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“You were the second firm hired to investigate Olivia’s death. The first dug up what was given to you when they reached a dead end.”
“Why us? Your attorney indicated you had some sort of recommendation?”
CHAPTER 66
BREE HAD BLUFFED ABOUTthe recommendation. Alcott seemed confused and looked into the middle distance.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “That’s right, from a small company I’ve invested in. Bluestone evidently worked on their internal security setup when they started doing some projects for the government.”
Bree had not expected that, and Bluestone did do government IT security-compliance work. Quite a bit of it, in fact. She decided to move in another direction. “After you read my report, what was your reaction?”
Bree watched the older woman think back, her eyes softening a few seconds before sharpening. “I could not believe it was happening on that kind of scale.”
“Did it make you angry?”
“Weren’t you? Writing that report? I felt it.”
“I was. I am.”
“There you are, then,” the billionaire said. “I was angry. Infuriated. Appalled.”
“When did you hear about the killings at Paula Watkins’s home?”
“The morning after, I believe. On the news.”
“And what was your reaction to the murders?”
Alcott thought about that. “To be honest, I was horrified for maybe ten seconds, but then, as the names of the dead and their reputations came out, I felt less so.”
“You didn’t feel deprived of a chance to expose them, to get revenge?”
She curled her upper lip. “I admit that’s been a bitter pill to swallow. But now I ask myself, what good is revenge? Will that bring back Olivia? No. Will it hurt my daughter Anna, Olivia’s mother? Yes. And so, it is enough now. I can see that some kind of cosmic justice has been done. Powers greater than yours or mine were at play. And it is enough.”
Bree said, “You won’t go to the journalists with the evidence I dug up?”
“Again, will that bring back my granddaughter? The media will get its meat when Frances Duchaine goes on trial.”
“She claims she’s innocent.”
Alcott turned colder. “So did Saddam Hussein.”
A phone on the desk rang before Bree could respond.
“Can you hold on a moment?” the billionaire asked. “I rarely get calls on the landlines anymore.” Alcott got up and went to her desk, picked up the receiver, and punched a button. “This is Terri.”
She listened closely and then smiled, said, “Give me a minute,will you, Emma, dear? I’m with someone and I’ll need to pick up in another room.”
Alcott hit the Hold button and hung up. “I am sorry, Chief Stone. This won’t take long, but it can’t wait.”
“Please. Take your time.”
The older woman hurried from the room, closing the office door behind her. Bree got up and walked around, looking at the books and framed pictures on the shelves. Many featured Theresa May Alcott with her husband, Gil, at various places around the world. In others, the couple posed with various famous people: Presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama; LeBron James and Phil Mickelson; Meryl Streep, Denzel Washington, and Robert Redford. Jerry Lewis was featured in at least three of them.
The credenza behind Alcott’s desk was crowded with photographs of large family gatherings, many taken with the Grand Tetons towering behind them. In each, you could see the family growing, evolving, the older generation gradually disappearing and the new gaining ground.
The most recent of those pictures showed the family and Alcott without her husband for the first time. Bree thought the widow looked stoic.
She turned and glanced at the messy desktop. One of the buttons on the multiline phone was still lit.
