I rummaged the desk, found nothing suspicious.
I tried a wooden bureau standing beneath a tapestry of General Custer at Little Big Horn. The drawers held Civil War era clothing. Reenactment garb.
I circled the room, probing with my laser vision. Under different circumstances, I might've enjoyed myself.
Hollis Claybourne was a collector. Along with books and pictures of himself, the shelves were jammed with African tribal masks, Inuit carvings, Indonesian puppets, and sculptures from every corner of the globe. The collection was refined, the work of a man with a discerning eye.
But it held nothing I could use.
My fists clenched in frustration.
What'd you expect? A folder labeled Incriminating Evidence Here?
I closed my eyes, desperate for a plan. I was alone in Hollis's study. I'd never have this chance again.
My nose picked up a trickle of loam, an earthy smell out of place in the immaculate office. And something else. Non-organic. Chemical.
My lids flew apart. I knew that smell. Dirt. Metal. The sharp bite of cleaning solution. Like Windex.
The dog tags! They were somewhere in this room.
I went still. Sniffed. My nostrils recaptured the scent.
Up.
I hurried for the spiral stairs and climbed to the narrow catwalk. Skirting the shelves, I paced the length of the inside wall, then turned left, toward the windows. The catwalk ended in the corner directly across from the room's entrance.
Built into the wall, deep in the corner, was a small wooden cabinet. The smell was coming from inside.
I tried the little silver handle.
The cabinet was locked.
No more playing nice.
Cocking one arm, I chopped with the heel of my hand. The front panel cracked, but held. Ignoring the pain, I let fly a second time. The door splintered. Loose fragments fell to the floor.
I inspected my handiwork. The wood was at least an inch thick. Mike Tyson couldn't have split it. Yet I'd smashed it with two blows.
SNUP.
Dizziness swept over me. I dropped to my knees.
My senses dulled, returned to normal.
"Damn!"
Rising, I checked the cabinet's interior. Three items.
The first was an old black-and-white snapshot of Hollis Claybourne. Young Hollis was standing by a stand of longleaf pine, pointing to a pair of eagles swooping low in the sky.
Cole Island! The bastard knew about the eagles!
Below the picture was a manila folder. Inside were legal documents. I flipped through. Records of the sale of Cole Island to Candela. A contract of employment. Evidence, but no smoking gun.
The bottom shelf held a small velvet box. I popped it open.
Inside were two weathered dog tags, one grimy, one gleaming like new.
Francis P. Heaton. Catholic. O Positive.
"Son of a bitch," I whispered.
Any sane person would have destroyed the tags. Not Hollis Claybourne. The egotistical bastard saved them in his trophy case as another souvenir.
Anger blazed anew. Those tags represented Katherine's murder. Hollis kept them in a box to admire at his leisure.
Monster.
The door creaked.
Footsteps kissed the carpet below.
"What the hell are you doing?"
CHAPTER 64
"Tory?" Chance was still dressed for lacrosse. "Is that you?"
Busted.
My mind blanked.
"What are you doing here?" I babbled.
"What am I doing here? I live here."
Chance stepped into the room. I tried to block his view of the cabinet, but splintered wood littered the catwalk and the carpet below. He couldn't possibly miss it.
"If you're asking why I'm home early, it's because we lost this morning." A frown replaced his look of confusion. "The others can watch the finals without me. I'm not interested."
"You left Hannah there?" I was still in panic mode. How to play this?
As casual as possible, I strolled back down the catwalk, turned the corner, and moved toward the staircase.
"I dropped Hannah at home ten minutes ago." Chance's eyes tracked me. "Did you try to call? She left her phone in Jason's car."
Oops. Hadn't thought of that one.
Chance crossed to his father's desk, leaned against it. Folded his arms. From his new position, he'd be at the stairs well before I could reach the floor.
I stopped in the center of the catwalk, just above the hearth.
"Why are you up there?" Chance's eyes flicked to the cabinet. "Why did you smash my father's case?"
I should've made an excuse. Lied. Played dumb. Cried.
But my anger was hot to the touch. Hollis Claybourne was a monster, and his son was playing me.
"Just stop it, Chance." My hands gripped the railing. "I know you're full of shit. And now I have proof."
"What's that supposed to mean?" The upturned face darkened. "I tried to help you, little girl."
"Help me?" I spat. "By lying? By treating me like a fool?"
"I told you everything I know." The dark eyes said otherwise.
"Jimmy Newman?" I sneered. "Bullshit! Where's your hired goon, Baravetto? Driving someone home?"
Wordlessly, Chance retraced his steps, closed the door, and threw the lock.
I was trapped.