“I agree,” Luther said. “You need some rest before you make the drive back to L.A.”
Nick gave up. He looked at Vivian.
“We’ll spend what’s left of tonight here,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll find out what Raina learns from her contacts. The next day we’ll drive to L.A.”
“You are not driving anywhere,” Vivian said. “The doctor put me in charge, remember?”
“We have to get the name of Treyherne’s client,” Nick said.
Luther glanced at Vivian. “I think you’re safe, at least for now, Miss Brazier. We know Treyherne’s clients are not aware of his identity. That means whoever paid him to murder you has no way of knowing that he’s dead.”
Chapter 42
Los Angeles
A day and a half later . . .
Nick stood in the middle of Treyherne’s living room and asked the questions that had been the most important ones all along.
“Why didn’t you encrypt the name of the client when you took your last commission, Jonathan Treyherne? And what about the motive? Did you intend to add that information later? Or was there some other reason for not identifying the client or the motive?”
He asked the questions aloud but there was no one around to hear him except Rex. They had found the big house closed up when they arrived a short time ago but it had been no problem to get in through the rear entrance.
Treyherne had come from New York. That much was clear from the older poems in the journal. His accent had been upper-class, educated. His bearing had been that of a gentleman who was comfortable in a rich man’s world. Old money usually meant old and valuable furnishings, silver, and art. Yet everything in the mansion looked new and modern—including the art on the walls.
When Jonathan Treyherne moved out to California he had evidently done what so many others did when they moved West—he’d left his old life behind.
Raina had exhausted her contacts in Los Angeles. In the process she had turned up little more than what they already knew or surmised about Treyherne. He had appeared on the scene a few years earlier and slipped seamlessly into the most exclusive social circles. It appeared he had no family, just money.
If not for the earliest poems recording his kills back East, one could almost conclude that Treyherne had no past.
But every man, even a wealthy professional assassin who wrote harrowing poetry, had some personal history. Nick’s intuition told him he had to find it. He needed answers.
He began the way he always did when he was on the hunt for information. He walked through every room in the house, taking his time, absorbing the feel of the place. He opened drawers, locked and otherwise. Men as wealthy as Treyherne always had a private safe. He found it behind a sensuous Tamara de Lempicka painting of two female nudes. He took out the stethoscope he had brought with him and went to work.
It did not take long to get the safe open. The only thing inside was a small financial ledger. A rush of anticipation flashed through him. He loved financial records.
He slipped the ledger inside his jacket and continued his prowl through the house. There were more financial records in the desk in the study. Nick flipped through them quickly and concluded they were the usual mundane transactions of a wealthy man’s life—payments to a tailor, dues at various clubs, wages for a housekeeper and a gardener, the fees paid to the decorator who had furnished the mansion.
The accounts did not appear to be important but you never knew. Nick helped himself to the volume and a slim folder filled with what looked like Treyherne’s personal correspondence.
He and Rex finished the tour and left the mansion via the same door they had used to enter it. They made their way through the quiet neighborhood to where the Packard was parked and drove to an isolated location overlooking the ocean.
He spent an hour with Treyherne’s financial records. There was only one routine quarterly payment that did not have an obvious explanation. For some years Treyherne had sent checks to Maple Tree Farm. The address was in Maine. He had not missed a single quarter right up until the last check. That one was dated a year and a half earlier.
Shortly after the final check to Maple Tree Farm had been sent there was a transfer of a large sum of money from Jonathan Treyherne’s Los Angeles bank to an account at an Adelina Beach bank.
The money had been deposited into the account of Morris Deverell.
“We just struck gold, Rex.”
Rex had been leaning out the window, inhaling the salty breeze. He turned at the sound of his name and gave Nick an inquiring look.
Nick opened the folder that held Treyherne’s correspondence. There was a letter from a New York law firm addressed to Jonathan Feathergill. The first letter dealt with the transfer of a large sum of money from the Feathergill Trust to the account of Jonathan Treyherne at a Los Angeles bank. The date coincided with Treyherne’s move to the West Coast.
“He changed his name to Treyherne when he moved out here, Rex. He really did walk away from his old life.”
Rex looked as if he agreed with that analysis.
The second letter in the folder had an earlier date. It was addressed to Jonathan Feathergill at an address in New York. Nick read it quickly.
Dear Mr. Feathergill:
I regret to inform you that I fear there is no hope for a cure. The insanity that afflicted your father has been passed down to your brother, Edward. We have attempted several forms of treatment but nothing has proven effective. He is, and will always be, a danger to others. All I can offer you is the guarantee of a safe, secure environment here at Maple Tree Farm.
As you know we maintain the highest levels of discretion. The details of your brother’s medical condition as well as his location will not be divulged to anyone except the members of his immediate family. I understand that you are his only living relation . . .
The letter was signed Dr. Clement Hulton.
There was one more note from Hulton.
Dear Mr. Feathergill:
I write to inform you of news of the most serious nature. Edward Feathergill was reported missing three days ago. We have conducted an exhaustive search of the grounds and the surrounding woods. We have found no trace of him. We believe he attempted to leave our remote location by means of a small rowboat during the recent storm. The vessel no doubt capsized in the high seas. I and the members of my staff are convinced that Edward perished. Please accept my condolences but under the circumstances perhaps it is for the best . . .
Nick put the letters back into the folder. He fired up the Packard and drove to the nearest phone booth. He arranged several stacks of coins on the small tray beneath the phone and dialed the operator.