Mika approached the guard gate at the edge of the drive. She did not recognize the man. Worse, he did not recognize her and asked for ID.
“I’m Koda’s fiancé, Mika Flagler. I don’t show ID, ever,” Mika said, then hit the gas and headed toward the house where she was met by Stormy Boyd.
“We have security for a reason, Ms. Flagler,” Stormy said as Mika climbed out of her Audi.
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Mika said, annoyed at his comment. She was uncomfortable around the man. Maybe it was the bowler hat. Maybe it was because she felt like he was always watching her.
Because he was.
Stormy was always watching everyone.
“When will they be here?” Mika asked.
“Twenty minutes,” Stormy said.
Good, Mika thought. Twenty minutes was ten more minutes than she needed.
Mika ran into the house and went straight to one of the upstairs bathrooms that looked out over the driveway. She gently pulled the drapes back a few inches. Stormy Boyd was in the same position on the drive out front, back turned to the house, listening to a handheld radio.
She had to go now.
Mika went back down the stairs as fast as her cobalt blue Manalo Blahniks would carry her, and then made a beeline for Declan’s office. With any luck the door was unlocked.
It was.
Mika checked the cabinet where the eggs were stored first, just in case it was unlocked.
It wasn’t.
Mika crossed the room and held her breath. She needed the desk drawer to be unlocked.
It was.
But there was nothing in it. The drawer, which was usually stuffed with papers and other miscellaneous items—including the key to the cabinet that held Declan’s Fabergé egg collection—was empty.
This is bad, Mika thought. Very, very bad.
Mika had just returned from Sip ‘n Smoke Napa, an annual gathering of wine, whisky, and cigar connoisseurs co-launched by herself and Bruce. Then Bruce bailed at the last minute because of the Koda thing. The ball fell entirely in Mika’s lap.
And she’d dropped it.
The worst part was she was counting on using the profits from the event to replace the funds she’d borrowed from the Restoring Savannah Foundation event in January. Members of the foundation board were beginning to ask questions. Vendors were demanding to be paid. It was a mess—a mess she was hoping to fix with another of Declan’s eggs.
Or two.
Mika closed the desk drawer and glanced around the study. What else could she take? She needed $50,000 to get to the end of the month.
In front of her, on the desk, was a bronze Tiffany lamp with an iridescent gold Favrile and Damascene shade. Mika had checked the lamp out online to determine its value, which was $20,000.
Not enough.
There was a Picasso on the wall, directly behind Declan’s desk. Like he wouldn’t miss that.
Signed baseballs, a collection of Lalique animal sculptures, several limited-edition Montegrappa pens—even if she took it all, she’d still come up short.
Especially after the fence took his cut.
What about the rug? The rug was an antique Persian Tabriz that had to run somewhere north of $100,000. Don’t be ridiculous, Mika thought. What was she supposed to do? Roll it up and put it in her purse?
Then she saw the books.
Mika knew nothing about books, but Declan had bragged on a few of them in the past. But which ones? She’d already snatched a cracked egg—the last thing she needed now was a worthless book.
Catcher in the Rye? Too recent. The Walking Dead? Way too recent to be worth much. The Gospels of Henry the Lion? It looked old, but Mika had no idea what its value might be.
Then Mika saw a book she thought she remembered Declan talking about. Ulysses by James Joyce. 1922. Mika pulled the book from the glass display case and opened it. Yes, it was a first edition, and it was signed.
Mika slid the book into her purse.
“Can I help you, Ms. Flagler?” a man’s voice came from the doorway.
Mika looked up to see Stormy Boyd standing there, glaring at her. “No, I was just trying to find a tube of lipstick I lost.”
“Among Mr. Mulvaney’s books?”
Mika did not respond.
“I’m not sure what the rules were before, Ms. Flagler, but let me explain them to you now,” Stormy said. “Visitors are free to enjoy the public areas of the mansion. Mr. Mulvaney’s personal study is not a public area. Please be assured that this breech will be reported.”
“Maybe you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Mika said, softening her tone. “I’d love to know the story behind your hat. It’s a bowler, correct?”
“Save your breath, Ms. Flagler. The Mulvaneys may be trusting people who can be easily deceived. I am not. And, regarding my hat, I would be delighted to sit down and tell you all about it someday. But, as they say—if I did, I’d have to kill you.”
Chapter Seven
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
MAY 18, 1993
Nisa Mulvaney’s heart was pounding so hard when she left the house she thought it was going to beat out of her chest. She’d never been so angry at Bruce. Or felt so humiliated.
She’d asked for one simple thing.
Be on time, just this once.
Nisa knew she had to leave. But when she got to the garage she remembered her Mercedes was in the repair shop. Then she saw the key in the ignition of the Porcupine.
The Porcupine E90 was the motorcycle Declan Mulvaney had come to see at her father’s shop in Daytona eight years earlier. When Declan didn’t buy the bike that day, Bruce bought the super-rare motorcycle for the full $600,000 her father was asking—then gave it to Declan for his sixtieth birthday.
Nisa turned the key, musing at the irony. The bike that had brought them together was now her vehicle for getting away.
The last thing Nisa saw when she reached the end of the drive was her father and Declan, running after her and waving for her to come back.
MYRTLE BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA
An hour later, Nisa slowed the Porcupine to a more reasonable, seventy miles an hour. As she entered the city limits of Myrtle Beach, the adrenaline from her anger—and from pushing the bike past 110 miles an hour in the darkness—had worn off. All she felt now was exhaustion.
It was past 11:30 p.m. as Nisa cruised down the main drag of the resort community. She spied a bar called Wesley’s Chaise Lounge, which looked to be open still. If ever a drink was in order, Nisa thought, it was tonight.
Nisa parked the bike near the side of the building where it had less of a chance to be noticed and went inside.
It only took a second for Nisa to tell that Wesley’s Chaise Lounge was safe. And boring. Not that she was looking for a biker bar or anything, but this place?
Nisa threw her purse on the bar and took a seat as a burly man in his mid-sixties approached. “Kitchen’s closed, and the bar closes in twenty minutes, so if you want something to drink…”
“It’s not even midnight,” Nisa said.
“Yeah, well, new zoning laws kicked in first of the year,” the bartender said. “Back in the day, Wesley’s Dancing Bare used to be the busiest bar on the beach. Now the city wants to be more family friendly, and the Dancing Bare has been reduced to this.”
Nisa cocked her head to one side. “Did you say Wesley’s Dancing Bear?”
“Yep, that’s what we were called before we became the Chaise Lounge,” the burley bartender said. “I’m Wesley.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. Why?”
“My mother used to work here. This is where my mother and father met,” Nisa said. She glanced around, then looked back to Wesley. “Where’s the bear?”
“The bear?” Wesley said, and then laughed. “This was the Dancing Bare, sweetie—B-A-R-E—as in, girls dancing with no clothes on. Bare, get it?”
Nisa shook her head in disbelief.
“Your mother used to work here, you say? Who’s your mother?”
“Bebe Burlock.”
“Bebe Burlock?” Wesley said. “Bebe was one of my best dancers. As I recall, she ran off with some crazy Injun.”
“Kajika.”
“That’s right, Kajika,” Wesley said. “Crazy-ass Indian. Always rambling on about opening a bike shop in Florida or somewhere.”
Nisa was thunderstruck. Her father had been a drunken Indian? And her mother had been a stripper? Maybe Declan had been right about them after all.
“Small world, huh?” Wesley said. “Tell your mom Wes sends his regards. So, what are you having?”
Nisa reached in her purse and laid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “Shots of tequila, and keep ‘em coming.”
Wesley Friel regretted the decision to serve Nisa so much alcohol in such a short period of time. She looked on the verge of passing out. Fortunately, there was a cot in the office she could sleep on until she sobered up in the morning.
Wesley placed the last few empty beer bottles in a plastic bag and carried it out the back door to the trash. In the corner of the lot was a woman with a large bag over her shoulder, standing next to a white van. “We’re closed,” Wesley called out, and the woman climbed into the van and started the engine.
Wesley locked the back door and went to the office to do some paperwork. Ten minutes later, Wesley found himself thinking about the frumpy woman in the parking lot. Then he found himself wondering if he’d locked the front door. Normally that was the first thing he did right at midnight.
He walked through the bar to the front door and—sure enough—it was unlocked. He turned the key and pulled on the handle to make sure it was secure. It was only then, when Wesley turned around, that he noticed the girl at the bar was gone.
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
Stan Lee turned the van’s headlights off fifty yards from the house, driving slowly and peering through the darkness to see if anything was happening next door. Except for a light or two, everything seemed quiet. Apparently the Mulvaney’s had no idea anything serious had happened.
Stan Lee pulled up to his house, turned off the engine, and listened. Not a sound from outside or from the back of the van. He felt comfortable that he’d injected the 120-pound woman with enough of the tranquillizer to keep her unconscious.
He swung open the rear door of the van.
Yes, she was still out. Which was good. He’d learned over the years that it was always easier to get a woman in the house when she was unconscious.
Fifteen minutes later, Stan Lee rolled Nisa into the kill room at the end of the tunnel, fifteen feet underground.
Stan Lee glanced at his watch. It was 3:20 a.m. She should have been awake by now. He checked for a pulse but couldn’t find one. Shit. She was in cardiac arrest.
Stan Lee ran to the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of epinephrine and a syringe. He tried to get the point of the needle into the bottle, but his hands were shaking so badly he stuck himself twice in the process.
Finally, he was able to draw the liquid into the syringe. Then he plunged the needle into Nisa’s thigh.
Come on, breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Chapter Eight
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
MARCH 15, 1991
When Alistar agreed to have tea with Onyx Webb for the first time five years earlier, he did it out of sympathy—that and guilt for having used his law license for something so despicable as to have the elderly woman evicted from her home.
What Alistar hadn’t expected was how important the visits would become, even with the discomfort of sitting on the cold spiral staircase where he could not see her. Not only was it strange, it was—if he was being honest—a bit creepy. Yet he’d continued to come. Why?
“What shall we talk about today?” Onyx asked after they’d settled in and had begun drinking their tea. When Alistar did not respond quickly, Onyx knew something was weighing on the man. “I detect a certain listlessness in you, Mr. Ashley. Is something on your mind?”
Alistar was always surprised at Onyx’s intuitive ability to read his moods, even without the benefit of facial expressions and body language. “Is it that obvious?” Alistar asked.
“It is.”
“My daughter, Rainbow, died of a drug overdose fifteen years ago. Today.”
“I’m sorry,” Onyx said.
“Unfortunately, we came to understand that addictions are not like other illnesses. They can’t simply be cut out or cured. Rainbow didn’t have the strength to fight it, and I’m not sure Kizzy and I were of much help.”
Alistar had mentioned Rainbow before, here and there, but never went into detail about her death. Nor had he spoken much of his grandson, Noah. He never spoke about Kizzy all that much either. The conversations were almost always about Onyx and little else.
“Certainly you don’t blame yourselves?”
“Oh, but we do,” Alistar said. “Even though we failed Rainbow, we adopted Noah and raised him as our own. With any luck, we’ll do a better job this time around.”
“How old is Noah now?” Onyx asked.
“Noah is sixteen,” Alistar said.
“And the father?” Onyx asked.
“I’m his father,” Alistar said. “Listen, Onyx, would it be okay if we postponed our talk today. Perhaps—”
“Do you have a picture of your daughter?” Onyx asked. “I’d love to see it.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Perhaps you could leave it on the step,” Onyx said. “I will return it on your next visit.”
Onyx waited until the Aston Martin’s engine started and the car drove off before going down to retrieve the photograph Alistar had left on the stairs.
When she saw it, Onyx felt sick.
On the left side of the picture stood Alistar. On the other side, opposite him, was a woman Onyx assumed to be Alistar’s wife, Kizzy. And there, in the middle—between the two—was a teenage girl. Onyx recognized her immediately.
There was no doubt about it. Onyx never forgot the face of someone she had taken.
Onyx had been in the woods when she detected the scent of a drug addict on the road to certain death—the unmistakable odor of disease and hopelessness. But she hadn’t noticed the child in the car seat in the corner of the cabin until it was too late.
Onyx now knew the girl she’d taken that evening had been Alistar and Kizzy’s daughter. And the child she’d found and taken to the church was their grandson, Noah.
Chapter Nine
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
OCTOBER 6, 2010
Robyn passed through the gauntlet of people with signs and was let through at the gate to the mansion. She wasn’t sure how Koda did it, having to be in a state of dodging young girls and dealing with the constant media frenzy. It was rumored that Celebrity Planet paid $100,000 for the photos secretly taken of him at the hospital.
Robyn had about as much access to Koda Mulvaney as anyone lately but had never so much as considered taking pictures and selling them. Mika on the other hand? Robyn would never put anything past Mika.
Twenty minutes later, after getting settled in one of the mansions eleven guest rooms, Robyn was escorted to the exercise room by the Mulvaney’s head of security, an overly formal man in an odd-looking hat, named Stormy Boyd.
“Koda is just finishing his physical therapy session, but he wanted you brought down when you arrived,” Stormy said.
Exercise room was a misnomer. It was more of an exercise facility, almost as large as the health spa Robyn belonged to, and with every piece of equipment imaginable. Two treadmills, a stationary bike, an elliptical machine, a stair climber, a Nordic Track, free weights and assorted Nautilus machines.
There was also a punching bag and an ice bath.
Koda was lying on his back on an exercise mat, the physical therapist holding up one of his legs into a stretch. If the girls outside
could see this, Robyn thought.
“Who’s the boxer?” Robyn asked.
“My grandfather,” Koda said. “Watch out, he’s got a mean right hook.”
“So I’ve heard,” Robyn said. “I like the exercise room. How much is the membership?”
“This? This is nothing,” Koda said. “You should see Ryan Phillipe’s gym. It’s two stories, with a spa and a pool with underwater speakers—all very Zen-like. And don’t even get me started about Mark Wahlberg.”
The therapist carefully lowered Koda’s leg. “Good job, Koda. You’re done for the day. Tomorrow, same time?”
Koda nodded.
Robyn waited for the therapist to leave, then said: “Okay, I’ve got to ask—what’s with the creepy guy with the hat?”
“Stormy? He’s a friend of my grandfather’s,” Koda said. “I don’t know the whole story, but it’s got to do with the land deal that started everything, and my grandfather trusts him. He does come off a bit formal.”
“You think?” Robyn said. “When he opened the door to the gym, it felt like I was being shown to my box at the Met.”
Koda laughed and got up off the mat.
“Your speech sounds good,” Robyn said. “You should have heard how you sounded the first few days after the coma, you were a real mess.”
“Really?”
“Oh my God. Slurring your words, saying things in the reverse order, like ‘I’ve got to the bathroom go.’ People were starting to call you ‘Yoda’ rather than Koda.”
“I hope no one got it on tape.” Koda said, grabbing a three-ring binder off the floor.
“What’s that?”
“This? This is the drip,” Koda said. “The Daily Rehabilita-tion Protocol—a checklist of every activity I’ve got to complete to continue my rehab at home.”
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