The Watchman Read Online Free PDF Page B

property almost ten miles from the city. At a distance, it appeared half the size of the Biltmore Estate, the mansion that formerly belonged to the American Vanderbilt family, which was now a tourist attraction. Which made it a thousand times the size of my digs.
    In this part of the country, only fashionable neighborhoods bothered with landscaping—and there were few fashionable neighborhoods. Most residents left their tiny plots of land barren. Why bother with a lawn covered in snow ten months of the year? Armstrong must have spent a small fortune on his. Terraced rock gardens led to the front door where hearty shrubbery and foliage struggled valiantly against layers of snow. Pushing aside the comparisons to my place, I rang the bell.
    Armstrong opened the massive door, dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved sweater, denim jacket, and boots. I must have missed the casual-dress memo. A little insecure in my business suit and overcoat, I shook his hand.
    My touch let me see the man perhaps better than he knew himself. I’d met few with his credentials. An honorable man with a strict code of ethics and living proof that wealth doesn’t guarantee happiness.
    Armstrong stepped outside, and the door made a soft click behind him. “Let’s walk.”
    In silence, he led me to a pathway that meandered toward the lake through tall ponderosa pines and mountain cedars. As we walked, the lake played peek-a-boo through thick snow-laden limbs in the dense woods.
    The spectacular shoreline came into view. The smooth surface showed only an occasional ripple as snow sludge washed ashore, the water so blue it looked unreal against the white backdrop. A light breeze tickled the tips of branches and left a whiff of cedar in the air. We reached a sheltered redwood bench close to the lake’s edge. Armstrong dusted snow away with a gloved hand and motioned for me to sit.
    He remained standing. “Abby and I came here often before her...” He paused. “It may sound irrational, but I feel her presence when I come here.” He turned and gazed at the horizon for a moment.
    I took the time to study him. Distinguished best described Lincoln Armstrong. Refined, not handsome. Neat gray hair covered a well-shaped head. His confident, direct gaze spelled power in capital letters.
    “When we met, Abigail was this frail, ethereal beauty with lovely, haunted eyes. She brought out the knight-in-shining-armor in me. Before we married, Abby never spoke about the past, but I knew she’d lived a hard life. I wanted to protect her, to erase the shadows in her eyes. I succeeded for more than five years.” He expelled a deep breath. “I let her down in the end. Someone got to her, and I wasn’t there to protect her.”
    Perhaps if she had confided in Armstrong, he could have prevented the tragedy. “I doubt you could have done anything to stop it.”
    He shrugged. “For more than two years the authorities tried to pin her disappearance on me. By the time the police decided to look elsewhere, any trace evidence had long since vanished. Witnesses disappeared or their memories dimmed. Six months ago, after I realized the police had given up, I investigated Abby’s past on my own.”
    “The authorities still have her listed as missing.” I stated the obvious.
    Armstrong shook his head. “If Abby was alive, she would have contacted me.”
    “You think someone from her past killed her?”
    “That was my initial thought. It seemed the logical place to start. Now, I’m not sure.” Armstrong tore his gaze from the view, punched his hands into his jacket pockets, and sat beside me. “My contact in California couldn’t find anyone there who wished her harm. At that point, I realized I needed a professional investigator. That’s when I decided to hire you.”
    He shifted his position on the seat, and his features tightened—a sea of sorrow in his gaze. “Abigail was married before we met. She had a son. At first, she wouldn’t talk about that part of her life.