Whiskey Beach Part 42

The anger he'd managed to hold at a steady simmer boiled over. "You want to come after me again, you come. But you leave her out of it."

"Or what? Are you going to try for me next?"

"Detective Wolfe." Corbett snapped the words out.

"You think you got away with it once, so you figure you can get away with it again." Ignoring Corbett, Wolfe slapped his hands on his thighs, leaned forward.

Close in, Eli thought, the way he liked to crowd into personal s.p.a.ce in interviews.

"Yeah, I knew Duncan. He was a friend of mine. I'm making it my mission in life to bring you down for him. You won't slip through this time. Everything you and the woman do, have done, think about doing, I'll know. And when I bring you down, you'll stay down."

"Threats and hara.s.sment," Eli said, oddly calm again. "That should give my attorney an excellent springboard. I took it before, and I let the life I had go down the drain. I won't take it again. I've answered your questions. You'll need to go through my lawyers now." He got to his feet. "I want you out of my house."

"Your grandmother's house."

Eli nodded. "I stand corrected. I want you out of my grandmother's house."

"Mr. Landon." Corbett got to his feet. "I apologize if you feel threatened or hara.s.sed."

Eli simply stared. "Really? If?"

"The fact is, due to the connection, due to the victim's purpose here in Whiskey Beach, you're a person of interest. I'd like to ask if you own a gun."

"A gun? No. No, I don't."

"Is there a gun in the house?"

"I couldn't say." Now he smiled. "It's my grandmother's house."

"We'll get a warrant," Wolfe put in.

"Then get one. You'll need one to get back in this house because I'm done being badgered and hounded by you." He walked out, to the door, opened it. "We're done."

"Keep thinking that," Wolfe muttered as he strode out.

"I appreciate your time," Corbett said.

"Good because I'm finished giving it." Eli firmly closed the door. Then allowed his hands to ball into fists.

Corbett waited until he and Wolfe were in the car. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it! What the f.u.c.k were you doing?"

"He did it, and he's not getting away with it again."

"For f.u.c.k's sake." Infuriated, Corbett stomped on the gas. "Even if he had motive, which we don't know, can't prove, his opportunity is below nil. He gets Duncan up to the lighthouse in the middle of the d.a.m.n night, shoots him, shoves him off the cliff, then pulls off the rest? The way he spelled it out's exactly right."

"Not if the woman's part of it. She could've lured Duncan up there, then she follows Landon into Boston, drives him back, sits as his alibi."

"That's bulls.h.i.+t. G.o.dd.a.m.n bulls.h.i.+t. I don't know her, but she came off clean and up front. So do her neighbors. And I do know Vinnie Hanson. He's a good cop. He vouches for both of them. It went down just the way they said. The break-in, the G.o.dd.a.m.n trench, the timing."

"Landon's got money. Money buys a lot of vouches."

"Be d.a.m.n careful, Wolfe. You're here because we invited you. We can rescind the invitation, and that's exactly what I'm going to recommend. You're f.u.c.king obsessed, and you just screwed any chance I have of getting Landon to cooperate."

"He killed his wife. He killed Duncan. Cooperation from him's bulls.h.i.+t."

"You've had a year to pin him for the wife, and you haven't. Duncan's a h.e.l.l of a bigger reach. If you weren't so dug in, you'd be asking yourself who hired Duncan, why, and where the h.e.l.l they were between midnight and five on Friday morning. You'd be asking yourself who broke into that house while Landon was in Boston, and how they knew he was in Boston."

"One doesn't have d.i.c.k to do with the other."

Corbett only shook his head. "Obsessed," he repeated under his breath.

Inside the house, Eli went directly upstairs, turned into the south wing and into what he'd always thought of as the memento room. Various cases held bits and pieces belonging to ancestors. A pair of lace gloves, a music box with a jeweled b.u.t.terfly, a pair of ornate silver spurs. Mixed together in what he considered charming and unstudied displays were three leather-bound diaries, military medals, a wonderful bra.s.s s.e.xtant, a marble mortar and pestle, a pair of satin b.u.t.ton shoes and other interesting Landon debris.

Including a case of antique guns. Locked, he noted with considerable relief, as always. The shotguns, a beautifully preserved Henry rifle, the fascinating pearl-handled derringer, the Georgian-style dueling pistols, flintlocks, a tough-looking Colt .45.

He didn't relax until he'd confirmed every s.p.a.ce in the custom-made cabinet held its weapon.

All present and accounted for, he thought. At least he could be confident none of the Landon guns had killed Kirby Duncan. To his knowledge none had been fired in his lifetime, and likely for a generation prior. Too valuable for target practice or sport, he mused, remembering his grandfather allowing a thrilled eight-year-old Eli a chance to hold one of the flintlocks while he explained its history.

Valuable, Eli thought again as he wandered the room. The dueling pistols alone were worth thousands. And easily transportable, easily sold to a collector. A locked gla.s.s-fronted case would hardly stop a thief, yet whoever had dug in the bas.e.m.e.nt hadn't taken the bird in the hand.

Hadn't known about them? Didn't know the layout and history of the house well enough? Besides the guns-and there had to be six figures, easily, inside that case-the house contained countless valuable, portable items.

His grandmother would have noticed, eventually. But there'd been a decent window of time between her accident and when he himself had moved in. But if and when the intruder had used that window he'd apparently kept his focus on the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Focused, Eli thought again. So it wasn't simply about money, or why not take what came easily to hand? It was about treasure.

What kind of sense did that make? he wondered. You could spend one night hauling out a few million in art, memorabilia, collectibles, silver-Jesus, his great-uncle's extensive stamp collection on display in the library. Or you could spend G.o.d knew how many nights hacking away at the bas.e.m.e.nt floor with hand tools for a legend.

More than money, then, he thought again as he prowled through the house, taking a speculative mental scan of easily portable valuables. Was it the thrill? The true belief in treasure beyond price?

Was it an obsession, like Wolfe's obsession with him?

The idea took him back to the bas.e.m.e.nt to take a closer study of the intruder's work. On impulse, he stepped down into the trench, found it nearly waist-high in some parts. To his eye it looked as though the work started in the center of the area, then moved out in a kind of grid. North, south, east, west.

Like compa.s.s points? How the h.e.l.l would he know?

He climbed out again, pulled out his phone to take photos from several angles. The cops had pictures, but now he had his own.

For whatever reason, it made him feel proactive. He liked the sensation of doing something. Anything.

To add to it, he went back up, took the bra.s.s telescope on its mahogany stand-a gift to his grandmother-out onto the terrace. Proactive meant informed. Maybe it wasn't the best time for him to take a hike or drive to the lighthouse, but that didn't mean he couldn't see.

He aimed, focused, adjusted until he had a clear view of the yellow police tape. They'd blocked off the entire area, lighthouse included. He noted a few people behind the tape-the curious, and a couple of official-looking vehicles.

He turned the scope, aimed down, watched what he a.s.sumed were crime-scene techs working on the rocks, and getting soaked despite their protective gear.