Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Henry and Rasmussen rode in silence all the way to Pasadena. Since the moment they'd left the dweeb's office, Rasmussen had spoken only twice-once to confirm that Arnold Svaco was indeed Ellen's cousin, her sole relative, and once to accuse Henry of violating every principle he'd taught Rasmussen to live by. Henry tried to retort that a policeman couldn't hope to get by with just the information he'd learned in junior high school, but one look at the pout on the officer's face told him not to bother.

Instead he spent the drive thinking through the case. He had no doubt that Ellen Svaco was the emotional force behind the Fluffy Foundation. The cat box, food, and toys in her house were all for a pet who'd been dead for half a decade; they must have const.i.tuted a shrine or a monument to his memory. But it was her cousin Arnold who was footing the bills. Why? And more important, how?

It wasn't that Arnold was rich. He made even less than Ellen had, under thirty thousand dollars a year working as a janitor for a contractor that cleaned government offices. Yet somehow in the last five years he'd managed to donate ten times his gross salary to Fluffy's memory.

So who was behind these donations-and why? Since the charity was actually paying out to pet owners, it didn't seem to be a money-laundering operation, or at least not a particularly efficient one.

And then there was the big question-why was Ellen Svaco killed? It couldn't have been for the money, because it appeared that she never had possession of it. Nothing about this case was making sense. Least of all Henry's temporary partner.

Henry pulled the car up outside a decaying bungalow in Northwest Pasadena. Its shingles were cracked, rain gutters sagging, and the lawn in front was a patch of dirt.

Rasmussen looked up from his hands for the first time since they'd left Santa Barbara. "This isn't the Pasadena Police Station," he said.

"Can't fault you on your observational skills," Henry said. "Arnold Svaco lives here."

"We need to check in with the locals," Rasmussen said. "We don't have jurisdiction."

"I don't have jurisdiction anywhere," Henry said. "I'm not on the Santa Barbara force. I'm just a private citizen stopping by the home of another private citizen to ask a few discreet questions. There's no law against that, is there?"

Rasmussen stared as if Henry had suggested executing Arnold Svaco, then dragging his body through the neighborhood behind the car. "If police don't treat each other with respect, then why should anyone else?" he said. "You taught me-"

"I know," Henry said. "But you were eleven years old at the time."

"Truth is truth, no matter what age you are," Rasmussen said.

"There are levels of complication that make sense only as you get older," Henry said. "It's like when you were little and your parents told you about where children come from. It was true, but there was a lot they didn't explain at the time."

Rasmussen crossed his arms across his chest angrily. "I didn't have parents," he said. "I grew up in foster care. I never had any kind of role model at all-until I met Officer Friendly. I thought he was honest."

In another circ.u.mstance Henry might have felt bad about disillusioning this kid. But he wasn't a little boy anymore; he carried a badge and a gun. He needed to toughen himself up, and fast.

"I'm going to knock on that door," Henry said. "You can come with me or you can drive away and visit the Pasadena Police Department alone. Up to you."

Henry left the car and went up the cracked concrete walkway. The white picket gate nearly came off in his hands when he opened it, and the porch stairs sagged alarmingly under his feet. The only architectural element on the house that seemed functional at all was the set of iron bars on all the windows. Henry rapped sharply on the warped door and called out, "Arnold! Hey, it's me!"

Henry ducked behind the doorframe just in case Arnold Svaco's answer came in the form of a gunshot. But the only sound was a creak as the door swung open under his touch.

Henry's senses went on full alert. No one installs iron bars on his windows and then leaves the door open. He waved urgently for Rasmussen to join him, but the officer looked away and pretended not to see.

Heart pounding and hand reaching for a gun that hadn't been on his hip for years, Henry pushed the door open.

Arnold Svaco's possessions didn't have a lot in common with his cousin's. Where she had almost nothing, Arnold seemed to own everything he'd ever seen in any store. There were flat-screen TVs and an elaborate stereo; there were statues in marble and bronze; there were fish tanks that looked like they'd come from the Monterey Bay Aquarium. There were four leather couches and two armchairs; past the living room Henry could see a dining room table and eight matching chairs that must have cost half of Arnold's gross yearly salary.

But there was one way in which the two Svaco households were identical. Because everything Arnold owned was smashed and scattered around the floor.

And Arnold lay in the middle of it all, dead.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Gus' fingernails dug into the soft leather of his armchair. His muscles were screaming with pain, but he would not relax his hands. Not until the chopper lifted off again and took him out of this h.e.l.lhole.

"That's a good grip you've got there," Shawn said. "If you apply a little more pressure, maybe your flesh will bond with the leather of the seat and you'll become one with the chopper. Then they'll never get you out."

"If that's what it takes," Gus said.

"But if you're going to expend all this energy to stay on board, you might as well wait until you actually need to," Shawn said. "Like when the door is open."

Gus lifted his eyes from their firm fix on the floor and saw that the door hadn't slid open yet. None of the lawyers had gotten out of their seats. In fact, they were all still jabbing away at their miniature keyboards.

Gus forced his fingers to relax and felt a wave of relief run up both arms. "They don't seem worried that they're about to be dumped out in the wilderness."

"Which is a sign that we shouldn't be, either," Shawn said. "They know Rushton a lot better than we do. He probably plays this kind of prank on them all the time. We'll sit here for a few minutes, and then once everyone has had a chance to panic, we'll lift off and head to our real destination."

Gus nodded. That made sense. It was the only thing that made sense. Because the other lawyers were just sitting there working away, as if they knew enough not to be alarmed. He loosened his death grip on the armrest a little more and felt the blood tingling painfully back into his fingers.

Until there was a thump from outside and the helicopter rocked on its skids. "What was that?" he demanded.

Shawn glanced over Gus and out the window. "Nothing."

"That wasn't nothing," Gus said. "I know what nothing feels like. It feels like nothing. That felt like something. Which means it couldn't be nothing."

"It's just the pilot," Shawn said, checking the view out the window again.

"He's leaving?" Gus said. His breath was coming in short gasps now. "The pilot is abandoning his helicopter? How can we get out of here? Does anyone know how to fly a chopper?"

"Relax," Shawn said. "He's not leaving. He's just . . ."

"Just what?"

"Unpacking."

Gus forced himself to turn his chair so that he was facing the window. The pilot had opened a cargo door at the back of the chopper and was pulling out a series of large backpacks.

"What are those for?" Gus said, not wanting to hear the answer from Shawn any more than he would accept it from his own brain.

"I believe they're called backpacks," Shawn said. "You strap them on your back and carry things in them."

"Maybe you do," Gus said, his fingers reflexively clutching the armrest again. He risked another glance out the window. The pilot was closing the cargo door. At his feet was a line of eight backpacks: seven made of beige nylon stretched over metal frames, the last in blindingly bright green.

And still the rest of the lawyers didn't seem to notice that anything out of the ordinary was happening. They kept texting away. Until the flat-screen went on in an explosion of static.

Oliver Rushton smiled warmly at them from the safety of the TV. Gus felt an irrational burst of rage. He wanted to reach into the screen and pull Rushton through, wheelchair and all, and leave him on this desolate mountaintop.

"Greetings, friends," Rushton said. "I understand that the area you're in is one of the loveliest parts of California. I wish I could be there with you today."

"I wish you were here instead of me," Gus muttered.

"It's a constant challenge for me to come up with fun, creative, exciting retreats for this team, but I think you'll agree that this is the best one ever," Rushton said. "Because this retreat will not only test your strength, your intelligence, and your stamina, but it will also forge new bonds of friendship and trust. Here at the top of this mountain you are all individuals with your own agendas. By the time you reach the bottom, you will all be a family."

"I had a family once," Gwendolyn said. "I didn't like it much."

"So she auctioned off their organs and sold the rest off for medical research," Balowsky said.

"I made a sacrifice," Gwendolyn said, pointedly refusing to waste a glance at her colleague. "I chose to put my career-I chose to put the needs of this firm-over my own personal life. And that remains my intent. I want to work for this firm, I want to work for you, Oliver. But I don't need these people to be my family."

"I understand," Rushton said.

Gus had been a.s.suming that Rushton's appearance was a pretaped video. But of course he was speaking to them live via videoconferencing. Which was excellent news, because it would give Gus a chance to plead his way out of this.

"But a firm can't work as a group of individuals," Rushton continued. "You need to be able to function as a team. That's why I've designed this retreat. Because, as I said, by the time you reach the bottom of the mountain, you will be a family. Or you will all be dead."

Chapter Thirty.

For the first time, the other lawyers looked as if they'd realized this wasn't just another bit of eccentricity from their boss. Maybe it was the way Rushton had emphasized that last word. Or maybe it was the sound of the helicopter door sliding open and the pilot stepping into the cabin. Possibly it was the sight of the gun holstered on the pilot's thigh. Whatever the reason, Rushton now had everyone's undivided attention.

"Sorry if that sounded a little melodramatic," Rushton chuckled. "But these mountains are harsh, and nature is unforgiving. You will all have to learn to work together if you want to find your way down."

"Or we could just use our GPS," Gwendolyn said, raising her iPhone the way Tanya Roberts had wielded her sword against the temple guards to free King Zed.

"Yes, you could," Rushton said. "I would prefer that you didn't. But of course I can't stop you. When this call is over, you'll all step out of the helicopter, and there you will find your backpacks. Inside each pack is everything you will need for the five-day journey down the mountain, and supplies for one more day just in case you decide to take a little extra time to enjoy the scenery."

"I don't mind a little nature hike." It was Savage, and indeed his muscles seemed to be on the verge of rippling right out of his body in antic.i.p.ation. "But as much as I love my Bruno Maglis, they don't provide a lot of stability, ankle protection, or waterproofing. I might as well be barefoot. And that leaves me in substantially better shape than the two women who are wearing heels."

"That's an excellent point," Rushton said. "And it's been taken care of. Hector"-at this point, the pilot gave them all a brief nod to introduce himself-"has not only suitable hiking shoes, but clothes as well for all of you. Once this call is terminated, you will each be given a few moments alone to change."

There was a low murmur in the cabin. To his shock, Gus thought it sounded like grat.i.tude, when it should have been the angry mutterings of the mob about to storm the castle with torches and pitchforks.

"One more thing about the wardrobe change," Rushton said. "Hector will take the clothes you're wearing now back to Santa Barbara, where they will be professionally cleaned and left for you in your offices. He will also take all your belongings, including any handheld devices you might have with you."

Now the muttering in the cabin sounded sufficiently angry.

"I'm not giving up my cell phone," Mathis sputtered. "I'm using that to find my way down."

"It's certainly your choice," Rushton said. "But Hector will not give you your clothes, shoes, and backpack until you have given him everything you've brought with you. If it's worth walking down in business attire to keep your GPS, I won't try to stop you. Just make sure to avoid the sharp, pointy rocks on the trail. They can go right through a leather sole. And don't worry about not having any food. I'm sure your colleagues will be happy to share theirs with you."

Mathis looked crushed. If the rest of the lawyers were surprised by any of this, they weren't letting it show on their faces. If anything, they looked slightly relieved, as if they'd been expecting something even worse. Gus wanted to grab them, to scream into their ears. Didn't they understand there was nothing worse?

"But you won't need a GPS, anyway," Rushton said with a rea.s.suring smile. "You've got a map. A highly detailed topographical map with the fastest, safest route marked out."

"If you're giving us maps, why not let us have our GPS as well?" Savage said. "To a skilled hiker, one is as good as the other."

"I didn't say, 'maps,' " Rushton said. "I said, 'map.' One of you, and only one of you, has the map."

"Who?" Mathis demanded.

"It better not be Gwendolyn," Jade said. "Because she'll take off and leave us the first chance she has."

"Not us," Balowsky said. "You, definitely, but not the rest of us. Not as long as there's a chance she might need some help."

"It might be Gwendolyn," Rushton said. "Or it might be you, Jade. It could be any one of you. The thing is, that person is the only one who knows. And if he or she reveals that fact to anyone else, every one of you will be fired on your return."

"How would you know?" Savage said.

"Sorry, everyone will be fired except the first person to tell me about the cheating," Rushton said. "Does that explain how I would know?"

Apparently, it did, because all the lawyers were glaring at one another suspiciously.

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way," Rushton continued. "I'm not trying to kill you here. The entire point of this trip is for you to learn to work together as a team. That's why I've given the map to one person, who is forbidden to admit having it. You will all need to work together to reach a consensus on your route, and it will be up to the map bearer to convince the others of the right way to go. If you function well as a team, there shouldn't be a problem."

"And if there is a problem, we'll all be dead and you can hire new people," Gwendolyn said.

"How could I ever hope to replace your feisty spirit, Gwendolyn?" Rushton said. "No, I'm not going to let anything happen to you. In fact, nothing will make me happier than to see you all march together into the lodge at the bottom of the mountain in five days, where there will be an unbelievable celebration waiting for you. But if something should go wrong, you will not be alone. Each one of your packs has an emergency beacon that will transmit your GPS location once it's been turned on. There will be people monitoring you at all times. If one of the beacons goes on, you will all be rescued by a search party and the retreat will be over."

What does a loophole sound like? Gus was sure he heard five lawyers all diving for the same one. But Rushton wasn't done.

"And so will your careers at Rushton, Morelock," he said. "If we have to rescue just one of you, all of you will be fired. Because, again, this is about working as a team. And as a team there is nothing you can't do-especially getting down off this mountain in five days. Now, Hector is ready with your new wardrobes, if you'd like to take your turns stepping into the tent he has erected outside to change."

There was a moment of hesitation; then Savage leaped up out of his seat. "I'll go first," he said, and followed the pilot out of the helicopter. The others gave their handhelds a last longing look, then followed him out.

Gus didn't move. He was never going to move. He'd simply sit there, securely belted to the seat, until the pilot had to take off. He wasn't a part of this law firm, anyway. He and Shawn already knew who the killer was. Their job was over.

For the first time since he'd seen the backpacks, Gus risked a glance at Shawn. It wasn't that he was afraid his best friend would be as unsympathetic to his panic as he had been at Descanso Gardens; it was just the opposite. At Descanso, Shawn knew there was no real danger, and he tried to demonstrate that by acting unconcerned. Now Gus was certain that if he looked over at Shawn he'd see the one thing that was guaranteed to make him feel worse: real worry.

But Gus' state of mind seemed to be the last thing on his partner's mind. Shawn's gaze was fixed on Oliver Rushton's face. "Good news," Shawn said. "We know who the killer is."

"I'm not interested in what you know," Rushton said. "Only in what you can prove."

"We'll give you a full debrief just as soon as we're back in your office," Shawn said. "The flight shouldn't take too long, although I think we'll need to stop to use the little boys' room along the way."