The butler’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. He took another long look at Luke, must have decided he wasn’t a guy to argue with, turned, and started off down the hall.
Ethan followed, Luke behind him, into an impressive wood-paneled chamber lined with shelves filled with leather-bound books. Paned windows looked out over a manicured garden behind the house. Flames curled over the grate in a mantel-topped fireplace at the end of the room.
The butler backed out and closed the door, giving them privacy. Stern rose from his chair behind a wide cherrywood desk and walked around to greet them.
“This is my day off, Brodie. Whatever you and your friend here want, I’d appreciate if you’d make it fast.”
Ethan tipped his head toward the man beside him. “My brother, Luke.”
“Another Brodie, fine. What do you want?”
“We came to ask you some questions. In particular, we’re interested in your diamond-smuggling operation.”
Stern’s face went pale.
“We’d like to know if Latham is giving the orders or if you’re handling the business yourself,” Luke said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ethan moved closer. “What we really want to know is whether you’re the one who ordered the hit on Delilah Larsen.”
“I want you out of my house.”
“I don’t think so.” Ethan caught him by the front of his starched yellow button-down shirt and shoved him backward till he slammed into his desk. “First we’re going to talk, then I’m calling the police.”
“I don’t know anything about any smuggling. Go ahead and call the police. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“As I said, first we’re going to talk. I want to know why you had your mistress murdered. Did she figure out what you were doing? Did you have her killed to shut her up?”
“I’m not saying anything. You have no right to be here. You’re trespassing. Get out.”
Ethan’s fingers tightened on the front of Stern’s shirt. He dragged Stern up, then slammed him down on the top of the desk, sending papers into the air and an antique inkwell flying. He let go of the shirt and wrapped a hand around Stern’s throat. “It was Gallagher, right? Did you hire him or was it Peter Latham?”
When Stern didn’t answer, Ethan squeezed until Jason started wheezing, gasping for breath. “Was it Gallagher?”
“Let . . . go of . . . me!” He clawed at the hand choking off his air, and Ethan eased his hold. “You don’t scare me, Brodie. You’re a cop. You aren’t going to hurt me.”
Ethan let him go but didn’t back out of his space. “You’re right. I’m an ex-cop. I don’t torture suspects. My brother, Luke—now that’s a different story. You see, Luke was Special Forces. He doesn’t see things quite the same way I do.”
Luke nudged him aside, got right in Stern’s face. “All right, now we’re going to do this my way. My brother is going to ask again. This time I expect you to answer.” The KA-BAR appeared in his hand. He laid the blade across Stern’s throat, and there was no doubt of the threat he posed.
“Was it Gallagher who killed Delilah Larsen?” Ethan asked.
Stern swallowed. Luke nicked his Adam’s apple and a thin trickle of blood ran down his neck. “Answer my brother’s question.”
“It was . . . it was Gallagher.”
“What about Valentine? He the one who shot at her?”
A noise in the room drew Ethan’s attention. He turned at the sound of a husky female voice.
“Bick wasn’t shooting at Valentine, Mr. Brodie. He was shooting at you.”
Ethan had never met Myra Stern, but he’d seen her picture. Brunette, nice figure, fifties, looked to be in her late thirties. She was still a beautiful woman. He didn’t know Myra, but he knew the blond man standing next to her pointing a big black semiauto at the middle of his chest.
Bick Gallagher, aka Ray Bickford.
“Step away from Jason,” Gallagher said to Luke. “Do it now before I shoot your brother.”
