by Riley Banks
If all of that wasn’t bad enough, Anita was still alive, the knife Wilson imbedded in her chest plugging the wound and keeping her from bleeding out.
It was a monumental cock up. The only thing that made the mess salvageable was that Anita wasn’t expected to live through the day, the wounds – once the knife had been removed – too deep to repair.
It was up to BJ to make sure she didn’t. He just had to keep Damon away from her.
His plan was to freshen up and go to the hospital but when he arrived at the hotel, it was to complete pandemonium, many of journalists ready to bale.
He called a press conference, ready to allay their fears with blatant lies if he had to.
‘For those of you that don’t already know me, I am William Sydney Harvey, the fourth. Yes, yes. I know I look just like my younger brother, Damon, who you have already met. Just better looking,’ he said with a laugh. The journalists smiled back at him and he pressed his advantage home. ‘But please, call me BJ. My door is always open if you need anything.’
He shuffled the notes on the podium, feeling confident that he could charm the crowd. ‘I would like to extend my family’s deepest sympathies about the events of the past few days. If we had known that this trip would turn out so disastrous…’ He left the rest of his sentence unfinished, turning sad eyes on them all. ‘I realise it is no consolation to any of you that my family has been touched deeply by this tragedy and that my own sister is lying in a hospital bed, fighting for her life.’
He took a sip of water, giving them a moment to take the personal connection in. Now they would be more ready to accept the lie.
‘I know many of you are talking about leaving, and while you are free to go, I would urge you to stay, if only for the chance to interview the senior members of my family – my father, grandfather and myself.’
An hour later, after answering dozens of questions, and affectively laying the blame at Zac Wilson’s feet, BJ was confident he had convinced most of them to stay.
The American journalist was the only one still determined to leave but BJ couldn’t allow that.
He had tried to persuade her, to reassure her that she was safe. When all else failed, he promised her a flight home.
He had no intention of following through. It was time now to bring in the second phase of their plan.
It was imperative that Nancy Robertson stayed put at least until his father was finished in Washington.
The helicopter’s rotor blades thumped the air above their head, speeding them towards Venice.
Charlotte didn’t speak – not because it was almost impossible to hear over the raucous noise of the chopper – but because she had no idea what to say.
What if she opened her mouth and her scepticism came tumbling out?
What if Damon realised that, for just a few seconds, she had wondered if he was involved?
He had the authority to get Zac out of jail. Maybe he did it to get me alone. It worked, didn’t it? We spent the night on his yacht having sex. That never would have happened if we’d stayed with the group.
But the thought never took root because it didn’t make any sense, not when his sister was one of the victims.
Charlotte had not always been the best judge of character but she was pretty sure she’d know if Damon were capable of such atrocities. She would have seen some hint, some void in his soul.
All she had seen was the opposite. Kindness. Compassion. Empathy.
She might be wrong about a lot of things but she was sure Damon was not involved.
In the end, it didn’t matter who was responsible. It only mattered that Wilson had left a trail of destruction in his path. It only mattered that it was her fault in the first place.
It should have been me. I’m so sorry, Miranda. It should have been me.
Charlotte wished to God she had never met Zac Wilson; that she had never kissed him or given him any encouragement to be interested in her.
Maybe then Miranda would be alive. Maybe then Anita Harvey wouldn’t be lying in a hospital fighting for her life.
She felt as if she’d bathed in a sewerage plant.
Miranda was the sweetest girl she had ever met. She lived her life in a fairy tale bubble waiting for her Prince Charming.
Instead, she got Prince Beelzebub.
The hardest part in accepting Miranda’s death was knowing how she had gone. Raped, beaten to death and set alight.
The helicopter landed with a bump on the roof of the hotel and a team of black suited security guards rushed out, ushering them through a door in the rooftop and down a flight of stairs.
‘This way, Ms Burke,’ said one of the security staff, leading her away from the elevator – away from Damon.
‘Wait – no wait, stop.’ She tugged her arm away from the man. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To your room.’
‘Oh.’ How foolish of her to create such a fuss.
‘Don’t worry, Charlotte,’ Damon said, returning to her side. ‘I have some things I need to do anyway. I will meet you downstairs.’
Being separated from him this fast didn’t feel right but she wasn’t about to create another scene. She nodded and Damon kissed her forehead.
As he walked away, Charlotte tried not to see the condemnation in his eyes.
Nancy threw armfuls of clothes into her open suitcase, not caring whether they were folded or not. She couldn’t miss her one opportunity to get out – to get home.
How had things got so bad, so fast? The press trip had turned into a horror movie set with one violent crime after another.
When Nancy first met Zac Wilson, she was bowled over by his gorgeous smile and his easy charm. She had never had a man kiss her hand before and it made her feel warm and tingly inside.
Sure, he was conceited but most guys were to some degree, especially the good-looking ones.
When he attacked Charlotte, Nancy condemned him along with everyone else, but a part of her held Charlotte responsible for leading him on.
But now Zac had committed murder, Nancy could no longer defend his actions.
Not that it mattered. He had vanished into thin air.
At Mr Harvey’s insistence – BJ Harvey, not Damon – the police had issued an all-points-bulletin search for him, combing every inch of Venice.
There was still no sign.
The lack of results infuriated Mr Harvey who demanded justice for his baby sister. He wanted Zac found and punished to the full extent of the law, as he should have been in Nice.
Nancy wasn’t comfortable with the aspersions BJ cast on Damon’s competence. He had all but blamed Damon for what Zac had done, saying if his brother had done his job properly, Wilson would still be locked up.
Wilson was just a bad egg. It was nobody’s fault.
Now Nancy wanted to go home. Enough was enough. Too many bad things had happened. She didn’t believe in karma but why tempt fate? Hers might be the next body to fall.
BJ begged her to stay, promising her the world, including an exclusive interview with him and his father. Nancy almost fell for his charming smile and reassuring manner. She would have as well - if she hadn’t already met Damon.
Where Damon’s eyes were kind and a little mischievous, BJ’s eyes were hollow, devoid of anything Nancy could believe in.
She didn’t trust his promise that she wasn’t in danger.
How could he say that when Zac tried to kill his sister? As far as Nancy knew, Zac had never met Ms Harvey but had still tried to imbed a knife in the middle of her chest.
While Zac remained on the loose, they were all in danger.
Nancy was just closing the lid on her suitcase when an envelope slid under the door.
It must be my tickets. Mr Harvey has come through for me.
Picking up the envelope, she tore it open but it wasn’t a ticket inside.
Three glossy 8 x 10 photographs fell onto the bed.
Every photo showed Nancy having sex.
W
ith Hank, Laurine and the stranger.
Nausea washed over Nancy like a tsunami, smothering all the air and vitality out of her soul. Tears fell down her cheeks yet she was barely aware of them.
Her hard-fought-for forgiveness dissolved, replaced by shame that burned her insides.
Someone took these pictures. Someone was watching me the whole time.
A note accompanied the photographs. It fell to the floor.
Nancy stooped down, picking the single sheet of paper up.
Scrawled in cursive handwriting were the words Daddy will be so proud.
The words taunted and mocked her.
Someone is trying to blackmail me.
Nancy had no idea what they wanted from her but she had a good idea she wasn’t going to like it.
Bill strode into the extravagant foyer of The Washington First Bank accompanied by Campagni. Both carried briefcases and wore navy pin striped suits tailor-made in Saville Row.
Campagni spoke to the receptionist, who ushered the two of them up to the President’s office on the 64th floor.
An express elevator rocketed up the soaring skyscraper, depositing them in front of a massive reception desk.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’ The assistant was in her mid-thirties with a pleasant, smiling face.
‘Paul Baker to see Dick Robertson,’ said Campagni.
‘He’ll just be a few minutes. May I offer you some refreshments?’
Bill shook his head, answering for both of them.
As promised, two minutes later she looked up from her computer. ‘He’ll see you now.’ She rose from her chair, ushering them through a large, oak panelled door.
Dick sat behind another overlarge desk. Either the man was overcompensating or he needed the size to hide his bulk.
He was a fleshy man. Skin folds hung over the collar of his white shirt, a navy suit doing nothing to conceal the man’s penchant for rich food.
Dick stood up, reaching across the desk to clasp Campagni’s hand.
‘You must be Paul Baker?’ Dick shook Campagni’s hand, pumping it up and down like he was drilling for oil. Judging by his size, it was bound to be of the canola variety.
Campagni smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you, Dick.’
If things kept going this well, Bill wouldn’t have to resort to the photographs in his briefcase.
‘I trust you have the required paperwork?’
Campagni removed a passport from his briefcase and handed it to Dick. Bill unconsciously held his breath, hoping the forged document would pass any scrutiny and that Campagni was as good an actor as he was an assassin.
‘Good, good.’ Dick Robertson consulting a computer screen on his desk, smiling benevolently at his two guests. ‘You’re Bill Harvey.’
Bill nodded his head.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Harvey. My daughter is on a press trip with your company. I think they’re in Italy at the moment.’
Harvey’s gaze moved to the photos of little Nancy Robertson arranged across her father’s desk, each photo far less incriminating than those Bill had in his briefcase.
‘Is that right? Well I hope she is enjoying herself.’ It was best that he not let on how intimately knowledgeable he was of Nancy’s movements.
‘Mr Baker, your paperwork seems to be in order. There is just one last thing I need before I can release the contents of the safety deposit box.’
Again, Bill held his breath.
He had known about the box for five years. It took much longer than he had expected to find it but he’d never thought to check something as mundane as a probate will.
Discovering its existence was one thing. Gaining access was quite another.
Helen Baker was cleverer than they’d given her credit for, initiating a series of fail-safes on the account.
Pass codes and identity checks and that just to get an appointment to meet with Dick.
With Baker incarcerated, their hands were tied. They had to wait for Paul to be free. They had to wait for him to make the first move.
The waiting was pure torture and in the end, Bill had given the process a helping hand, speeding up Baker’s release from prison, acquiring the daughter as collateral if needs be.
Even with the helping hand, it had taken Baker three weeks to discover the box. ‘What do you need?’ Campagni said.
‘The person who opened the account included a password...’
‘But I gave that code when I made the appointment,’ Campagni said.
‘This is another code. Without it, we cannot release the contents. I trust you have the password?’
Of course they didn’t.
‘You’ll excuse my friend here,’ Bill said, ‘but the account was opened many years ago and there were many passwords he was discussing with his wife. Could you give us a hint as to the nature of the password? Is it a date of birth or a maiden name? Something of that nature?’ They had researched these matters fully and were comfortable that they could come up with any obscure fact about the Baker family.
Robertson leaned back in his chair, his look turning suspicious for just a fraction of a second before his face plateaued back to his ready smile. ‘Ah no, it’s nothing of that… ah nature. I’m afraid that if you don’t know the password though, I am going to have to bid you gentlemen farewell. I have a very busy schedule.’
The game was up.
Bill should feel disappointed but a part of him had been hoping things would go this way. He reached into the briefcase, his hand closing around the envelope that contained plan B.
Campagni was plan C.
‘Then I have something here you will be very interested in Mr Robertson. Something concerning your daughter.’
Chapter Thirty-Three:
Charlotte found Nancy sitting alone in the hotel lobby, her eyes red from crying, a yellow envelope clutched to her chest. The girl took one look at Charlotte and burst into tears.
‘I know. I can’t believe she’s gone either,’ Charlotte said, feeling her own tears return. As she hugged Nancy, the envelope slipped out of her hands, falling to the floor.
Charlotte stooped to pick it up but Nancy snatched it back, shoving the envelope into her handbag with shaking hands, her eyes spooked and afraid.
‘Are you okay Nancy?’
Nancy shook her head, as reluctant to speak as she had been on the cliffs of St Jean. ‘Sorry, Charlotte. I’ve got to... I need to go. I’ll talk to you later.’ She hurried off towards the elevators, keeping her eyes locked straight ahead.
What on earth was that all about?
She loitered in the lobby, waiting for Damon to come, unsure what else she was supposed to do.
Maybe he’d already gone to the hospital.
A minute later, a set of double doors swung open and Damon popped out. Two Damons to be precise.
For a second, she thought the doors were mirrored but the two images were dressed differently and they were arguing. Reflections didn’t tend to argue with themselves.
Not a reflection. A mirror image.
Charlotte remembered reading somewhere that Damon was a twin but she hadn’t given it any further thought. Certainly not enough to wonder if they were identical.
Both men’s eyes met hers, leaving Charlotte with the uncomfortable feeling that she was the subject of their argument.
One man stared at her lustfully while the other seemed filled with rage.
To her dismay, Damon was the latter.
He stormed towards her. She stood rooted to the spot, afraid of what was coming.
‘I have to go.’ He glared over his shoulder like a petulant child in the schoolyard. It was a new experience for her, and only reinforced the fact that she knew nothing about him.
Bile seethed in Dick Robertson’s throat. He stared at the photographs of Nancy, sickened by the depraved images.
He fought back a cornucopia of raw emotions – everything from anger, revulsion, disappointment and fear.
How did they get these p
hotographs? Are they real or forged?
Robertson couldn’t believe his Nancy would do something as sinful and disgusting as these photos suggested. Drugs. Fornication. Homosexual acts.
Nancy was a good girl. She went to church every Sunday. She was a youth leader and, as far as he knew, a virgin. She couldn’t possibly do these things.
‘This is a joke, right?’ He couldn’t look away from the photos, as much as he wanted to.
‘I assure you they are genuine,’ Harvey said.
Robertson wanted to leap across the desk and beat the man to a bloody pulp. If Harvey had come alone, maybe he would have taken his chances but Robertson had no doubts the Australian was there to play the role of guard dog.
‘Did you drug my daughter?’
‘If she was on drugs, it was her own free choice. Maybe she was just letting her hair down, free from overbearing parents.’
‘You lying son of a bitch. I’ll rip your heart out -’
‘Easy now. We wouldn’t want things to get… messy.’ Harvey nodded and his guard dog stood up, everything about his body language intimidating.
Robertson knew it was a losing battle. He could call the police, but where would that get him?
The front page of the Washington Post, that’s where.
He could have Harvey charged with attempted blackmail, but the photos would wind up in the newspapers anyway. Both he and Harvey were too powerful in the business community for that not to happen.
You foolish girl. How could you have done this to us? I knew it was a bad idea for you to go on this trip.
‘What do I have to do?’ He was resigned to his fate. As angry as he was – both with Harvey and his daughter for putting him in this situation – he knew he had to do what they asked.
‘The contents of the box, Mr Robertson. And your word that you’ll never speak of this again.’
He was in no position to barter yet he needed some assurances before he agreed to the terms. ‘I want my daughter home, right away.’
‘She will be on the next plane.’
‘And I want your word that these photos will never… won’t be…’