But it seemed terribly odd to her that the office of the owner of a prosperous company would have no windows.
She set the thought aside for the moment because there were things she had to do. She pushed a chair to the spot directly below the dome that covered the surveillance camera, used the blade of her pocketknife to pry the dark plastic dome off, then stopped again in surprise. The video cable for the camera had been disconnected. It had been unscrewed. Jane replaced the dome, got down, and moved along the walls looking carefully at every shelf or fixture to be sure there wasn't a buttonhole camera hidden somewhere. She found nothing.
Apparently Richard Beale had disabled the security camera himself. Now she had a better idea of what had made him pick the darkest, most closed-in office in his own company. He probably made deals in here with people like the ones he had sent after Christine. And Christine had said he was very careful that he not be the one to sign certain papers or have his name on certain deals. It wouldn't make much sense to videotape himself doing things that were illegal.
She began a methodical search of the room. She went through the files in the cabinet, plucking out the papers that seemed useful. The computer and the printer were turned on, and the printer had a copier function, so she copied the lists of buildings currently for sale or rent, the property tax files showing property the company had paid taxes on. Jane was particularly interested in addresses where land was registered in a name other than Beale Company. She worked quickly, scanning one paper while another was copied, leaving files opened so she could return each sheet to its place.
She found the articles of incorporation of the Beale Company and its subsequent filings with the Department of Corporations. The corporate papers were over forty years old, and the owners and officers were listed as Andrew and Ruby Beale. Richard Beale had signed for the past few years as the president of the company, but he was not listed as an owner, or even a stockholder. There were only two shares of stock, one owned by Ruby Beale and the other by Andrew Beale.
There was a personnel file for Richard Beale, so she checked to verify that his address was the one Sharon had given her. His salary was 'as negotiated,' and his payroll record showed he made about two hundred thousand dollars a year. He lived in a house in Del Mar owned by the company and drove a company car, a black Porsche. There were no personnel files for Steve Demming, Ronnie Sebrot, Pete Tilton, Claudia Marshall, Sybil Landreau, or Carl McGinnis.
When Jane had copied the records she wanted, she readjusted her dust mask and hat so she would not be identifiable on the surveillance cameras in the lobby, turned off the lights, and hurried out to the SUV.
Jane drove back to Sharon's house after two A.M., and made a careful search of the grounds and the surrounding streets before she went in. She had chosen to stay at Sharon's because she was hoping to surprise one or more of Richard Beale's thugs as they watched Sharon's house, but so far, she had seen no sign of them. She arranged blankets over some pillows to make Sharon's bed look occupied, then took a spare quilt and lay on the floor in the hallway leading from the kitchen to the living room with her two guns beside her where she could reach them in the dark. From there she judged she would be able to hear if someone broke in looking for Sharon.
Jane drowsed, then awoke suddenly and looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was almost three A.M. She had just fallen into a pleasant dream about Carey, then felt a panicky sensation, a fear that she was losing him. She stood, went out the back door of Sharon's house, and got into her SUV. She drove to the plaza where the big Sears store was, and parked beside the pay telephone she had seen in the afternoon. She dialed the number of the house in Amherst, New York, and put in enough coins for three minutes.
'Hello?'
'Hi. I knew it was six there, and you'd be getting ready for work. I couldn't relax until I talked to you.'
'That's nice. I think it's nice, anyway. Unless you were dreaming about lawyers. Were you?'
'No lawyers. And it
'You don't happen to be anywhere near here, do you? I could meet you somewhere—pick up a bottle of champagne and an orchestra on the way.'
'I'm not near, but I wish I were. I just felt kind of desperate to say something.'
'What is it?'
'That I'm sorry if things seemed a little hollow when I left home. I love you completely, and I will until I die. And probably when my heart stops, there will still be a few seconds before I lose consciousness, and I'll try to remember as many of the days I had with you as I can before my mind goes dark.'
'Jane, are you in danger now?'
'No. Not at all. I'm just taking care of some things here. I called because I was afraid you were feeling as though I didn't love you enough. Or maybe I was feeling that I hadn't said it enough or said it right, or acted the way I wanted to.'
'I'm glad you called. But I wasn't doubting you. I've been worried about you since long before ... before the hospital benefit. But it was a normal family sort of worry. I knew you'd been having a hard time about the baby and everything, but I haven't found a way to be of much help.'
Jane smiled. 'I'm not your patient, Carey. You can't approach it that way. Just keep trying the other way. Something still might happen.'
'It's a deal.'
'And if nothing happens, I want you to know it doesn't change anything between us. You're it, the one I want. I have to finish what I'm doing right now, but after that everything will be the same.'
'I would like it if you weren't out there taking risks.'
'Don't worry. I'll be home soon. We'll talk then.'
'That sounds terminal. Are you getting ready to hang up?'
'Yes. I want to say 'I love you' before I go, but I've just said it so many times you'll think I'm an idiot.'
'Then let me be the idiot,' he said. 'I love you. Call again if you can, but I'll understand if you can't. Just come home safe.'
'I will.' She hung up, then got into her SUV and drove back to Sharon's house. She went in through the back door, settled into her spot in the corridor between the kitchen and the living room, and slept.
In the morning she drove past the Beale Company office in La Jolla again and verified that there was a black Porsche parked in the space marked RESERVED FOR RICHARD BEALE. Then she drove on.
Richard Beale's address was a house on the beach in Del Mar. Jane had been to Del Mar a couple of times about eight years ago. The beach at Del Mar was one of the prettiest inhabited places in the country. It had broad, white sand beaches that rose only slightly as they stretched up from the surf, and then tall groves of tropical trees that formed a curtain between the beach and the coast highway. The incredible blue Pacific was so enormous that having a few rich people living along its edge wasn't enough of a blight to be noticeable. The beaches were almost empty on a weekday morning, and most of the houses were low, sprawling structures that didn't irritate the eye.
She drove by the racetrack and then along the coast highway looking at street markers and mailboxes until she found the right number. From the road she could see only a tall wooden gate, a hedge, and a closed garage door. She kept going along the road until she reached a mall built on several terraces set into a bluff across the road from the ocean. There were restaurants, a few upscale shops, and a bookstore. Jane parked her SUV on a side street above the mall where she could drive it out quickly, then went to a restaurant and had a simple breakfast while she watched the highway and the stores. It was not out of the question that she might see the two men and two women who had been searching for Christine. If Christine was being held at Richard Beale's house, then Beale would need to have someone to keep her there. Jane went into a shop and bought a tank top, a pair of running shorts, and some sneakers. She changed into them in the dressing room, then put her clothes in the SUV and went jogging.
The beach access was a forty-foot gap in the trees where the asphalt of the road gave way to sand. Jane trotted across the wide, soft expanse of beach to the hard, wet margin where the long, slow swells hissed in. It was easier to run on the wet sand, and running along the surf gave her a chance to look at the area as she approached Richard Beale's property. The only person she passed was a platinum blond woman about fifty years old throwing a tennis ball into the surf for her German shorthair to retrieve. When Jane found Beale's house, she could see no signs of life on the ocean side of it, and there were no lights and no movement visible beyond the big picture windows. She could see no other windows open.
