Cursed

“I wonder who that might have been.”

Zack shrugs. “Don’t know. I do know Mr. Pierce was very accommodating. He should be waiting for us.” He flutters his fingers. “I’ll wait outside or something while you work your mojo.”

I pick up my bag. “Let’s go.”

But the telephone on his desk rings. I pause while Zack answers it. He listens for a moment, then says, “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

He replaces the receiver. “Deputy Director wants an update. I can handle it. You go on. I’ll meet you at Green Leaf as soon as I can.”

CHAPTER 19

The Green Leaf central office is located on Front Street. It’s a converted mansion, sitting on a lot surrounded by a high hedge. The brass sign on the wrought-iron gate is in the shape of a maple leaf on which the name Green Leaf is embossed. I ring the bell outside the entrance, and a buzzer sounds immediately. No questions. The gate clicks open.

I follow the walk up to the front door, where there’s another bell. This time when I ring, a voice from inside asks, “Yes?”

I look up at a surveillance camera set high and to the right. I dig my badge out of my purse and hold it up. “Agent Emma Monroe. FBI.”

The door opens immediately. Alan Pierce smiles out at me. “I remember you from last night, Agent Monroe.”

“I have a couple questions I’d like to ask you.”

He pulls out his cell and checks the time. “I have a client meeting scheduled, but they seem to be running late. I can give you a few minutes. Come in.” He stands aside and the door closes behind me.

“I hope the party was a success,” I say as we walk.

He nods enthusiastically. “We exceeded our fund-raising goal. Thank you for attending. And thank you for what you’re doing to find Michael’s friend. He’s been beside himself since she went missing.”

There’s a bit of a nervous edge about him, one I hadn’t noticed last night. Is it surprise at finding an FBI agent at his office so early on a Saturday morning? Or concern that a client might be surprised to find an FBI agent at his office so early on a Saturday morning?

There’s no one in the reception area. He leads me through it and into what I presume is his personal office. I attempt to set him at ease by turning the conversation to familiar territory, comfortable ground.

I make a point of looking around. “I love these old buildings. It’s so good to see them being renovated, to see the history preserved.”

Alan nods. “It was a shambles when we bought it.” He gestures to a visitor’s chair and takes his own seat across a wide expanse of burled oak desk. “Restoring it to its former glory took a lot of work.”

“And, I imagine, a lot of money.”

“We have generous benefactors.”

Generous indeed. They’ve managed to get all of the details right. The period wallpaper, wainscoting, molding, even the style of doorknobs are all what you would expect in a building of this age.

I think of Dexter’s comment about his partner being a neat freak. It’s certainly evident here. Except for a desktop phone and a computer, the only other things on his desk are a stack of spreadsheets and a pen.

“This is a beautiful office. Are those the original moldings?”

“Good eye.” He beams. “Yes. This used to be the parlor.” He sweeps a hand over the smooth top of the desk. “We found this piece in the attic when we purchased the place. It’s amazing what people think of as junk, isn’t it?”

“Does the staff always come in on Saturdays?” I ask with a smile. Better to find out if there is anyone else around who might get caught in the undertow before I open the floodgates.

He shakes his head. “We sometimes have a small contingent on Saturdays. But I gave everyone strict orders to take today off. Last night was a late one for us all.”

“But no day off for the boss, I see.”

“Like I said, client meeting.” He gestures to the spreadsheet. “Plus, I wanted to tally up the proceeds from last night. We did very well. Especially Michael’s piece. He’s such a wonderful artist.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice as he adds, “I’m glad he’s seeing his talent appreciated.”

He pauses. “Are you here about Isabella?”

That slight hint of nervousness is back. I’ve interrogated enough suspects, both with and without use of my special brand of lie detection, to recognize when they are hiding something. Alan is.

“Yes. Did you know her?” I ask.

He shrugs. “We met, of course. But she disappeared before I moved in.”

“And how long ago did you move in?”

“About a month ago.” He stands up and makes his way over to a coffeepot on the other side of the room. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? We also have some sodas, bottled water.”

“No, thank you. Do you know a woman named Amy Patterson?”

His back is to me. The coffeepot is in his hand. There’s not even a moment’s hesitation. “Sure, we did work for Amy. I saw on the news she’s missing, too. Michael said you stopped by and—” He turns around to face me, alarm registering on his face. “You don’t think Michael has anything to do with Amy’s disappearance, do you? Or Isabella’s, for that matter. Michael wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

I shake my head. “No. Michael isn’t a suspect.”

His shoulders relax. He returns to his desk with the coffee. Takes a sip. Sits down. “That’s a relief.”

“What about Evan Porter?” I ask.

“What about him?”

“You know Evan?”

He nods. “Sure. He’s my attorney. He’s . . . Are you telling me Evan’s missing, too?”

Our eyes meet across the desk.

The truth dawns on him. “You think I might have had something to do with Evan’s disappearance? Or Amy’s?”

I can’t help noticing he didn’t mention Isabella. I add her back on and wait for the reaction. “What about Isabella? You didn’t forget her, did you?”

“What? No!”

But his breathing is rapid and shallow and he’s focused his gaze on the cup in his hand. I think I’ve gotten all I’m going to get from him with normal investigative techniques. Time for the big guns.

“Alan?”

He looks up at me. I take a breath, look him directly in the eye, and lower the dampening spell. Now he can’t bring himself to look away. He lowers his hand to the table, pushes the cup away. He leans forward in the chair, as if to get closer. Even a gay man is not immune to my power and beauty.

“Alan? I’m going to ask you some questions.”

The air stirs around us, blowing a slip of paper from his desk. The pen rolls to the floor. Alan doesn’t notice. A faint perfume fills the air.

He nods and breathes it in.

“You want to help,” I continue. “So you’re going to answer truthfully. Once you do, you’ll feel better.”

Of course he will. He has no choice.

I stand up, pushing back the chair in which I’d been sitting. The wind rises around me. The stacks of spreadsheets on his desk begin to rustle. Since his anxiety seems to rise every time I mention Isabella’s name, I start there. “Did you have anything to do with Isabella Mancini’s disappearance?”

A buzzer rings before he can answer.

“Is that the doorbell?” I ask Alan.

He nods toward an open window. “It’s the front gate.”