Eye of the Beholder

ghost in the closet. He had known all along that his belief that his father had been murdered might be a fantasy, a dark vision he had conjured so that he would not have to think too much about that last phone call between the two of them.
    He had avoided looking into the closet during the past twelve years. Now he forced himself to examine the specter of his own guilt. If he was wrong, he would have to expose it to the light of day and deal with it.
    But he could not do that until he knew for certain whether or not the ghost was real.
    He closed the door again and switched his thoughts back to Alexa. He recalled her torn clothes and scraped hands. His insides went cold all over again. He remembered the shadows he had seen in her eyes. Someone had scared the hell out of her this morning.
    Regardless of the outcome of his own quest, he would not leave Avalon until he found out who was terrorizing Alexa.
    It occurred to him that he was in no rush to leave Avalon at all. Leaving town meant leaving Alexa. The thought of doing that filled him with a disturbing sense of incompleteness.
    Whatever existed between himself and Alexa needed to be finished before he could return to Seattle .
    Behind him the fax sang its siren song to itself and then fell silent. He waited a while longer. Eventually he took his feet down off the railing, stood, and went through the French doors.
    He crossed the room to the desk and picked up the pages that were stacked neatly in the tray. More financial data.
    He poured himself another cup of coffee. Then he took the pages out onto the balcony, sat down, and put his feet back up on the railing. Methodically he began to read the information Phil Okuda had transmitted: More info on the status of Dean Guthrie's recent financial affairs and the projects he had been involved with at the time of his death.
    A single word leaped out from the second paragraph of the first page.
    Trask took his feet off the railing.
    "Guthrie, you son-of-a-bitch. I knew there had to be a connection."
    He reached for the phone.

    Alexa eyed the stack of plastic containers in Trask's hands and tried not to salivate.
    "I thought when you said you'd bring dinner you meant pizza." She opened the door wider. "This looks like room service with all the stops pulled out."
    "I own a hotel, remember?" Trask carried the fragrant packages toward the kitchen. "My new chef is trying to impress me."
    She watched him set the containers out on the counter. "Well, I don't know about you, but I am definitely impressed."
    It was the food she was drooling over, she thought, not Trask.
    He turned around, a bottle of dark red zinfandel in one hand, a corkscrew in the other. She looked into his gleaming eyes and knew that she was lying to herself. It was definitely Trask that was making her drool.
    Dressed in a khaki shirt and a pair of black chinos, he looked far more appetizing than any of the gourmet delicacies he had brought with him. The kitchen was charged with the sexual energy that emanated from him.
    Unfortunately, he had made it dear on the phone that he wanted to talk about his conspiracy theories tonight, not their relationship.
    It was probably better that way. Certainly much less hazardous to her emotional health. Besides, she was hardly in a position to complain. After all, she was the one who had backed away from a sexual liaison after that one night of sizzle and burn in the spa.
    "I've got news that should interest both of us," Trask said.
    "That's nice." She moved closer to the counter and started to pry the lids off the plastic containers. "Are there any hors d'oeuvres?"
    "The little package on the right."
    "Got it." She peeled the lid off the small plastic container and helped herself to a salsa-laced canap é. She plucked out another. "Want one?"
    "Sure." He did not stop work on the cork.
    She realized that he was waiting for her to put the canapé into his mouth. She hesitated and then, feeling very daring, leaned across the counter and popped the tidbit between his teeth. She snatched her fingers back immediately.
    "Relax," he said around the canap é . "I usually don't bite the hand that feeds me."
    "An excellent policy." She watched him pour two glasses of the ruby-colored zin . "Let's hear your big news."
    "I found a link." Cold satisfaction made his eyes very green. He handed her one of the wine glasses. "It came through the fax this afternoon just after
five o'clock
."
    "What sort of link?"
    "A connection between