motioned toward a straight-backed chair, sat in an upholstered one behind the desk. Eyed her keenly. His eyes were blue, his features regular, his dark hair slicked back into a short ponytail.
“So Zenith Records wants to go into the porn business,” he said.
“Not exactly. We’re interested in the film industry-as I said, one of your directors.”
“His name?”
“I don’t know. He did some work for the Pro Terra Party.”
Understanding came into Carson’s eyes. “And you and Mr. Savage just happened to see his work where?”
“Pirated copies of DVDs that a friend loaned us. We’re… into that sort of thing.”
“Like to watch, do you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“And what makes this director so special?”
Rae shrugged. “I don’t know. My husband asked me to find out who he was.”
“I see. Why didn’t he do it himself?” There was a silver letter opener on the desk; Carson toyed with it.
“I’m better than my husband at locating people.”
“You know what? I don’t believe your story.”
“Why not?”
“Zenith Records is not going into film. You’re interested in this director because you want to make your own film. You like to watch, so why not watch yourselves? Right?”
“Okay, you’ve caught me out. So can you put me in touch with him?”
“Yes, I can. But she’s a woman-Laura Logan. I’ll call her, ask her to get in touch with you.” His smile showed small, pointed teeth. “That way she’ll be sure to give me the twenty percent I get for throwing jobs her way.”
