But if and when the intruder had used that window he’d apparently kept his focus on the basement.
Focused, Eli thought again. So it wasn’t simply about money, or why not take what came easily to hand? It was about treasure.
What kind of sense did that make? he wondered. You could spend one night hauling out a few million in art, memorabilia, collectibles, silver—Jesus, his great-uncle’s extensive stamp collection on display in the library. Or you could spend God knew how many nights hacking away at the basement floor with hand tools for a legend.
More than money, then, he thought again as he prowled through the house, taking a speculative mental scan of easily portable valuables. Was it the thrill? The true belief in treasure beyond price?
Was it an obsession, like Wolfe’s obsession with him?
The idea took him back to the basement to take a closer study of the intruder’s work. On impulse, he stepped down into the trench, found it nearly waist-high in some parts. To his eye it looked as though the work started in the center of the area, then moved out in a kind of grid. North, south, east, west.
Like compass points? How the hell would he know?
He climbed out again, pulled out his phone to take photos from several angles. The cops had pictures, but now he had his own.
For whatever reason, it made him feel proactive. He liked the sensation of doing something. Anything.
To add to it, he went back up, took the brass telescope on its mahogany stand—a gift to his grandmother—out onto the terrace. Proactive meant informed. Maybe it wasn’t the best time for him to take a hike or drive to the lighthouse, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see.
He aimed, focused, adjusted until he had a clear view of the yellow police tape. They’d blocked off the entire area, lighthouse included. He noted a few people behind the tape—the curious, and a couple of official-looking vehicles.
He turned the scope, aimed down, watched what he assumed were crime-scene techs working on the rocks, and getting soaked despite their protective gear.
A long drop, he thought, using the scope to judge the distance from the bluff to the rocks below. In all likelihood the fall would’ve been enough to kill Duncan. But shooting him first guaranteed it.
Why? What had he known, seen, done?
And how was it connected to Lindsay’s death? Logically, there had to be some connection. He didn’t believe Wolfe had that part wrong. Unless the whole thing was as illogical as digging in a basement for pirate treasure, the murders were connected.
Which opened the possibility Duncan’s murder was connected to the intruder.
Again, why? What had he known, seen, done?
A puzzle. In his other life, he’d enjoyed puzzles. Maybe it was time to find out if he still had an aptitude for them.
He left the telescope on the terrace, went back upstairs for a legal pad, a pen. This time on his pass through the kitchen he did slap a sandwich together and, what the hell, added a beer. He took it all to the library, lit the fire and sat down at his great-grandfather’s magnificent old desk.
He thought to start with Lindsay’s death, but realized that wasn’t the beginning—not really. He’d considered their first year of marriage an adjustment period. Ups and down, lateral moves, but a great deal of focus, on both sides, on outfitting and decorating the new house.
Things had begun to change between them, if he were honest, within months of moving into the house.
She’d decided she wanted more time before starting a family, and fair enough. He’d put a great deal of time and energy into his work. She’d wanted him to make full partner, and he felt he was on track for that.
She’d enjoyed the entertaining, the being entertained, and she’d had her own career path and social network. Still, they’d argued, increasingly, over his workload, or conflicts between his priorities and hers. Naturally enough, if he continued to be honest. Sixty-hour workweeks were more common than not, and as a criminal attorney he’d put in plenty of all-nighters.
She’d enjoyed the benefits, but had begun to resent what earned them. He’d appreciated her success in her own career, but had begun to resent the conflicts of interest.
At the base? He admitted they hadn’t loved each other enough, not for the long haul.
Add in her intolerance—and that was a fair word—for his grandmother, for his affection for Bluff House and Whiskey Beach, and the erosion just quickened. And