Sapphire Trails Read online

  Praise for Road to Omalos

  “Road to Omalos is an engrossing detective story, romance, and adventure that takes the reader inside the mind of a sociopathic criminal. I enjoyed it immensely!”

  —Harry Markopolos, the “Madoff Whistleblower,” author of

  No One Would Listen: A True Financial Thriller

  “Jax expertly weaves this gripping narrative from the opening paragraph. Meticulously drawn details entice and enthrall, consistently employing the five senses to bring her literary vision vividly to life. Vibrantly depicted characters often struggle with conscience as they vacillate between virtue and obligation, in an array of interlacing subplots that serve to enhance this spellbinding tale.”

  —US Review of Books

  “Marilyn Jax has done it again! The suspense, interplay, and conflict between the characters will keep the reader on edge right up to the brilliant, unexpected, and explosive ending. A Greek thriller!”

  —Dr. Thomas Rumreich,

  Forensic Odontologist

  Praise for The Find

  “The Find is a gripping suspenseful murder mystery from beginning to end. Modern criminology is joined with Aztec history to solve a murder decades old and to give flesh and narrative to a skeleton found beneath the rubble. Throughout the novel, there is much to uncover. Written in a crisp style, The Find is quite a find!”

  —Michael Berenbaum

  Author, Lecturer

  “The Find fully engages the reader with its elaborate and well-executed plot. Jax does a formidable job populating her novel with a bevy of rich and appealing characters, each painted in remarkable and vivid detail. Accordingly, the settings are painstakingly drawn, engaging the five senses with each thorough description. The parallel story lines tug at the reader, enthralling not only with the unexpected snakes and turns of a masterful mystery, but enchanting as well with its real and sympathetic heroes and villains alike. Jax’s in-depth knowledge of World War II history, law enforcement, and investigative techniques lend credibility to an already mesmerizing tale, one that is sure to satisfy to the end.”

  —US Review of Books

  “From the Caribbean to Miami to London and back, the plot has more twists than even the most addicted mystery buff can handle. Just when you think you’ve solved the case, a new suspect takes you in another direction. Marilyn Jax has written a thriller that will keep you guessing to the very end.”

  —Ron Meshbesher

  Past President, National Association of Criminal

  Defense Lawyers

  ALSO BY MARILYN JAX

  The Find

  Road to Omalos

  … and watch for Never in Ink

  SAPPHIRE TRAILS © copyright 2012 by Marilyn Jax. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-59298-506-7

  ISBN: 9781623095284

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2012910807

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: 2012

  16 15 14 13 12 5 4 3 2 1

  Author photograph by Patrick Broderick.

  Cover and interior design by James Monroe Design, LLC.

  Beaver’s Pond Press, Inc.

  7108 Ohms Lane

  Edina, MN 55439-2129

  (952) 829-8818

  www.BeaversPondPress.com

  To order, visit www.BeaversPondBooks.com or call (800) 901-3480.

  Reseller discounts available.

  Dedicated to the memory of my cherished Uncle Arvid

  You showed us how to live a life of high honor

  By your constant example, you taught us all the right way

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I would like to offer a profound thank-you to my readers. You are my encouragement to pen each succeeding novel.

  A special note of gratefulness to my cherished Daniel. You are the apple of my eye.

  To my family and friends, your continuous support means everything.

  Also, a colossal note of gratitude to the Lake County Sheriff’s Office, the Whitefish Police Department, the Flathead County Sheriff’s Office, the Montana State Crime Lab, and Mountain Lake Lodge, for valuable consultation during the crafting of this mystery.

  And to my impressive managing editor, Amy Cutler Quale; my mega-talented designer, James Monroe; my remarkable editor, Angela Wiechmann; and to the always-helpful staff at Beaver’s Pond Press—together, you’re the crème de la crème. The best of the best.

  To the beautiful state of Montana: Your ever-present big blue sky, fresh air, clean glacial lakes, majestic mountains, towering ponderosa pines, breathtaking scenery, and prevailing spirit inspired me to write Sapphire Trails.

  PROLOGUE

  Whitefish, Montana

  A RECENT RASH of burglaries rocked the residents of the quaint town of Whitefish. Homeowners living in the pricy and prestigious Iron Horse community, located on Big Mountain and overlooking Flathead Valley and Whitefish Lake, had fallen easy prey to the mysterious thief. Striking within this remote residential locality, the intruder had absconded with valuable art and a mix of cash, watches, and jewelry. The victims’ losses totaled a handsome sum.

  The burglar hit in the dark of the early-morning hours, presumably between 1:00 a.m. and 3:00 a.m., and each time when no one was home. Many of the victimized homeowners maintained primary residence in San Francisco, where they were employed, and traveled to their Iron Horse community homes only sporadically—some just a single weekend a month. And because the stately homes sat vacant so much of the time, the area had become ripe pickings for the housebreaker.

  The time elapsing between break-ins was erratic, making it impossible for the local Whitefish Police Department to formulate any sort of pattern or predictable movement on the part of the culprit. Mercifully, no one had been physically injured in the capers, but lives had been disrupted in a powerful and dramatic way. The victims—and the community at large—no longer enjoyed peace of mind.

  Although the intruder escaped with a variety of high-end items during the heists, the Whitefish police determined that the thief’s primary focus appeared to be the authentic pieces of artwork within each majestic home. Some of the paintings were quite large in dimension and required extra time and effort to remove from the walls and tote away. This factor baffled law enforcement. Perhaps an extra set of hands was needed to carry out the acts? As time went on, more questions than answers bombarded the local authorities.

  The Iron Horse community was targeted for a reason. The mostly custom homes peppered throughout the private golf club enclave were superior properties. And it was a well-known fact that many contained art collections or at least valuable pieces of art. Highly in-demand Native American warrior and Arabian horse head oil paintings by CJ Wells, and notable pieces by famous Montana artists like Charles M. Russell and Ace Powell, were among the works that disappeared into the night, leaving behind gaping empty spaces on the cavernous interior walls of the impressive rustic dwellings.

  The Whitefish police chief was quite certain about one thing. The thief seemed to have an extensive and admirable knowledge of art—selectively targeting the priciest pieces within each home entered. And that was the only clue his department had t
o work with. To date, no DNA, fingerprints, or other traces of the burglar had been recovered.

  Residents of the charming town of Whitefish strolled the streets as before, going through the motions of daily living and pretending nothing had changed. But a closer look revealed introspective expressions on sad faces and eyes filled with bewilderment, for the burglaries had disrupted the normalcy of Whitefish in a profound manner.

  Since 1904, when the Great Northern Railroad was being constructed through the northwest section of Montana, the townsfolk had always grasped fiercely to the small-town ambience of this early Western settlement. But slowly, over the many years, the town of Whitefish had melded into a mixture of both old and new. General stores and Western bars mingled with art galleries and boutiques, and a miscellany of eateries—from small-town cafés to upscale restaurants—popped up on its attractively old-fashioned streets.

  Located on the northern edge of Flathead Valley, gracefully nestled between the high peaks of Glacier National Park and Big Mountain, Whitefish quickly became a welcoming place for visitors of all ages and of varying outdoor sports interests.

  But now, for the first time, the long-standing old-town friendliness of the delightful railroad town was on hold. Things seemed out of focus and hopelessly out of control.

  Customarily calm and unruffled, the hardy people of this picturesque community appeared on edge and even bad tempered. Where will the culprit strike next? Is anyone really safe? Could he be one of us? These were some of the questions overheard time and again from the mouths of Whitefish residents. Many had lost the ability to sleep through an entire night, and brooding was widespread. Despite security systems in place to ward off intruders, the burglar had amazingly outwitted even the most complex of home-monitoring devices.

  Countless weeks had elapsed with the Whitefish Police Department attempting to track the individual or individuals responsible for the recurring crimes, and all efforts had failed miserably. The thief remained one step ahead and on the prowl.

  The situation was reaching a climax. Inhabitants of Whitefish were demanding their town back. Unrest was palpable. Something had to be done, and fast.

  The deep feeling of melancholy that had flowed over the picture-perfect town seemed to have hardened in place. The gloom would not lift, nor could the town return to its normal stride, until law enforcement apprehended the mysterious criminal and put an end to the madness that had invaded this magical place.

  1

  Office of Caswell & Lombard, Private Investigation

  Miami Beach, Florida

  CLAIRE CASWELL RIVETED her eyes on Gaston “Guy” Lombard, transfixed by what she did not see. Who was sitting there in his chair, wearing his clothes? Where was the Guy Lombard she knew so well? He looked the same, but he was different in an inexplicable sort of way. He was going through the motions of being Guy Lombard, yet something was missing. Something significant. She could see it in his eyes. The eyes always gave it away. They looked vacant. And while others did not notice the change, she had for some time.

  “Thoughts of Crete keep flooding my mind,” Claire said. “Months have passed, and here we sit, working in Miami as if the whole thing never happened.”

  “I know,” Guy said. He looked up from a file that had held his attention for the past two hours. “Every time I think about what I … what we … went through in Crete on that ill-fated case, it infuriates me. I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my mind. Maybe more. For a while there, I didn’t think I’d get out alive. And I was even more concerned about you.” He exhaled a deep sigh. “But here we are, and the case that took us to the Greek island is now only a foggy memory.”

  “Is it?” Claire asked. She walked over to the man she loved, her life and business partner, and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. “Are you okay, sweetheart? I mean, are you really okay? Maybe it would help if you talked to someone. A professional.”

  Guy shot a half-angry look her way. “I don’t need help. The wind is back in my sails, and I’m doing fine. I think about it less and less these days.”

  She continued to look at him with concern, not at all convinced by his words.

  “I’m healed now,” Guy said, “and I only have a handful of scars to remind me of that horrific ordeal. So all in all, I’d say I’m pretty much back to my old self—my mean, old self, and my rage is burning hotter than ever.” He paused momentarily, appearing deep in thought. “Actually, I’m thankful we both got out of that investigation in one piece. I realize it could have turned out much worse.” His eyes glazed. “But I’m okay. Really, I am. I’m fine.”

  The expression on his face did not match his words. He appeared distant and profoundly troubled. And full of anger.

  “I don’t know, Guy,” Claire persisted. “Seems at some level you’re still enraged about what happened to you, and you have every right to be. But you must find a way to let it go, to get past it and move on. It’s hurting you … and us.” She paused. “You seem melancholy most all of the time, and you wear this desolate expression on that handsome face of yours, and it worries me. I’ve never seen you like this before. You’ve been this way ever since we returned from Crete, and from what I see, it doesn’t seem to be getting better.”

  “Okay. Okay. You’ve made your point. Now give me a break, Claire, will you? The bastard almost killed me! What do you want from me?” He got up and stormed outside.

  Claire gave him a few minutes to cool down and then went out to look for him. She found him leaning against the trunk of a towering palm, finding shelter from the heat of the blazing Miami sun under its sprawling green fronds. He had folded his arms over his chest, and he wore the face of someone buried deeply within his own thoughts.

  “Guy?” Claire said softly. “We saw the case to conclusion. We can be proud of that fact. Justice found George Zenonakis in a strange way, I’ll admit, but he did pay for his crimes. We did our job, and we survived. It’s time to put it behind us now.”

  “Yeah. Right,” Guy said. “I realize that. But I keep thinking about that good-for-nothing and what he did to me. I can’t seem to shake it—that feeling of utter helplessness … of thinking I was going to die. The entire time I was a Miami-Dade state attorney, I dealt with nefarious people. I’ve been threatened by the deadliest of criminals anyone could conjure up in the mind. But I’ve never been captured and battered to within inches of my life. And the worst part of it all was that I couldn’t fight back. I couldn’t fight back! I had to take whatever that monster doled out on me. You can’t possibly comprehend the feeling of not being able to defend yourself.” He hung his head.

  Dispirited dejection seemed to devour him. It was as if he’d seen death and come back to talk about it. Being kidnapped and severely beaten by the criminal they had gone after had taken what seemed to be a permanent toll on Gaston “Guy” Lombard.

  “Some days are worse than others,” he said openly. “This happens to be a bad one.” He looked at Claire with deep-seated sadness penetrating his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Guy. It was a tough case. Driving the road to Omalos to rescue you almost did me in, too. I quiver just thinking about it. I had to face my fear of heights head on, and for you I did it. I had no other choice. But I would never, ever travel that road again! I still have nightmares about it.”

  “Claire, I’m sorry, too. I had no idea it was still bothering you.” He stood up straight and took her in his arms. “There was no way to foresee what that case would demand from us.” He breathed in and out deeply. “Again, I’m happy the whole thing is over.”

  “Me, too,” Claire said. “But I want you back.”

  How she hoped the former Guy would return—the man he’d been before the case that had taken them to the Greek island of mystique and intrigue. How she wondered if the glimpses of perfect hopelessness embedded so deeply in his coffee-colored eyes would one day be gone.

  Claire’s mind drifted. She was turning thirty-eight this year and Guy forty-eight. The ten-year age di
fference had never been a factor in their relationship. In fact, since their first encounters—back when she was a government fraud investigator for the State of Florida and he was the lead Miami-Dade state attorney, back when the two joined efforts on certain cases to put lawbreakers away—there had been a special, inexplicable connection between the two of them. Exchanging calls, business at first and then personal, quickly developed into meeting for lunches and dinners. A strong friendship catapulted into a powerful love bond, and before they knew it, they were sharing a living space. Then, recently, the pair had combined their individual strengths to form the successful firm of Caswell & Lombard, Private Investigation, on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. Life had been good. And Claire did not want it to change. She needed Guy to feel better.

  THE FOLLOWING morning, the investigators opened their office for the day. Within minutes, the phone rang.

  “Caswell & Lombard, Private Investigation,” Claire answered.

  “Claire, it’s Piper and Jay Cantrell. We’re on speakerphone.”

  “What a nice surprise!”

  It had been a while since Claire and Guy had talked to their good friends from Miami who had moved to Montana some years back, and she was thrilled to hear from them.

  “Hold on while I put our phone on speaker so Guy can jump in.” Claire motioned to Guy and hit the speaker function button. “Okay, we’re both here.”

  “How’s everything in Miami Beach?” Piper asked.

  “Funny you should ask,” Claire said. “Just yesterday we were reminiscing about a certain difficult case of ours and saying how happy we were to be safely back home in Florida and into our regular routine … that is, if you can call anything about our line of work regular or routine. We were thrown into a dangerous web of circumstances in that particular matter, and we are happy to still be alive and kicking, as the saying goes.”