Page 4 of Obsession

“That’s right, Mrs. Novak. Go to sleep.”

As the last of her consciousness began to fade away, she realized why the language sounded so familiar.

They were speaking in her husband’s native Croatian.

???

Zoran Janic tried very hard not to glance at his phone. His cousin, Neno Bilic, was supposed to have contacted him an hour ago. If something had gone wrong with the operation, Janic would not be pleased.

Two weeks ago, he had sent Neno, along with two of Janic’s other men, Sava Kordo and Pavel Dodic, to America to deal with a problem Janic had neglected for too long. Fourteen days should have been more than enough time to rattle the Novaks in preparation for the main event. Which, if things had gone well, should have begun within the last couple of hours.

Janic walked to his window, his jaw tense. Those nosy documentary filmmakers were irritating enough. Afterthey had shown up in Croatia and started digging up information on crime networks in the Balkans, networks that with just enough poking would lead right to him, he found an easy enough way to shut down production. But his plans changed to something bigger when he learned Carl Novak and his wife, Rebecca, were the ones backing the film.

It was a sign that the time for payback had arrived, a sign Janic had been waiting years for.

Finally, his phone rang.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” Neno said. “We have her.”

All the tension Janic had been holding on to vanished. “Any problems?”

“None.”

“No one saw you?”

“No one.”

“Good work. Proceed as planned.”

Janic ended the call, grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the shelf behind him, and poured himself a celebratory drink.

4

Carl and Rebecca Novak’s mansion sat on five acres in the foothills on the north side of Santa Barbara, hidden behind a high wall.

When Stone and Ben arrived, they were met at their car by a smartly dressed man, who looked to be in his forties.

“Mr. Bacchetti, Mr. Barrington, I’m Andrew Vulin, Mr. and Mrs. Novak’s estate manager.” The man spoke with a European accent. “If you would follow me.”

The grand entry to the house featured dueling staircases and a gorgeous chandelier that hovered over the center of the space.

Vulin led them down a Spanish-tiled hallway on the first floor, lined with original illustrations hanging on the walls. They passed several rooms before stopping in front of a closed set of double doors. Vulin knocked twice, then opened both doors and announced, “Centurion Studios.” He moved out of the way and nodded for Stone and Ben to enter.

The high-ceilinged room was surrounded by bookcases that covered almost every available inch of wall space. In the center were a pair of leather sofas facing each other, separated by a coffee table.

Standing near the sofas were two men. One was unmistakably Carl Novak. A week seldom went by when his image didn’t appear either in print or on TV. More often than not, he would be in the company of his wife, Rebecca.

Stone and Ben had been told she would be at the meeting, too, but the only other person in the room was an older gentleman standing with Novak.

Novak glanced past Stone and Ben at the doors as they closed, as if expecting someone else to enter. When his attention returned to his guests, he took a step forward.

“Thank you for coming. I’m Carl Novak.” His native Croatian accent was subtle, as if he’d worked hard to rid himself of it.

“Ben Bacchetti. Thanks for inviting us.”

“Stone Barrington.”

---