Where Truth Lies

Three

Innsbruck, Austria October 9

FBI Special Agent Matt Baxter stopped to catch his breath and turned to check on his two buddies, Austrian police officers Stefan Birsner and Ernst Verlag. Both were in superb shape, but at this altitude, the steep climb up the Hintertux glacier was a challenge for even the most experienced climbers.

The lift had dropped them off at the Gefrorene Wand Summit and they’d had to walk the rest of the way to the cabin, where, hopefully, the yearlong chase would end. Stefan raised his hand in acknowledgment, and Matt nodded before resuming his walk. They were lucky, first to have found someone who would operate the lift, and second, that at this early morning hour, the trails were empty. The last thing they needed, should the plan backfire, was an audience.

Matt looked up. The cabin wasn’t much farther. It looked desolate, surrounded by all that snow, and unoccupied, which concerned him. The last report he’d received from the Vienna office was that Basim Rashad, one of the most wanted terrorists in the world, had rented the cabin for the week.

Based on the information, Matt had enlisted the help of the Austrian police, and had mapped out their route. He had turned down an offer to use a police helicopter. The sound of a chopper would alert Rashad, and who knew what that maniac was capable of if he found himself cornered? Matt had no intention of returning to Vienna with the ashes of another martyr who had died for his cause. His mission was to bring the Iranian back alive so he could face trial for masterminding a deadly bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Indonesia.

Matt stopped and surveyed the cabin, hoping that Rashad was still in bed and not watching the mountain through his window. But why would he? So far, his plans had gone off without a hitch. After playing cat and mouse with the FBI for the last year, Rashad had vanished into thin air somewhere between Bangkok and Rangoon.

Alerted that the terrorist might have sneaked into Austria—more precisely, the Mayrhofen Resort in the Ziller Valley—Matt had immediately reserved a room at the luxurious Innertalerhof Hotel in nearby Gerlos, where he had waited to hear from the Vienna office.

That was a week ago. Rashad had to be feeling pretty invincible by now.

Matt took a pair of binoculars from his backpack and focused on the cabin. It remained dark, with no sign of life, not even a trail of smoke coming from the chimney.

Either Rashad was fond of subzero temperatures, or someone had tipped him off and he was long gone.

He heard a low whistle and turned around. Stefan was pointing at the side door where a pair of skis was propped against a utility fence.

Relieved, Matt gestured for the two men to cover the back of the house. He would take the front.

He hadn’t taken the first step when all hell broke loose.

The front door slammed open and a fully-dressed man, on skis, jumped out and started down the slope.

“Shit!”

Matt made a “let’s go” gesture and took off after him.

The “Tux” as the locals called it, was a skier’s dream. Due to the height and freezing temperatures of the glacier, the Tux was open for skiing all year round and had guaranteed powder as early as October. Matt had skied the glacier’s many trails often, always for pleasure, but at this moment, his mind was only on two things—catching the bastard and staying alive.

As the slope got steeper, an almost-vertical drop from the top, Matt realized that Rashad, a risk-taker, was as skilled on skis as he was behind the wheel of an all-terrain vehicle or a twin-engine plane. Catching him wouldn’t be easy.

Matt now had a pretty good idea of where the Iranian was going—the car park eleven kilometers down. Always prepared, Rashad had probably left a car in the parking lot in order to facilitate his escape, should that become necessary.

“Sorry, Rashad,” Matt muttered. “Not this time.”

As Rashad raced downhill, he glanced over his shoulder, grinned and raised his left pole in a salute.

“You little shit.” In response, Matt let off the brakes. Leaning forward, knees bent, his poles tucked under his arms, he tore down the mountain like a speed demon. Behind him, one of the Austrians yelled a warning. Matt ignored him.

He passed the fleeing man at high speed, waiting until he was well ahead before snapping into a smart stop.

Rashad tried to veer off to the right, but Ernst had already moved into position, while Stefan kept to the left. Trapped, Basim kept on skiing, coming straight at Matt.

What the hell was that fool doing?

Matt braced himself for a collision, then at the last possible moment, Rashad stopped, sending a plume of powder up in the air.

Matt was on him in an instant.

“You have great courage, Agent Baxter.” Rashad spoke with a thick middle-eastern accent. “I admire that in a man.”

“Save it, Basim,” Matt said, calling him by his first name as was the Arab custom. “It’s all over for you.”

“It doesn’t have to be. You let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You think I want your blood money, Basim?”

“Money is money. Just think of all it can buy you. Retirement, perhaps? Wouldn’t you like that? Or would you rather die from an assassin’s bullet? Because that’s what’s waiting for you, my friend. You put me away and you sign your death sentence.”

The threat didn’t faze Matt. He’d heard worse. “You’re the only one with a death sentence in his future, Basim.”

The two Austrians, young, tall and blond, moved forward. A pair of handcuffs dangled from Stefan’s hand as he approached the Iranian.

As Rashad was being cuffed, Matt called his superior at the Sacher Hotel in Vienna. “We got him,” he said, watching Basim shoot him a murderous look. “Is that chopper on the way? I’ve seen enough snow to last me for a lifetime.”

“It should arrive any moment,” Roger Fairfax replied. “And by the way, that was good work, Matt. I’ll buy you a beer when you get back in town.”

In the distance, the sound of a helicopter engine grew closer. “They’re here,” Matt said. “See you soon, Roger.”

The helicopter was just overhead now. As the pilot started to lower the cable that would lift Basim into the chopper, Matt’s cell phone rang. “Hello?” He covered his other ear with his hand to shield off the noise of the hovering aircraft. “Lucy? Is that you?”

“Yes. What’s that racket?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” she shouted back. “You need to come home right away, Matt.”

Matt felt his stomach tighten. “Why? What happened?”

“Dad’s been arrested for murder.”

Four

The clock on the dash of Grace’s Ford Taurus read 8:45 p.m. when she reached the outskirts of New Hope. Getting out of Boston had been a nightmare. After two wrong turns, a flat tire and a three-mile traffic jam on I-95, she had finally spotted the sign for Route 29. Fifteen minutes later, she was crossing the bridge that connected Lambertville, New Jersey to New Hope, Pennsylvania.

She knew little about this quaint little town, except that it was situated in the heart of one of the most beautiful and historic areas of Pennsylvania—rural Bucks County. It was a peaceful, quiet town, although a quick check through the archives of a local paper had confirmed what Sarah had told her. Twenty years ago, a nineteen-year old girl named Felicia Newman had disappeared, and although it was suspected that she had been murdered, her body was never recovered. Five days later, a mentally disturbed man, also a resident of New Hope, was arrested. Since then, there had been little crime in the town—until Steven’s murder.

Grace slowed down and glanced at the directions. “A right turn will take you to the cottage,” Sarah had said. “To go to the gallery, you keep straight on Bridge Street.”

After driving for more than nine hours, the thought of curling up in a warm bed, even a strange bed, was infinitely more appealing than an inspection tour of an art gallery. But she couldn’t help it. She was curious. She had to see if Steven’s pride and joy was as spectacular as he had claimed.

Bridge Street, she soon found out, was partly commercial and partly residential, which made finding a parking space at this time of night, when everyone was home, more difficult than she had expected. She found a slot in front of a shop called Red Hot Momma’s, a boutique of some sort that she would definitely have to check out in the morning.

After shutting off the engine, she got out of the car and made her way down the stone walk that led to the gallery. To her surprise, the door wasn’t locked, and no alarm went off when she opened it. Letting go of the knob, she ran her hand along the wall in search of a light switch.

Before she could find it, a dark form sprang out and slammed into her with a force that sent her crashing against the wall.

“Hey!” Instincts rather than wisdom took over. As the figure prepared to strike again, Grace let out a bloodcurdling scream, and, using a technique she had learned in self-defense class, she executed a perfect heel-kick to the groin area. From the Ahrr sound that came out of the intruder’s mouth, she knew she had hurt him.

Thank you, Frye boots.

“You bitch,” the man grunted.

He sounded as enraged as a wounded animal, and would have torn her to shreds if she had given him the chance. She didn’t. Instead, she raised her foot, ready to deliver a front kick to the knee, but this time, her opponent saw the blow coming. Staying just out of her reach, he gave her a vicious shove and ran out.

She hit the wall again and the back of her head exploded in pain. She felt herself slide down the wall, her eyelids fluttering, as she tried to catch a glimpse of her attacker.

Her vision started to blur. She struggled to remain conscious, but her mind kept playing tricks on her.Maybe she should scream again. The problem was, she couldn’t find the strength to open her mouth. Or keep her eyes focused, so she closed them, welcoming the darkness.

Grace wasn’t sure what she saw first—the pale green walls around her, or the handsome man in a white coat shining something in her eye.

“Miss McKenzie?” He smiled and tucked the penlight in his breast pocket. “Welcome back. I’m Doctor Fenley, and you are in the Solebury Memorial emergency room. How are you feeling?”

She touched the back of her head. Ouch. “Like I was hit with a cast-iron pan.”

He laughed. “Luckily you weren’t.”

It all came back to her then: the drive to New Hope, her stop at the Hatfield Gallery, her attempt to stop a robber. “How did I get here?”

“The paramedics brought you in a few minutes ago. Apparently, a young couple passing by heard screams coming from the art gallery and rushed to help. A man ran out just as they turned the corner, jumped into an SUV and sped away. They found you on the floor, unconscious, and called 9-1-1.”

“Am I all in one piece?”

“As far as I can see. You have a mild concussion and a bump on the back of your head that will remain tender for a couple of days. How’s your vision?”

“I don’t see two of you, if that’s what you mean.”

“Excellent. Any fuzziness?”

“No.”

He took a clipboard from the foot of the bed and wrote something in what she presumed was her chart. “We’ll keep you here overnight and I’ll stop by in the morning to see how you’re doing.”

She sat up, trying to look perky. “Is an overnight stay necessary? I feel fine.” No, you don’t. Stop showing off to the handsome doctor.

“Standard procedures, Miss McKenzie. Concussions can sometime take a bad turn.”

She lay back on her pillow, already sorry for trying to be a hero. “You’re the doctor.”

“That’s my girl. Now, do you feel up to having a couple of visitors?”

“Already? I just arrived in town.”

“This is not your standard welcome wagon. I’m talking about New Hope’s chief of police and his deputy. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”

And she had questions of her own. “All right.”

The doctor hooked the chart back on the bed railing. “I’ll send them right in, but they shouldn’t stay more than a few minutes. If you get tired, you just tell them.”

He walked out and she heard him talk to someone, then the curtain parted again, and two men walked in. The first one had a definite look of authority. His step was confident, his dark blue uniform crisp, even at this late hour, and his gaze sharp. He was in his early-to-midforties with brown hair cut flat on top, an acne-scarred face and a square jaw. He reminded her of SpongeBob. The man next to him was younger with an easy smile and light blue eyes.

“Good evening, Miss McKenzie,” the older man said in a formal tone. “I’m Chief of Police Josh Nader, and this is Deputy Rob Montgomery.”

She was too tired, and too worried about the gallery to waste time on small talk. “Did you catch the robber?”

“Not yet. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could give me a description.”

“It was a man.”

The deputy took a small notebook from his pocket. “Is that all you can tell me?”

“It was too dark for me to see more than that.” She looked at the chief, trying to gauge his humor level. “He might be walking funny.”

His interest perked up. “Did he have some sort of physical impairment?”

“You could say that. I kicked him in the balls.”

The deputy let out a hearty laugh that the chief silenced with one glacial look. Okay, humor level, zero.

“Fighting with an intruder is never a good idea, Miss McKenzie.”

“It is if you know what you’re doing.”

“You could have been hurt.”

Being careful not to move her head, she sat up. “How did he disconnect the alarm?”

The chief held up a small plastic bag. Inside was a thin strip of metal. “With this.”

“What is it?”

“A tool that he placed over the magnetic sensor so the door could be opened without triggering the alarm. We found it still taped to the doorjamb. Thanks to the young couple who ran to your rescue, he had no time to remove it. Hopefully, we’ll find some fingerprints.”

“I had no idea that it could be so easy to get past a burglar alarm.”

“This one wasn’t particularly sophisticated. One or two motion detectors would have helped. Unfortunately, there weren’t any. You’d be amazed how many business owners have antiquated security systems these days.”

“Was anything taken?”

“At first glance, it doesn’t appear so. The showroom is undisturbed. Only the back room, or part of it, was searched. Several paintings were tossed on the floor, but there’s no way of telling if anything is missing.”

“The man I ran into was empty-handed,” she said, starting to feel sleepy. “Unless he loaded his car before I arrived.”

“He may not have had time to take anything. At any rate, we’ll start a full investigation and keep you informed.”

Wow. Sarah must have made one hell of an impression on him. “When will I be able to reopen the gallery?”

“Our crime scene team is there now. They should be done in an hour or so. But before you reopen, I’d like you to stop by my office in the morning and give us a statement. My deputy will be glad to pick you up and bring you to the police department.”

“I appreciate that. Will my car be all right where it is?”

“Is that the black Taurus with the Massachusetts plates?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be fine. In spite of what you’ve just experienced, New Hope is really a peaceful, law-abiding town.”

Tell that to Steven, Grace thought as she closed her eyes.

* * *

Following another thorough examination, Grace was released from the hospital the next morning, and escorted to the police station by Deputy Rob Montgomery, who had arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. Once there, she had given the chief the same statement she had given the night before, signed it and had accepted the deputy’s offer to walk her to the gallery, which was only a few blocks away.

She felt well rested, and except for the tenderness in the back of her skull, there were no symptoms from last night’s attack.

Standing alone in the gallery’s showroom, Grace took her first good look around. The crime scene team had left the place a mess. White dust was everywhere, furniture had been overturned, and a large, L-shaped desk was in complete disarray.

Grace picked up a chair that had been knocked down and put it back in an upright position as she let her gaze sweep from one end of the room to the other. Steven had made the most of the fifty-by-thirty-foot space by hanging paintings of various sizes close together. Larger works were propped up on easels placed throughout the room. She counted forty-five paintings ranging in price from fifteen hundred to fifteen thousand dollars. A small portion of the work displayed was devoted to western art and established artists. The rest of the inventory was comprised of colorful Bucks County landscapes signed by names she didn’t recognize.

She walked across the room to the desk where art catalogs, correspondence, newspapers and invoices were scattered across it. Behind the desk was an archway that led to the back room.

There, too, she found evidence of police work, as well as minor damage left by the alleged robber. Several paintings lay on the floor, facedown, as if somebody, presumably her aggressor, had gone through the stack, one by one, before letting each painting fall. Half a dozen were still standing, suggesting that he hadn’t had time to examine them.

Regardless of what the intruder had been looking for, one thing was certain. He had no respect for art.

Except for the white dust used to collect fingerprints, the rest of the room was intact. A Formica counter held a microwave and a Braun coffeemaker, as well as an assortment of frame samples and more art catalogs. A small cupboard housed containers of coffee, sugar and creamer.

A quick check of an upper shelf revealed, of all things, a tackle box, also dusted for fingerprints. To her recollection, Steven hadn’t been much of a fisherman. In fact, he had hated the sport.

Curious, she opened the box. It was filled with lures. Not just any lures, but some of the best available in today’s market. She should know. Her father was an avid fisherman and had introduced Grace to the sport at an early age.

She looked at the selection in front of her. There were squid manglers, glow-in-the-dark spoons, crank baits, litterbugs, walleyes and bomber flats. She even spotted a Wigg-Lure, which die-hard fishermen claimed was the most phenomenal fishing lure ever invented.

What in the world was Steven doing with state-of-the-art lures?

She put the Wigg-Lure back in its compartment and the tackle box back on the shelf. Steven’s new hobbies were none of her business. She had more pressing matters to tend to.

She walked over to the paintings and started to pick them up, one by one, inspecting them carefully as she went. Each painting had a Post-it stuck to it with the name of the artist, the title of the work and the price. Only the last painting sparked instant recognition. It was from Eduardo Arroyo, an early twentieth-century artist who had produced more than a hundred paintings in his lifetime. This particular canvas, about twenty-eight by twenty-three inches, was the sixth and last of his Santa Fe series. Showing a typical day in the town square, with merchants displaying their ware on colorful blankets, it was entitled Market Day.

What was the work of one of the country’s premiere American West artists doing in a back room, instead of being displayed along with the other western paintings in the showroom?

She looked at the Post-it, and blinked. Twenty-five thousand dollars? For a painting that was worth at least four times that?

Steven had been fond of western art, but not particularly knowledgeable, which might explain his underpricing. But what about the dealer, or the collector who owned the painting? Didn’t they know what they were selling? And what it was worth?

Fortunately, Sarah had given her carte blanche to do as she saw fit and that’s what she would do. She planned to start by taking all sixteen paintings to the front room, including the Arroyo, and check Steven’s paperwork for more information on the latter.

She was dusting a frame when someone behind her said, “So you’re Grace McKenzie.”

Five

A woman stood on the threshold of the gallery, leaning against the doorjamb. One hand was on her hip, while the other played with a long, blond curl. She was in her early thirties, no taller than five-three or four, with almond-shaped blue eyes and a small petulant mouth painted a bright red. She wore a celery-green denim jacket with embroidered lapels, snug jeans tucked into ankle boots, and chandelier earrings that shimmered in the October sunlight.

Her expression was curious as she inspected Grace from head to toe. “I’ll say this for Steven. He had good taste in women.” She gestured toward the door. “I knocked. Guess you didn’t hear me.”

“Guess I didn’t,” Grace replied, matching the woman’s casual tone.

The visitor moved aside as Grace walked back into the showroom. “I’m Denise Baxter, by the way.”

Baxter. That made her the wife of Fred Baxter, the man charged with Steven’s murder.

“I figured I’d come and tell you the dirt about me before you heard it from the townspeople. That way you’ll know the real scoop.”

Grace wiped her hands on a paper towel. “You don’t need to tell me anything, Mrs. Baxter—”

“Please, call me Denise. Everybody does.”

“All right, Denise. As I was saying, you don’t owe me any explanation. And if it makes you feel better, I was never big on gossip, idle or otherwise.”

The young woman studied her for a moment more, then bobbed her head. “Yup, you’re exactly like Steven described you—straight to the point.” Her gaze shifted to a spot on the floor, halfway between the desk and the front door. “It feels strange being here. It’s my first time since…” She stopped, as though she couldn’t say the words.

Grace followed her gaze. “Is that where they found Steven’s body?”

Denise nodded. “Nobody was allowed near the place while the yellow tape was on. All I saw, a couple of days later, was the chalk outline. Then the investigation was over and Mrs. Hatfield had the entire gallery scrubbed clean.” She returned her gaze to Grace. “She hated me on sight.”

Grace smiled. “Don’t take it personally. Sarah is very hard to please. Trust me on that.”

“Steven blamed her for the breakup between the two of you.”

How like Steven to put the blame on someone else. “Did he really?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He told me how he messed up, but he felt that if it hadn’t been for his mother being so hard on you, you would have forgiven him and stuck around.”

“In that case, he was deluding himself. I broke up with Steven because he cheated on me. Pure and simple. Call me old-fashioned, but trust and loyalty rank high on my list of priorities, especially between a man and a woman about to be married. As for Sarah, she had nothing to do with my decision. I had come to terms with her attitude toward me by simply ignoring it.”

Denise looked at her with undisguised admiration. “You have more guts than I have. One look at the woman and my knees turned to jelly.” She paused before adding, “I can see why Steven was so fond of you. You don’t take any crap from anyone.”

Grace smiled. “Is that what he told you?”

“No, that’s what I’ve been hearing all morning. The way you fought back that robber last night is the talk of the town. Where did you learn to kick like that?”

“In kickboxing class. When you live in the city and work until late at night, self-defense becomes a necessity.”

“Do you have to defend yourself often?”

“Actually, this was my first time. Hopefully my last.”