The copy of Westcott’s hard drive yielded endless photos of Rex Magotti and a handful of MP3 files, generally sappy pop ballads. Guillaume learned nothing from scanning his catch, other than the unsurprising news that the almost-former Madame Westcott was a terrible résumé writer and seemed to have applied for a job with every possible employer in a fifty mile radius. Guillaume scowled and closed the copy down.
“You didn’t suppose Raisa would leave the very thing you are looking for right out on the desktop, did you?” Monique purred, her fingers raking Guillaume’s head.
He brushed her back and snapped, “Of course not! She knows nothing anyway. It’s her ex-husband who has the evidence. There is more to search.” He produced a box of rewritable CDs as an example.
“Hopefully you took some things of value too to make the police think our friend Mr. Pinkham was at work following orders.”
“Mais oui. It was not easy. Madame Westcott has poor taste in jewelry and her estranged spouse seems to have taken all of his portable electronic gear, his watches, everything of any value.”
“More likely that Raisa threw it out with him. Hopefully there is enough amongst all that trash that you can turn the tables on Sydney Westcott at last. You should not be his slave.”
“But I will always be yours.”
“You took care that no one saw you?”
“No one who will be of any significance.”
Monique poked through the box of items from the Westcott residence. She picked out a wedding band and modest engagement ring. “Hmph. Hardly worth running down to the pawn.” A pair of diamond earrings showed more promise. “Ahh. Here you have something worth while.” She held up a shallow bowl with faint red and yellow markings. “Good eye, mon cher.”
“Merci. I did not know what it was exactly but I knew it was something of value.”
“Ancient Mexican, a couple thousand dollars worth perhaps. We’ll have Mr. Wycliff’s appraiser check it out. By the way, I believe I found a new legal consultant to take Mr. Westcott’s place. I gave a unit to a gentleman named Peter Goodkind today. He’s a lawyer.”
“Good eye on your part, Madame.”
“There is some unfortunate news, however. You will not be able to count on Mr. Pinkham to take the blame for any more of your misguided adventures.”
“Hmmm?”
The door chime answered Guillaume’s query. An eye to the peephole told him more news was afoot. Two men with badges and guns stood on the doorstep.
