White Mountain. Dinah McCall

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      “We did it!” he crowed. “We’re going to be rich!”

      “We’re going to die,” Paulo moaned.

      “When do we get our money?” Francesco asked. Antonio smiled, his teeth gleaming brightly in the moonlight.

      “We take the left fork in the road and follow the path up to Grimaldi’s meadow. He will be waiting.”

      “Who’s he?” Francesco asked.

      Antonio shrugged. “I don’t know his name…only that he pays well for goods received.”

      “How much is he paying us?” Francesco asked.

      Antonio smiled. “We each get five thousand American dollars.”

      The amount was staggering for men who had no vocation and who lived by their wits and their lies. Still, Francesco worried.

      “You’ve done business with him before?”

      Antonio hesitated. “No, but I can tell these things. He has fine clothes and manicured hands. Men like that have no need to lie.”

      Paulo snorted beneath his breath, convinced that his life was over. Clean men were killers, too, but he had no intention of voicing his thoughts. If he hadn’t been so certain that fate would catch up with him wherever he went, he would have walked away right then. But he had no wish to die alone, and so he followed the other two men to the meeting place.

      Before they had time to catch their breaths, a man stepped out from behind a rock. Paulo gasped and stumbled as Francesco stopped short, but Antonio swaggered up to meet him.

      “You have it?” the man asked.

      Antonio smiled and held up the sack. “We kept our end of the bargain. Do you have the money?”

      “I will see the merchandise first,” the man said.

      “And I the money,” Antonio retorted.

      The man set down a satchel, then opened it, revealing three substantial bundles of American twenty-dollar bills.

      Antonio handed over the sack and then went down on his knees, laughing as he thrust his hands into the satchel and pulled out the cash.

      “See?” he cried. “See, I told you. We’re rich. We’re rich!”

      Francesco grinned at his cousin and then dropped to his knees as greed overtook shame.

      But Paulo couldn’t bring himself to touch the money any more than he would have touched the bones of the saint, and because of his hesitation, he was the first to see the man pull a weapon.

      “He has a gun!” he cried.

      And because of his diligence, he was the first to be shot. He hit the ground with a thud as a sharp, burning pain began to spread within his belly.

      The man fired twice again in rapid succession, killing both Antonio and Francesco before they could look up. He grabbed the money-filled satchel, scattered a few cheap pieces of jewelry upon the ground, as well as a handful of rare coins he’d stolen last week in Cannes. Then he took another gun from his coat and fired it into the air before laying it down on the ground beside the men. He knew their reputation. When their bodies were found, it would be assumed that they’d fought over stolen property and killed each other in a fight. Without looking back, he disappeared into the night.

      Paulo clutched at his belly with both hands, trying to hold back the flow of blood, but there was too much, and he was becoming too weak. What was left of Francesco’s face was on the ground near his shoe, and the back of Antonio’s head was completely gone. His one regret was that both men were no longer alive to see that his prediction had come true.

      His voice was weakening, his breath almost gone. But he said it again, if for no one else’s benefit but his own.

      “See…I told you we were going to die.”

      Despite all the wrongs that he’d done, Paulo had always been a man of his word.

      By the time their bodies were discovered two days later, the killer’s payoff was in a numbered account in a prestigious Swiss bank and the goods were en route to the buyer.

      Jack woke with a start, momentarily confused by the unfamiliarity of the room. Then he saw the dirty dishes on the tray by the door and remembered the nighttime meal he’d almost shared with Isabella Abbott. He couldn’t quit thinking about how sad she’d been, and how beautiful her face was. Shaking off the feeling of miasma, he reminded himself that personal feelings had no place in his line of work. He couldn’t afford to feel empathy for someone he was investigating. He only dealt in facts.

      As the blessed quiet of the old house permeated the room, he ran through a mental checklist of all the things he needed to do today. First on the list was checking in with the director to let him know he had arrived. With a reluctant groan, he threw back the covers and got up. A few minutes later, freshly showered and half-dressed, he sat down on the side of the bed and reached for his cell phone. With the punch of a few numbers, he was connected.

      “Sir…it’s Dolan. I’m on the scene.”

      “Fine. Remember, I want this played loose and easy. It’s entirely possible that no one there knew a thing about the old man’s background. If that’s so, then his reasons for deceit have died with him.”

      Jack sighed. “Yes, sir, I understand, but in our business, we’ve always got to look for conspiracy, right?”

      “Do I detect a note of ambivalence?”

      “Maybe. And maybe I’m just more tired than I thought.”

      “How are you healing?” he asked.

      Jack flexed his stomach muscles, noting that each day brought a little more ease.

      “Good. I rarely feel any pain.”

      “That’s good. No need pushing yourself unnecessarily.” Then he added, “As a matter of curiosity, what’s your first impression?”

      Other than the fact that I almost let myself get infatuated with a ghost? “Not much. I’ve only seen a desk clerk. Everyone else was at Frank Walton’s funeral. I did meet the owner briefly last night, but I didn’t have time to make any kind of connection.”

      “Did he say anything about Walton’s death?”

      “He is a she, and she referred to the old man as Uncle Frank. She also mentioned that her father had passed away less than two weeks ago, so she’s pretty devastated. I didn’t push.”

      “Hmm, that’s quite a coincidence—two people living under the same roof and dying within weeks of each other. Check into the father’s passing. Make sure it was from natural causes.”

      Jack’s pulse kicked up a notch. “Do we have any reason to assume otherwise?”

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