Chapter 25 #3
Hopefully, Wentz could keep Sterling safe, assuming the man really was an asset and not playing both sides.
One way or another, Sterling would be done with this craziness. He’d be killed or caught or sent away to live the rest of his life in peace. But he’d be done.
Jaz was a little jealous.
Wright stepped away, his phone already to his ear as he crossed the courtyard. No idea who he was calling. Must be nice to have people to call in, people who’d help.
“Jaz.” Kenzie’s voice was soft beside him. “It’s not over.”
“I know. I just have to keep digging.”
“We.” She squeezed his arm. “You’re not in this alone.”
He didn’t look at her, couldn’t handle her false optimism or her sympathy. She was everything he wanted in a woman, and he couldn’t have her. He couldn’t have a life until this was over, and it would never be over.
Wright would take Kenzie home, where she’d be safe, which was exactly what he should do. Jaz’s problem wasn’t his problem. Wasn’t her problem. They’d done enough.
He started flipping through the photographs again, mostly for something to do with his hands, something to focus on besides the crushing disappointment.
The images blurred together—Rios at the marina, boarding a plane, at that wedding in Caracas.
Kenzie scooted her chair closer, her shoulder pressing against his. She didn’t say anything, just took his hand and held it, her thumb tracing circles over his knuckles.
He flipped through more photos. An estate. Miguel Rios on a terrace, chatting with women, their faces partially obscured…
“Wait.” Kenzie leaned forward. “Go back one.”
Jaz flipped the previous image over. It was the wedding again, Rios in the center of the terrace, talking to a man Jaz didn’t recognize. There were fifty or more people visible in the background.
“Her.” Kenzie tapped the picture. “In the garden. Isn’t that the woman you introduced me to at the party that first night?”
Jaz focused on the face in the image. She was in her sixties, her hair pulled back, wearing an evening gown. It did look like Francine. And beside her, nearly hidden in shadows, was… “Is that…? It’s Henry.”
Jaz’s mind raced back through memories of the couple. He’d run into them so many times that they felt like fixtures in this part of the world. Parties on St. Barts. A charity gala in Antigua. He’d first met Henry at the annual regatta right here in Phillipsburg.
They were a charming couple, Henry with his easy smile and Francine with her warmth. Way back when they’d first met, Henry had told him he’d retired from his import/export company.
Maybe he hadn’t retired so much as shifted products—and focused on imports.
“I’ve known them for years.”
“They were so kind,” Kenzie said. “Remember at the party, how Henry joked about wanting to stay forever? And Francine talked about their grandchildren?”
“They seem happy,” Jaz said. “Doesn’t mean they’re not criminals. Magras and his wife are happy. They’re good parents, fun to be around, and generous.” Jaz faced her. “And he’s a killer.”
Kenzie nodded slowly. “If Henry and Francine are involved, and they’re at that party where Sterling is”—she tapped the photo—“why didn’t Sterling tell Wentz?”
“Maybe he did. Between Wentz and me, the information only flows in one direction.” Jaz flipped back through the photos.
Now that he knew who he was looking for, he spotted another photo with Henry and Francine in the background.
Way in the background, in the shadow of the building.
And there was another one as well, the couple also in shadows.
“I don’t see Sterling in any of the photos with them,” Jaz said.
“Maybe Henry and Francine saw him and avoided him,” Kenzie suggested.
Could be. “And maybe…maybe they were the ones who pointed the finger at Sterling.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “That makes sense.”
“Everything makes sense until we have all the facts. And then nothing does.” Jaz was always trying to put together a complex puzzle with nothing but a couple of edges and ten random pieces, five of which belonged in a different box.
This could very well be nothing. Another dead end.
Jaz wouldn’t get his hopes up until he knew for sure. He pulled up Wentz’s number and dialed.
Wentz sent it straight to voicemail.
“It’s me. I found something that might be…something.” He ended the call and was firing off another 911 text when Wright started walking toward them.
“Alyssa’s on the phone.” He set it on the table. “Go ahead.”
“I looked into Edwin Cusack’s death, like you asked me to.
” Alyssa’s voice was crisp and professional.
Like father, like daughter. “You were right, Jasper. The hit-and-run was suspicious for a couple of reasons. First, they think they found the car that hit his, saw it on traffic cams in town a mile or so from the accident. When they zoomed in, there was no plate on the car. Also, the driver wore a mask and gloves. They couldn’t even tell the person’s skin color, much less gender or age. ”
Kenzie’s eyes were wide. “You’re saying it was planned?”
“That’s the assumption,” Alyssa said. “They did find the car, but it had been stolen. No prints. They questioned the witness who called the accident in, but she couldn’t identify the driver. Authorities called it a suspicious death and left it at that.”
“So frustrating,” Jaz said. “We keep getting these snippets of information that lead nowhere.”
Wright reached for the phone. “Thanks for—”
“Wait,” Kenzie said. “Alyssa, can you cross-reference names for us, see if they have anything in common?”
“I can try. Go ahead.”
“Richard Sterling, Miguel Rios, and Henry and Francine…” Kenzie looked at Jaz. “What’s their last name?”
“Sebast. S-E-B—”
“Did you say Francine Sebast?” Alyssa sounded shocked.
“Why?” Jaz stood and stared at the phone.
Wright looked curious, but then, he hadn’t been there when they’d recognized Francine and Henry’s photographs.
“Francine Sebast,” Alyssa said, “was the only witness to the hit-and-run. She’s the person who called it in.”