“So what in the world are you doing out here? And you say you’re an FBI agent now?”
“I am. Have been for over a decade.”
“How time just flies.”
“And I’m here because of my sister.”
Britta’s features slackened. “Your sister?” She glanced at Blum and then back at Pine. “Did they…have they found her?”
Again, this response hit Pine right in the gut, heightening her direct personal connection to this inquiry. She found part of herself wishing she could just focus on the murder of the unknown young woman. She could approach that clinically, professionally, with none of the personal baggage.
“No, that’s why I’m here. I’m trying to make sense of what happened back then.”
Britta folded her arms over her chest. “After all these years? Well, why not? I guess I would if it were my sister.” She seemed to catch herself. “Oh please, come on in.”
She opened the front door and motioned them inside.
The foyer soared three levels. Pine looked around the interior, which was all glass and metal and, despite all the trees outside, full of light. The floor plan was an open one, and seating areas were visible throughout along with what looked to be one-of-a-kind light fixtures and customized furniture. Thick and colorful area rugs broke up the large tile flooring that held fossil patterns.
“Wow,” said Blum.
“Yes, we usually get that reaction,” said Britta. “But you mentioned Jack Lineberry. If you’ve been to his place, it’s three times this size with all the latest gadgets.”
Blum said, “We have been there, and it is quite something. You both have done well for yourselves.”
“Well, our success is connected to Jack’s.”
“How so?” asked Pine.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
She led them into a kitchen area with sweeping views of the rear grounds. There was a large pool, and a guesthouse that seemed totally out of place with the main residence. It was constructed of wood cladding painted gray, soaring turrets, a picketed front porch, and what looked to be a widow’s walk on top. There was also a detached six-car garage fronted by a paved motor court and a barbeque area with a built-in grill and other stainless-steel accoutrements.
Pine thought that Architectural Digest would have a field day here.
As they walked into the room a Hispanic woman dressed in a maid’s uniform came through another doorway carrying a mop and a bucket. She appeared startled to see the three women there.
Britta said, “Oh, Kalinda, I’m sorry, we’ve had some unexpected company. Can you go work in another part of the house for now? Thank you.”
Kalinda, who was in her fifties, thin, and gray haired, nodded dumbly and hurried from the room. Britta watched her go.
“That was Myron’s idea. Hiring her. I told him I can take care of this house all by myself.”
“But it’s a big space, it must be nice to have help,” said Blum.
“That’s true. And I know she sends money home to Guatemala. She may be illegal for all I know, but those people deserve to make a living too. And she works very hard.”
As Britta started filling a Keurig with water, she pointed to the smaller guesthouse and said, “That was my input into all this. I spend a lot of my time out there. This place feels too cold and antiseptic for my tastes.”
They carried the finished coffees over to a table overlooking the rear yard and sat down.
“So, Jack Lineberry?” prompted Pine.
“Yes. Well, as he probably told you, he has an investment company, a very successful one. It relies a lot on computerized trading and the rapid purchase and sale of stocks and other investments. I don’t presume to understand all of it, but the long and the short of it is, the success is based on moving fast, far faster than an individual stock trader could. And Myron is a world-class computer geek, for want of a better term. He puts together algorithms and other trading programs to help power Jack’s investment business. He did some of that in the mining office, though algorithms and all that stuff weren’t nearly as important then as they are today. That’s how Jack and Myron met.”
“Well, it clearly worked,” said Blum.
“Where is your husband?”
“Myron is a night owl. Up until all hours and then he sleeps until past lunchtime and then wants his breakfast.” She smiled, a bit sadly, Pine thought. “I guess we must allow geniuses their idiosyncrasies,” Britta added.