Page 86 of The Murder Club

“There’s no one in the main room.”

“He must be gone.”

A sudden unease blasted through Dom. What if Ford Smithson—or whoever the hell he was—had already left town? What if he’d managed to discover Zac was checking into his background? Or maybe he got spooked after Dom and Bailey had come out to ask him questions. Either way, they had no way to track him down if he’d decided to slip away.

Jogging down the length of the patio, Dom peered around the corner of the building. He hoped to find a back door he could force his way through. He didn’t care if he was breaking and entering; he had to know if the place had been abandoned.

“Gotcha,” he muttered as he caught sight of the wooden stairs that led to an upstairs balcony.

Without hesitation, he started up the narrow steps. The glass sliding doors that opened onto the balcony from the lodge would be the easiest way to enter. He could hear the creak of the stairs as Bailey followed closely behind him, but his attention remained focused on what was ahead. If Ford Smithson was home, he would know they were sneaking around. It wasn’t like they were being subtle. And if he was the killer, there was a good chance he was waiting for them to enter the house so he could shoot them. That was what Dom would do. Once they were inside, Ford could claim self-defense, with no one to prove otherwise.

Reaching the balcony, Dom pressed himself against the smooth logs of the lodge and leaned to the side. Cautiously, he peered through the glass door, relieved to discover a narrow loft area that was currently empty. At first glance it appeared to be a bedroom, although the narrow bed had been shoved against the wall and a long dresser was being used to hold four separate monitors. On the opposite wall a small desk was buried beneath books and what looked like stacks of photos.

With a frown, Dom moved to stand directly in front of the glass door, staring at the monitors, which looked as if they were displaying security footage. There was something familiar...

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Bailey moved to stand next to him, pressing her hands against the glass as she peered inside. A second later she gasped in horror. “Oh my God.”

“Call Zac,” Dom said in urgent tones.

“If you mean the local sheriff, then by all means let’s call him,” a male voice drawled. “I’d like to make a complaint against two trespassers.”

Chapter 18

Dom whirled around, instinctively shoving Bailey behind him as he glared down at the man standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Ford Smithson was wearing a long trench coat over a pair of slacks and a hand-knit sweater. His mop of curls was tousled and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. He looked exactly the way you’d expect a famous, reclusive artist to look. And that was no doubt the point of his deliberate style. Dom felt a stab of annoyance. He should have suspected something was wrong. Ford Smithson was a walking, talking cliché. Which meant it had to be an act.

“I’m going to warn you that having a couple trespassers is the least of your worries,” Dom snapped in frustration.

“You’re right.” The man pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his coat. “It makes more sense to contact my lawyer and sue you for invasion of privacy.”

Dom snorted at the empty threat. “Does your lawyer know that you’re living here under a false name?”

The man stiffened, his expression suddenly wary. “What are you talking about?”

“We know you aren’t Ford Smithson,” Bailey said, her tone accusing. “He’s currently in Hong Kong. So who are you?”

Without warning Ford was jogging up the steps, and Dom urged Bailey toward the edge of the balcony, keeping himself between her and the approaching man. He had no idea what Ford intended to do, but he was ready and willing to grab the bastard by the neck and toss him over the railing.

“Maybe I decided to leave Hong Kong and travel to Pike.” Ford planted himself in front of the glass doors. He was obviously hoping Dom and Bailey hadn’t had a chance to figure out what he was doing in there. “Just get off my property and I won’t press charges.”

“We’ve seen a picture of the real Ford Smithson,” Bailey pressed. “And it’s not you.”

The man’s jaws clenched, as if he was grinding his teeth. Interesting. He appeared more frustrated than afraid that his masquerade had been discovered.

“Are you implying there can’t be more than one Ford Smithson in the world?”

“Only one who’s also a world-famous artist with a show in Minneapolis,” Bailey reminded the fool of his claim he was busy painting for his upcoming exhibition. “So why are you lying?”

His lips pinched as Bailey refused to back down. “It’s none of your business.”

“It’s very much my business when you’ve been stalking me.”

“Stalking?”

“That’s what I said.”

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