Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 1: The Dark Tide, Don’t Look Twice, Relentless

Hauck waved, backing into the crowd. “See you around.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#ulink_a7da849d-41f5-5ef6-8b93-38d07f0e1239)

It took him by surprise that night, Hauck decided as he dabbed at the canvas in the small two-bedroom home he rented on Euclid Avenue in Stamford, overlooking Holly Cove.

Another marina scene. A sloop in a harbor, sails down. Pretty much the same scene from his deck. It was all he ever painted. Boats …

Jessie was in her room, watching TV, sending text messages. They’d had a pizza at Mona Lisa in town and went to the new animated release. Jess pretended to be bored. He’d enjoyed it.

“It’s for, like, three-year-olds, Daddy.” She rolled her eyes.

“Oh.” He stopped pushing it. “The penguins were cool.”

Hauck liked it here. A block from the small cove. His little two-story sixties Cape. The owner had fixed it up. From the deck off the second floor, where the living room was, you could see Long Island Sound. A French couple lived next door, Richard and Jacqueline, custom furniture restorers—their workshop was out in their garage—and they always invited him to their parties, full of lots of people with crazy accents and not-half-bad wine.

Yes, it took him by surprise. What he was feeling. How he had noticed her eyes—brown and fetchingly wide. How laughter seemed a natural fit in them. The little lilt in her voice, as if she weren’t from around here. Her auburn hair tied back in a youthful ponytail.

How she stuffed that raffle ticket into his pocket and tried to make him smile.

Unlike Beth. When her world fell apart.

Hauck traced a narrow line from the sailboat’s mast and blended it into the blue of the sea. He stared. It sucked.

No one would exactly confuse him with Picasso.

She had asked him if Jess was his youngest, and he had replied, pausing for what seemed an eternity—my only. He could have told her. She would have understood. She was going through it, too.

C’mon, Ty, why does it always have to come back to this?

They’d had everything then. He and Beth. It was hard to remember how they were once so in love. How she once thought he was the sexiest man alive. And he, her.

My only …

What had he forgotten at the store that made him rush back in? Pudding Snacks….

Jamming the van hastily into park. How many times had he done that—and it stayed? A thousand? A hundred thousand?

“Watch out, guys. Daddy’s got to back out of the garage….”

As he headed back to the garage, receipt in hand, wallet in hand, they heard the shriek. Jessie’s.

Beth’s frozen eyes—“Oh, my God, Ty, no!”—as through the kitchen window they watched the van roll back.

Norah never even uttered a sound.

Hauck laid down his brush. He rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. It had cost him his marriage. It had cost him ever being able to look in the mirror without starting to cry. For the longest time, being able to put his arms around Jess and hug her.

Everything.

His mind came back to that morning. The freckles dancing on her cheek. It made him smile.

Get real, Ty…. She probably drives a car worth more than your 401(k). She’s just lost her husband. A different life, maybe.

A different time.

But it surprised him as he picked up the brush again. What he was thinking … what it made him feel.

Awakened.

And that was strange, he decided. Because nothing surprised him anymore.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#ulink_49664fbf-9234-598a-a39a-3c257555082a)

December

Their lives had just begun to get back on some kind of even keel. Sam was applying to colleges, Tufts and Bucknell, her top choices. Karen had made the obligatory visits with her.

That was when the two men from Archer knocked on her door.

“Mrs. Friedman?” the shorter one stood at the door and inquired. He had a chiseled face and close-cropped light hair, was wearing a gray business suit under a raincoat. The other was gaunt and taller with horn-rim glasses, carrying a leather lawyer’s briefcase.

“We’re from a private auditing firm, Mrs. Friedman. Do you mind if we come in?”

At first it flashed through Karen’s mind that they might be from the government fund that was being set up for victims’ families. She’d heard through her support group that these people could be pretty officious and cold. She opened the door.

“Thank you.” The light-haired one had a slight European accent and handed her a card. Archer and Bey Associates. Johannesburg, South Africa. “My name is Paul Roos, Mrs. Friedman. My partner is Alan Gillespie. We won’t take too much of your time. Do you mind if we sit down?”

“Of course …” Karen said, a little hesitant. There was something cool and impersonal about them. She glanced closer at their cards. “If this is about my husband, you know Saul Lennick of the Whiteacre Capital Group is overseeing the disposition of the funds.”

“We’ve been in touch with Mr. Lennick,” answered Roos, a little matter-of-factly. He took a step toward the living room. “If you wouldn’t mind …”

She took them over to the couch.

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Friedman,” Roos told her, looking around intently.

“Thank you. You said you were auditors,” Karen replied. “I think my husband was handled by someone out of the city. Ross and Weiner—I don’t recall your firm’s name.”

“We’re actually not here on behalf of your husband, Mrs. Friedman”—the South African crossed his legs—“but on the part of some of his investors.”

“Investors?”

Karen knew that Morgan Stanley was Charlie’s largest by far. Then came the O’Flynns and the Hazens, who had been with him since he began.

“Which ones?” Karen stared at him, puzzled.

Roos looked at her with a hesitant smile. “Just … investors.” That smile began to make Karen feel ill at ease.

His partner, Gillespie, opened his briefcase. “You received proceeds from the liquidation of your husband’s firm assets, did you not, Mrs. Friedman?”