Forever by Judith Gould Page B

a
determination in her every step. She couldn't bring her grandfather
back, but she sure as hell could make certain of one thing. She
thought: I'll see to it that his death isn't dismissed as
suicide.
    It was the least she could do.
    Suddenly she stopped walking as the enormity
of her thoughts hit home.
    If it hadn't been suicide, then . . .
    . . . Then it had been made to look like
suicide. Which meant . . .
    She felt a chill.
    Could it be possible? Had he been
cold-bloodedly murdered?
    But if so - why? And who could possibly have
wanted to see him dead? He had been such a sweet and mild-mannered
gentleman. No, offhand there was no one on earth she could think of
who could have hated him enough to do him harm. He'd had friends
everywhere.
    Another thought hit her out of the blue.
    He'd pried. He'd researched people's
backgrounds with the doggedness of a bloodhound, unearthing secrets
and sniffing out well-hidden facts. Always digging. And when he'd
dug deeply and relentlessly enough, he'd sat down and written those
secrets into his books.
    Exposing secrets created enemies.
    Shaken, she continued walking, her mind
reaching out in all directions.
    But who?
    Why?
    And for what? The current research? Or
things he'd dug up for the books he'd written in the past? In one
of them, she felt certain, she would find the key.
    But in which one?
    Her steps quickened. She intended to do her
damnedest to find out.
     

SIX
     
    Ilha da Borboleta, Brazil • New York City
     
    Under the equator, the seasons are
reversed.
    When it's winter above, it's summer
below.
    And vice versa.
    But in both hemispheres, the names of the
months remain the same. In Portuguese, May is Maio; it just
happens to fall in late autumn.
    And autumn in Rio de Janeiro can be
decidedly summery. On this particular day, the temperature hit a
high of seventy-five degrees and, like a human tide, the
skimpily-clad sun worshippers descended on the world-famous beaches
of Ipanema and Copacabana or the twenty-one less famous ones to
soak up the rays and display youthful bronzed flesh.
    For the young and carefree, skin cancer is a
lifetime away.
    A hundred nautical miles to the north-east
it is a different story. Although the temperature climbed to
seventy-six on the private island of Ilha da Borboleta, the
pristine white sand beaches surrounding it were devoid of sun
worshippers; the man who lived here took cancer and the effects of
ultraviolet rays on the human skin as serious threats to his
health. Both he and his beautiful mistress avoided direct sunlight
like the plague.
    If there is such a thing as Fantasy Island,
then Ilha da Borboleta certainly fits the bill. A good portion of
its seven square miles of gentle hills and volcanic outcroppings is
kept carefully thinned out and pruned back at all times; the shiny
green jungle vegetation never getting a chance to rot and stink of
tropical decay. The manicured lawns are like a blanket of soft
fabric mowed in a precise pattern. Exotic species of palms and rare
tropical flowers of all sizes, shapes, and colours grow and thrive
in great profusion.
    Ilha da Borboleta was the private domain of
Ernesto de Veiga, a reclusive billionaire who, it was reported, was
one of the three richest men in the world.
    The security measures were awesome, as
befitted a man of his wealth and stature.
    Around the clock, one of two speedboats
equipped with searchlights and sophisticated radar and weaponry
patrolled offshore, while squads of armed security guards with
trained attack dogs were on land duty twenty-four hours a day.
    The island was accessible only by seaplane,
helicopter, and yacht. Ernesto de Veiga owned several of each.
    There was de Veiga. At home in Quinta Santo
Anastacio, the blue-and-white tiled palacio which had been
erected by a rubber baron back in the nineteenth century. The
intricate Portuguese tiles which covered its outside walls had
weathered beautifully over the last century and a half, and the
terracotta roofs had been