“Unless maybe your mom stumbled onto some.”
“Yeah. That would give him a motive.”
“He raised you?”
She nodded. “He and his series of wives. He got older. When his women did, too, he just traded them in for newer models. And I do mean models.”
“Was he good to you?”
She glanced at him briefly, and he saw a flash of something—pain?—in her eyes, but she averted them so quickly that he couldn’t be sure. He guessed the answer was no. Which made him wonder just how “not good” the man’s treatment of her had been. Had he just been cold and uncaring, or something more? The notion sent a darkness through him.
She laid out the next photo. “Frederick Ramirez, state senator.”
“Corrupt?” Jack asked.
“He accepted exorbitant campaign contributions from a reputed mob boss—Tony Bonacelli.” She pulled another photo from a folder. “Interestingly enough, he was also sleeping with my moth er. Or at least that was the gossip.”
“Was the mob boss a suspect, too?” Jack asked.
“He was cleared early on. Airtight alibi.”
“He could have had someone else do it for him.”
“There was no evidence of it, though. If he did, he covered his tracks very well. Or maybe he had the cops on his payroll. Who knows?”
Jack whistled softly under his breath, then glanced at the one remaining photo in her hand. “And our final contestant?”
“Wayne Clark Duncan.” She laid the photo down. The man was stunningly attractive, the shot unmistakably professional, even without the autograph scrawled in the corner. “Actor,” she said.
“I could have guessed.” He frowned. “But not one I’ve heard of.”
“No, neither have I. And while he was questioned, there’s nothing in the police reports about a possible motive. He’s probably the least likely to have killed her.”
“Those are the ones to watch out for,” Jack said, and sighed. “So what’s your plan? You want to talk to each of these guys, see what they have to say?”
“Yeah, later. First, though, I want to talk to Rebecca Murphy. She was my mother’s agent and lawyer. I think she might know more than anyone—if she’s even still alive.”
He nodded. “Good place to start. You have any idea where we can find her?”
“As luck would have it, she’s in the book. Or at least, someone with the same name is. I was just about to call when you arrived.” She reached for her cell phone, flipped it open and frowned. “Damn. I had it on vibrate. Got a voice mail, just a sec.” She hit a button. “It’s from Reaper.”
“Put it on speaker,” Jack said. “I want to know how things are going, too.”
With a nod, she hit another button, and Reaper’s message played.
Topaz saved the message. “I’m glad they’re okay. And especially glad they lost whoever was following them. That was creepy.”
“Anything having to do with the CIA is likely to be creepy,” he said with a smile. “At least, it seems that way to me.”
Jack nodded at the phone. “Why don’t you call this Rebecca person now?”
She nodded and placed the call.
Rebecca Murphy agreed to see them that evening and gave them directions to her home, a small brick structure in an upscale suburb of Beverly Hills. It was a half-hour drive, and a surprisingly pleasant one. The Porsche was fabulous, and Jack drove it the same way he did everything else. Perfectly.
Rebecca answered her door wearing a kaftan with huge pink flowers all over it, a pair of furtrimmed high-heeled slippers, and diamonds dripping from her wrist, throat and earlobes. Her snowy hair was cut close to her head on the sides and in the back, while the top was longer, giving her the look of some exotic bird. Topaz suspected she weighed in at about ninety pounds, if that. The kaftan was too big, so she thought maybe the weight loss was recent. The woman had an aura of physical frailty, perhaps even illness, about her, but it was nearly overpowered by the sense of mental power and emotional stability that exuded from her like perfume.
“Thank you for seeing us, Ms. Murphy. I realize it’s after hours.”
The woman waved a hand, glancing at Topaz, then, her attention arrested, staring at her.
“This is my friend Jack. I’m—”
“Tanya,” the woman whispered. “My God, you’re Tanya, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Everyone thinks you’re dead…or worse.”
Topaz lifted her eyebrows. “What’s worse than dead?”
“Oh, child, there are plenty of things.” Rebecca took Topaz by the arm, leading her into her house, a one-story brick ranch with brown shutters and trim to offset its stark look. “I can’t believe you’re here. After all this time.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Murphy, but—”
“Rebecca. And don’t even try to tell me you’re not her. I’d recognize you anywhere. You look exactly as you did before you vanished, ten years ago. God, you look so much like your mother.” She shook her head as if to snap herself out of her reverie, and led them through her small, neat home, all the way to the rear. Topaz glimpsed a huge brown overstuffed sofa and chair, thick green carpeting, an aquarium and a ton of plants, and then they were being hustled through sliding glass doors onto a redwood deck in the back.
“Sit. Can I get you a cold drink? A snack?”
“No, thank you, we’re fine,” Topaz told her.
At Topaz’s “we,” Rebecca looked at Jack as if she had forgotten he was even there. Then she shook her head again. “I’m sorry, young man. I’ve already forgotten your name.”
“Jack,” he said, not adding a last name. She narrowed her eyes a little, but didn’t ask. And then Jack pulled out a chair for her, and she forgot her suspicions as she smiled and took it, apparently pleased by the show of good manners.
He could charm the spots off a leopard, Topaz thought. Especially if the leopard was female.
“It’s good to see you, Tanya. I kept tabs on you as much as I could until you disappeared—hard to believe it was ten years ago. No one knew what happened to you, but most of the speculation was that you died.”
Topaz licked her lips. Admitting who she was had not been a part of her plan. But clearly this woman wasn’t going to be talked out of believing it now.
Rebecca studied her, then tilted her head to one side. “You want to keep it that way, don’t you?”
Topaz met her eyes. “For reasons I can’t go into, yes. I would prefer to stay dead as far as the rest of the world is concerned.”
“Well, I still have my law license. Give me a dollar.”
“Excuse me?”
“Give me a dollar.”
Frowning, Topaz set her tiny Coach handbag onto the glass-topped patio table and fished out a dollar bill. She handed it to the older woman.
“There,” Rebecca said, folding it, and tucking it down the front of the kaftan. “You’ve just retained me. Anything we discuss now is privileged and completely confidential.”
Smiling, Topaz said,