Freefall Page 6

  "Come in." She led them to an elegant receiving room off the entryway and gestured for them to be seated.

  "How can I help you?"

  Agent Herrera leaned forward with a polite smile. "Actually, Ms. Beaumont, we'd like to speak with William Canfield."

  "William?" Sophie didn't quite manage to hide her surprise. "You're sure you wanted to talk to William?"

  "Yes. Is he available?"

  That depended on the way one defined the word "available." Since she wasn't exactly sure how much Tom wanted to reveal to outsiders about his father's condition, she hedged. "Mr. Canfield is…not taking visitors, Ms. Herrera. Perhaps his son could help you. His oldest son Thomas is handling the family's business concerns."

  The two agents exchanged a look, then Agent Herrera nodded. "Is he available, then?"

  "I don't precisely know. I haven't seen him for a while—it's a rather large house, as you can see." She managed a small, polite smile. "I'll certainly look for him, though. In the meantime, would either of you care for something to drink?"

  Both declined, so Sophie quickly went in search of Tom. She found him in the first place she looked, exactly where he seemed to be spending most of his time, in Peter's office.

  The door was open. When she peered through, she saw him seated behind his brother's desk poring through a pile of papers in his hand. Tight lines of concentration feathered out between his brows and a vague air of restlessness surrounded him.

  He didn't appear to be enjoying himself. But then, he probably wouldn't consider a visit from the FBI exactly entertaining, either.

  Reluctantly, she stepped into the room. He didn't appear to notice, too engrossed in the paperwork, so she cleared her throat. He looked up in surprise and she thought for a moment his eyes gleamed with a quick, raw desire before he blinked it away.

  "Tom," she began, a little breathlessly. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

  "Are the children all right?"

  "Yes. They're fine. I came to tell you that you have visitors. Would you like me to send them back here?"

  His features tightened. "I'm not really in the mood for a condolence call. Can you make up some excuse for me?"

  "It's not a condolence call." She paused, strangely reluctant to add another burden to his already heavy load.

  "Who is it, then?" Impatience threaded through his voice like mist curling off the sea.

  "Tom, they're FBI agents."

  Chapter 6

  For a few seconds, Thomas thought maybe the headache pounding through his skull had made him hear incorrectly. But Sophie still stood in the doorway, her normally unflappable demeanor decidedly flapped. Her green eyes were wide and uneasy and her shoulders were tight with tension.

  "I don't understand. Why would the FBI want to talk to me?"

  "They originally wanted to talk to your father. I told them he wasn't available. I'm sorry—I didn't know how much information you wanted me to give out about his condition."

  Peter was the one who had insisted on keeping William's condition a secret, who had hidden him away in seclusion here at Seal Point.

  Only a few very close friends knew just how far William's condition had deteriorated. Peter had wanted to maintain a perfect front to the world, to conceal anything that might reflect poorly on the old and respected Canfield name.

  Tom hadn't agreed. He knew that no matter how careful they all were, sooner or later word would slip out. It was impossible to keep a secret on the peninsula. He had always figured it would be far better to be open and upfront with everyone about William's disease.

  But Peter seemed to think public disclosure would erode shareholder confidence in the company. Tom thought his younger brother was paranoid but he decided it wasn't worth the energy to fight about it, especially since Peter and Shelly had agreed to take on the bulk of the responsibility for William's care. Well, Shelly had, anyway.

  He supposed now that Pete was gone, he could run an ad in the damn newspaper if he wanted. William's care was his responsibility, just like everything else.

  His headache racheted up a notch. "Where are the FBI agents?"

  "I settled them in the small room off the entry."

  He nodded and rose from the desk, then headed with Sophie toward the room his mother had always called the visitor's salon.

  As they made their way through the sprawling house, he was conscious, as always, of her fluid grace. She moved like a dancer, like a waterfall trickling over stone. She always had, even when she was just a young woman barely aware of her body.

  Back then he could have watched her simply walk across a room for hours, just savoring the poetry in her movements.

  He caught the direction of his thoughts and had to restrain himself from grinding his back teeth. The poetry of her movements. What the hell was the matter with him? He had far too many things on his plate to waste any time remembering how Sophie Beaumont used to turn him on just watching her loose-limbed walk.

  Or how she still did.

  He had to do something about this unwilling attraction for her. What that might be, he didn't have the first idea but he knew he was going to have to think of something fast.

  He was almost relieved when they reached the room where the FBI agents waited.

  Sophie paused outside the door. "I'd better go find the children. They'll be finishing their snack with Mrs. Cope soon."

  He wasn't sure what compelled him to place a restraining hand on her arm. "No, stay. I'm sure the kids are fine in the kitchen for a few moments. To be honest, I have a feeling I'm going to need some moral support."

  She gave him an odd look but shrugged and followed him into the room. A man and a woman were seated on a sofa but both rose when he and Sophie entered. He had a quick impression of intelligence and cool competence before the female agent spoke.

  "Lieutenant Canfield?"

  "Yes. I'm Tom Canfield."

  "Peter Canfield's brother?"

  "Yes."

  Her gaze shifted briefly to the other man then the female agent spoke again. "I'm Special Agent Candace Herrera and this is my partner Special Agent Tate Washburn."

  "Please sit down." They complied and Tom gestured to an armchair in the room for Sophie then took a matching chair next to it. When everyone seemed to be settled, he turned back to the FBI agents. "Can you tell me what this is about? To be honest, I'm having a tough time figuring out why the Feds would have any interest in what amounts to a family tragedy. Last I heard, the California Highway Patrol is the investigating agency into the accident that killed my brother and sister-in-law."

  "We're very sorry for your loss," Agent Washburn said promptly. "We're not actually here about the accident, although we are assisting in that investigation."

  "Assisting how?"

  Again, Tom was aware of an awkward pause. "This is difficult, Lieutenant Canfield," Agent Herrera finally said.

  "I guarantee, whatever you have to tell us can't be any more difficult than the week we've just been through. It hasn't been an easy time for any of us."

  As if remembering her presence, Agent Herrera glanced at Sophie then back at him, her dark eyes expressionless. "Actually, would it be possible to speak with you in private, lieutenant?"

  Sophie immediately started to rise but he reached out and placed a hand on her arm, conscious of the silky warmth of her skin even through his mounting tension. "That won't be necessary. Ms. Beaumont has the same interest in anything to do with the accident that killed Peter and Shelly as I do. She has as much right to hear what you have to say."

  Sophie's eyes widened with surprise at his words but the FBI agent merely nodded. "Right. That's certainly your choice. I'll get straight to the point then. Do you know a man named Walter Marlowe?"

  "Of course. He was a close friend of my father's as well as chief financial officer, second-in-command at Canfield for years. I know Peter trusted him implicitly. His death was a severe blow to my brother and to the entire company."

  Dealing with the
tangled mess Peter had left of things wouldn't be nearly as challenging if Walter were still around to help him. He had already come to sorely miss the man's counsel.

  "Are you aware of the circumstances of his death?" Herrera asked.

  "I was on a training mission in Texas at the time but Peter called me and told me of it. A tragic hit-and-run accident, wasn't it?"

  "Yes. He was struck by a car three weeks ago when he walked outside his home to get his Sunday paper. At this time, Monterey detectives still have no leads or suspects on who might have been driving that car."

  He wasn't sure if Sophie actually made a tiny gasp or if he was simply attuned enough to her that he sensed her distress. Not that she gave much away. He thought her skin might have paled a shade or two but she looked as serene and composed as usual.

  He turned back to the agents. "Do you suspect a connection between Walter Marlowe's death and the car accident that killed my brother and sister-in-law?"

  The male agent spoke up. "It's too early in the investigation for us to comment on that."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "While I can't give you any official comment," Herrera put in, "I can tell you that we are considering the possibility that the three deaths are related. The C.H.P. has asked us to assist them in the investigation of both incidents and so we are simply trying to follow all possible leads."

  "Are you implying none of the deaths was accidental?"

  "That's certainly a possibility we're considering, Lieutenant."

  He should never have insisted Sophie stay. He was keenly aware of each of her breaths—slow, measured, unnaturally even, as if she were practicing some deep metaphysical relaxation technique she'd probably learned in some ashram in India somewhere to stay in control.

  Under other circumstances, he would have reached out and squeezed her fingers but he doubted she would welcome his comfort.

  He couldn't blame her for her distress. It had been difficult enough to think of Peter and Shelly dying in a terrible accident, one so violent that Peter's body had been wrenched from the car and washed away.

  He found the idea that their plunge into the Pacific might not have been so accidental completely horrifying.

  He glanced at Sophie again and saw that the rhythm of her breathing had taken on a little hitch and her skin had paled another shade.

  She shouldn't have to hear this kind of ugly speculation, not unless the FBI had something more concrete to go by than vague suspicion. He was tempted to ask her if she wanted to leave but he had a feeling she would refuse, no matter how difficult she might find staying here.

  "Can you tell us why would you suspect the two incidents might be related?" he asked.

  "So far, the Highway Patrol has been unable to determine any significant reason why your brother's Mercedes suddenly plunged over the Highway 1 guardrail. It's a complete mystery to the investigators."

  "I was told it would be weeks before the C.H.P. would conclude its investigation."

  "Yes, that's true. But they have done a preliminary investigation and could find no skid marks to indicate your brother might have swerved out of control and tried to overcorrect. Weather wasn't an issue since the roads were clear. Preliminary examination of the vehicle retrieved from the ocean doesn't indicate any evidence of mechanical failure. Peter Canfield had been drinking, according to witnesses at the party he and Mrs. Canfield attended in Big Sur, but in moderation. Without a body, we are of course unable to test for blood alcohol levels but alcohol is not believed to be a factor."

  Sophie's hands were clenching and unclenching on her thighs, though he was fairly sure she was unaware of it. She looked as if she wanted to flee but she didn't move.

  "Since no one who saw the accident has stepped forward," Herrera continued, "there is some speculation that perhaps another vehicle was involved. That someone else forced your brother off the road."

  "Why share this information with us based on nothing but speculation?"

  "We were actually hoping for some assistance. We hoped to ask your father if he might be aware of anyone with a grudge against the top brass at Canfield."

  She let that sink in before continuing. "Since he is apparently unavailable, we'll ask you the same question. Do you know of any disgruntled employees, perhaps, or investors who might have lost a large amount of money and blamed the company?"

  "I'm not involved in the day-to-day operations of Canfield. Not yet, anyway. But I can tell you that I do know the occasional unhappy customer is an unfortunate but inevitable part of investment banking."

  "You never heard your father or brother mention anyone specifically?"

  "No. I'm sorry."

  "It would be most helpful to the investigation if we could speak with your father, Lieutenant."

  Tom made a split-second decision. "My father suffers from moderate to severe Alzheimer's, Agent Herrera. He hasn't been directly involved with Canfield for the past three years."

  Both agents looked surprised. "I'm sorry," Herrera said abruptly. "We were unaware of your father's condition."

  "My brother chose to keep that information private."

  "That does complicate things. Is there anyone else at Canfield who might have information about someone who would have a motive to harm top executives at the company?"

  For once he wished he'd taken more of an interest in the business that had so obsessed his father and brother. "I don't know at this point but I'm meeting with the current Canfield executive board in the morning. I'll ask them if they have any information that might assist in the investigation."

  "Thank you." Herrera rose and her junior partner followed suit. "Here's my card. We'll be in touch with you, then. And may we suggest that you take extra precautions for the next few weeks until we are able to proceed with the investigation. Perhaps you should advise the other executives at Canfield to do the same?"

  "Do you really think more company officers might be at risk?"

  "I don't want to unnecessarily alarm you. The two incidents—Walter Marlowe's hit-and-run death and the accident that killed your brother and sister-in-law—might be entirely unrelated. But we don't like coincidences in the FBI. When the two chief officers of a company both die under questionable circumstances just a few weeks apart, it certainly warrants closer scrutiny."

  "Of course. Thank you for stopping by."

  * * *

  "Are you okay?" Tom asked as soon as the door closed behind the federal agents.

  Sophie tried to grab hold of her thoughts, which had been wildly scrambling for the past fifteen minutes. "No, I'm not. How could I be?" The control she had clung to so desperately started to slip away. "Someone might have deliberately run Peter and Shelly off the road!"

  "As Herrera said, it's all speculation at this point. They don't really know anything, they're just fishing."

  "But it could have been deliberate. Can you imagine anything more horrible?" She was cold, suddenly, chilled to the bone even though the radiant heating system in the house always maintained a constant seventy-two degrees. She crossed her arms to hold in her body heat but still couldn't control the slow shivers racking her body.

  "Ever since you called me in Morocco, I've tried not to think about those last seconds before they…before they died. The horror and the fear and the awful helplessness as they went over that cliff. Now I can't think of anything else."

  The distance she had worked so hard to pry out between her and Shelly's intertwined psyches seemed as thin and fragile now as old, brittle paper. Suddenly she could picture those last moments with terrible clarity, images so real and vivid she was sure it couldn't be strictly her imagination. It was almost as if she had been riding along in the back seat.

  If she closed her eyes, she could hear muffled arguing then, oddly, a car door, then a strangled gasp in that weightless moment as Peter's sleek car hovered at the lip of the cliff before plummeting hundreds of feet to the waiting, relentless rocks below.

  She heard a small cry and real
ized it was her own voice. She shook off the images and found Tom watching her, deep concern shadowing his silvery eyes.

  "Oh, Tom. It must have been terrible. Shelly hated heights. Truly hated them."

  "I know. I drove with her a few times to Big Sur and she was always a little nervous on Highway 1."

  Had Shelly somehow had some subconscious premonition of her own death? Was that the reason she'd been edgy and upset at anything higher than a second-story window?

  It was another of their dramatic differences. Sophie hadn't minded heights at all. She loved to shoot aerial views out of a single-engine plane and climb steep mountainsides in search of a new perspective.

  "When we were kids, I used to be so mean and tease her about it. About disliking heights so much. I would climb the monkey bars at the park and tight-rope walk with no hands along the bars until Shelly, down on the ground, would be wringing her own hands and sobbing for me to get down. I would just laugh at her and call her a wimp."

  Her voice broke with belated regret for the torment. "I loved my sister. Why would I do something so cruel?"

  To her surprise, Tom pulled her into a somewhat awkward embrace, her head scrunched against the hard ridge of his shoulder. She didn't mind, too struck by an overwhelming sense of comfort, of rightness.

  She'd needed this after the trauma of the FBI agents' visit, to be nestled against his strength and heat. Safe and protected and warm, even if only for a moment.

  She sighed and edged closer, inhaling his scent, of expensive soap and clean laundry and Tom.

  "You were a kid," he answered from somewhere above her head. "Kids can be real stinkers to each other."

  Adults can be, too. She thought of the bewildering pain she had caused her sister these last ten years with her careful and deliberate defection. She would do anything to be able to go back and make a different choice, even though she didn't have the first idea what else she might have done.

  The tears that seemed to have become her constant companion in the past few days burned behind her eyelids, in her throat, and she fiercely tried to choke them back. She succeeded except for one small sob.