boat wasn’t much, but it was home. It had a flat roof, with a railing around both the bottom and top decks, a retractable diving board and a slide that he’d used more for escape in the past than for swimming.
He entered the houseboat cabin without a key—he never bothered to keep the place locked—and was instantly aware that someone was inside waiting for him. He heard the telltale squeak of his favorite chair, but he’d also developed a sixth sense for unwelcome company. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Drawing his weapon from his ankle holster, he moved soundlessly through to the living area at the center of the cabin. He aimed the gun at the person sitting in the dark in his chair and turned on a light.
“I do like a cautious man,” Nathaniel Pierce said as he looked up from the recliner where he was lounging, a bottle of Mac’s beer in his hand.
“Pierce,” Mac said.
The man was tanned, his body lean, his hair blond, his eyes blue, and even dressed down in jeans, a polo shirt and deck shoes, Nathaniel Pierce reeked of money. Old money.
Mac put the weapon away, walked to the small kitchen, pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge and twisted off the cap, pretty sure he was going to need a drink.
It wasn’t every day he came home to find Nathaniel Pierce sitting in his living room in the dark waiting for him. Mac thanked his lucky stars for that. He and Pierce had been roommates at university—actually at several Ivy League universities, which they attended during a troubled period in both of their lives. They hadn’t been friends for years.
Finding Pierce here made him nervous—and wary. “Slumming?” Mac asked.
Pierce laughed with only mild amusement.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that Trevor Forester was murdered tonight,” Pierce said.
So much for small talk. “Trevor Forester?”
Pierce smiled. “I saw your truck at the party, but I never did see you.”
Mac took a sip of his beer, wondering what Pierce was doing here. More importantly, what his interest in Forester was, or in himself, for that matter. “You hanging out with people like the Foresters?” Pierce had always been an old-money snob. Sure, the Foresters had money, but it was new and not nearly as much as the Pierces’. It was like the difference between a hot dog and beluga caviar.
“It’s a small community,” Pierce said in answer.
Not that small.
“I’m curious what you were doing there.” Pierce took a swig of beer and smiled as if enjoying the taste. Not likely.
“I had an invitation.” Mac put his feet up on the coffee table and downed half his beer, telling himself he was nothing like the man sitting in his recliner. True, they looked alike and were both thirty-six. At six-four, Pierce was a couple of inches taller, carried a little more weight and his hair was blonder, his eyes bluer.
And they came from the same backgrounds. Mac had tried to overcome his. He’d chosen the worst possible career and lived on his houseboat on one lake or another or in the camper on the back of his truck. He kept a small office in Whitefish, Montana, where his sister lived, and he checked in every week or so, taking only the jobs that interested him.
He drank beer, dressed in old blue jeans, ragged T-shirts and Mexican sandals. Most days he was as close to happy as he could get, all things considered.
Clearly Pierce found all of that amusing, as if he thought Mac tried too hard to disguise who he was. A rich kid from old money. Just not as rich as Pierce.
Nathaniel Pierce loved being rich and flaunted it—when he wasn’t slumming, like tonight. He believed it was the privileged’s duty to acquire more wealth.
Mac, on the other hand, liked working for a living. He didn’t require much. What he did require was a purpose in life. He thrived on challenging himself, both mentally and physically. That was why he’d gotten into private investigation.
“What is it you really want, Pierce?” he asked, deciding to cut to the chase.
“I told you, I want to know your interest in the Foresters. I wasn’t aware you even knew them.”
Mac smiled as he got to his feet. “It’s late. I’m tired. I’ve had a big night.”
Pierce didn’t move. “I have a job for you, Mac.”
“I already have a job.”
His old friend lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll pay you double what you’re getting from your current client.”
Mac smiled at that. His current client was dead. “You know waving money at me is a waste of time.”
Pierce nodded, smiled and slowly pushed himself to his feet. “I do know that about you, Mac.” He said it as if he found that to be a flaw in Mac’s character. “Why don’t you come out to my ranch, say in the morning about nine? I have a little place down the lake where I raise a few buffalo.”
Little. Right. Mac sighed impatiently. “I told you—”
“You’re already on another job. Yes, you told me.” Pierce picked up a plain black videotape from beside the recliner. Mac hadn’t noticed that Pierce had put it there. “Take a look at this. If you still aren’t interested…” Pierce shrugged and tossed Mac the tape.
Mac caught it and watched Pierce leave. He stood there, listening to Pierce retreat down the old wooden dock until the footfalls became too faint to hear. Then he looked down with apprehension at the videotape in his hand.
What the hell was on this? Something that Nathaniel Pierce was confident would change Mac’s mind about the job offer.
That alone was enough to make Mac nervous as hell. But to find Pierce sitting in the dark on the houseboat drinking beer, waiting…
Mac walked over to the VCR, turned on the TV, popped in the tape and hit Play. The images were blurred, everything a grainy black and white. The tape appeared to be a security surveillance video.
In the soundless recording were three people. Two wore ski masks, one of whom carried a sledgehammer. A third stood just out of the camera’s view, but part of that person’s shadow could be seen against the side wall.
Mac watched as the one with the sledgehammer worked to break through some expensive-looking wood. The other man in the ski mask had his back to the camera. The third appeared to be just watching, but the other two would glance back at him from time to time and say something Mac couldn’t make out.
After a few minutes the hammer had made a large hole in what appeared to be a hidden compartment in the wall. The other masked man pushed the one with the sledgehammer out of the way and took a metal box from inside the compartment. The box looked to be about eight inches square and three or four inches deep. There didn’t seem to be anything else in the hole in the wall because the men turned and left, disappearing from the camera’s lens.
The videotape flickered, and the setting changed to outdoors. An old Ford van, dark in color, sat with the engine running, and the driver’s face was captured on film.
