The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  “I love you,” he whispered, his hand running from her face, over her chest, down to her center.

  He thrust again, and she shattered, stars bursting behind her lids.

  Brayden groaned, leaned over even as he stroked her still. Mumbling against her lips, he said, “That smile. I love that smile I can give you.”

  Her grin grew then faded on a moan as he took her back up . . .

  • • •

  Lieutenant Morris sat astride a chair in the interrogation room.

  “Come on, Ivan, talk to us,” Gabe coaxed.

  Mr. Ristovolich had been in jail for hours, while his prints were run and they tried to ascertain whether he was even a U.S. citizen, which he was not. No visa, no passport, not even a green card.

  Gabe shook his head. At least the man should have a fake one, wouldn’t he? For God’s sake, his boss was a U.S. congressman.

  Or maybe Ristovolich did, indeed, have fraudulent papers. Ivan had been in this country long enough to know that he couldn’t go anywhere without some sort of identification.

  So why had he?

  Unless he wanted to get caught?

  Gabe frowned down at his watch.

  Four a.m.? God, could it be?

  “Why did you want to kill Mr. Kinncaid?” Gabe asked.

  Something flickered in the darkened depths of Ristovolich’s eyes.

  “Or maybe you didn’t?”

  Eyes shifted from his.

  Gabe ran his hand through his hair. Why couldn’t the guy talk? Ivan knew English. They’d been in here for over an hour.

  A knock at the door preceded the person walking through it.

  “Who the hell are you?” Gabe asked, standing.

  The man extended his hand, and for a moment Gabe experienced déjà vu. Running through his memory, Gabe tried to place the face, but nothing came to mind.

  Something about the man . . .

  “I’m Duncan Gregor, from Immigration and Naturalization Services.” He propped a briefcase on the table. “I’m here to represent Mr. Ristovolich.” The locks on his briefcase clicked in the small confines of the room. “We wouldn’t want anyone crying ‘foul’ for any reason later, would we?” Gregor asked, sitting down in a chair beside Ristovolich.

  Duncan Gregor had burnished red hair, rosy cheeks, as if he didn’t get out in the sun much, bright green eyes, and was a bit overweight. Yet something about the man was familiar.

  Shaking off the thought, Gabe cleared his throat. “No, that’s true.”

  Gregor shot off a stream of some guttural language.

  Ivan, after a moment, shook his head and answered in the same tongue. The conversation between the two men flew and every bit of it was beyond Gabe. Though he thought he heard a niet, and thought that was “no.” Maybe not. Gregor shook his head and said, “English.”

  Ristovolich ran his tongue around his teeth. Finally, he tilted his head toward Gabe and said, “I want deal.”

  His accent was so heavy, the man sounded like he was swallowing the l on the end of his last word.

  “A deal?” Gabe asked.

  Ivan nodded. “A trade. I get deal, you get dirt.”

  “How much dirt?” Gregor asked, then looked at Gabe. “I read through the file. A U.S. congressman. I must say you have balls.”

  Gabe found his first smile in a long while. “That’s what they tell me.” Standing, he strode to the door, then around the room.

  “What dirt?” he asked, leaning on the table.

  Ivan shrugged. “Depends.”

  “On?”

  A furrow appeared between Ivan’s bushy brows. “You said . . . you said . . .”

  “I said?” Gabe asked.

  “You said, she thought I help?”

  Christian.

  “Does it matter?” Gabe inquired.

  Ivan nodded.

  Gabe sighed. “Yes, that’s what she said. We got your name and visual I.D. from her. She seems to think you want to escape.”

  Deep lines appeared on either side of the man’s mouth. “I want deal. I want immunity, if I can. If not and I must go to prison, it is no less than I deserve. I want asylum here in United States and I want my family brought over from Lithuania. I have wife, two daughters and son. I want us all to be able to live here.”

  Gabe thought for a moment. “You won’t do this out of the goodness of your own heart?”

  Ivan sighed. “I do have family. If he got away, he would hurt them. They are all I have in this world.”

  Gabe looked to Gregor.

  What the hell kind of last name was Gregor, anyway? Four a.m. God, he needed sleep.

  Gregor shot off another burst of indiscernible words. Ivan shook his head, his hands gesturing while he said something back.

  Gabe leaned against the wall and waited. After several moments he cleared his throat.

  Gregor looked up, frowning. “Sorry, he speaks Russian easier than English.”

  “What did he say?” Gabe asked.

  The man smiled. “Client-attorney privilege, Lieutenant.”

  Prick.

  “But,” Gregor continued, smoothing a hand down his perfectly buttoned suit, “I would advise you to push for a deal. I think we both know he’s full of all sorts of information.”

  Gabe knew that.

  “I can get it through INS, but you need to push it with the powers that be, here.”

  True.

  It would be another couple of hours before the captain was in, but he could call him. This was a big case, or would be once it was blown wide open. God, the headlines danced in his head like poisoned sugarplums.

  Striding through the door, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  • • •

  Duncan Gregor, to those present, waited through the interview, and was not all that shocked at what he heard.

  He’d known coming in that either Ivan Ristovolich hadn’t known a hell of a lot about bombs or he knew enough that he’d rigged the Hummer purposefully the way he had. Come to think of it, Ian had never heard of anyone wiring the device to the door locks. And his suspicion was proven.

  “I did not want to kill the Kinncaid man. He’s a good man with a little girl. I have gotten old. I never liked the blood money Mr. Burbanks gave me. I put it all away, could not use it. So I wired car to explode with locks. Everyone has little pad today to unlock door way before.” Ivan leaned up on his elbows.

  Well, that right there might save Mr. Ristovolich’s life, though he didn’t know it.

  Ian typed things into a laptop. He wasn’t about to actually write something. That was far too telling. Writing scribbles on the clipboard at the crash site with his left hand was one thing. In here, it was too confined and he knew they were being watched. Call him paranoid.

  So, it was the laptop that he plugged everything into.

  “Why didn’t you ever just leave?” Lieutenant Morris asked.

  Ian looked over his screen as Ivan muttered a Russian curse.

  “Fear is strange thing, Lieutenant,” Ivan said.

  Morris’s look said he honestly couldn’t understand that.

  Lieutenant Morris was a black-and-white kind of guy, an either/or man. For him there were no shades of gray.

  For Ian—there was nothing but. The lieutenant might be a decorated special crimes detective, but he still didn’t understand the basis of human emotions that led to actions.

  Fear fed power, an entrée Ian had seen too many times to discount with a shake of his head.

  No, Ian understood power, and probably entirely too well. He shrugged as he typed in more information. Power was in a gray realm, with a hierarchy all its own.

  “What was the threat the congressman held over you?”

  Ivan sighed. “He promised he would help me become a citizen if I helped him.”

  “But he never did, did he?” Morris asked.

  Ivan shook his head. “And he promised to bring my Tatiana over with the children. I have never met my
son.”

  If Ian had a heart left, he might feel sorry for the guy, but he had no such qualms.

  “Take us through it all again,” Morris said, sitting down.

  Hell, once was good enough for Ian, and they’d already been through it twice, but not for the good boys in blue. Ian knew when a man told all and when he’d lied about something. Mr. Ristovolich had not lied about anything. Ian really didn’t need any more information. He had all he needed.

  “Problem, Gregor?” Morris asked him.

  Ian checked his watch. “No, but I have another meeting in an hour.”

  After the first run-through, Morris had put in for his warrant to search the Burbank home in Portland. A judge only listened to about half the evidence before signing it.

  God bless older judges with three young granddaughters.

  Morris was not a stupid man, he knew who to call to get the ball rolling. And since it was a United States congressman who allegedly committed crimes in three states, Morris even got permission for the best crime scene team in Oregon, out of Portland. They worked for both the locals and the feds and all of them were new, the task force having been created only a couple of years ago by none other than former state’s attorney general Richard Burbanks.

  Irony was a wonderful thing.

  Morris, the not-so-stupid man, was studying him again. Ian only raised a brow. “Problem, Morris?” he asked.

  “Have we met?”

  Inwardly, Ian laughed, but he only smiled to the lieutenant. “No, I don’t believe so, why?”

  “Something about you is familiar.”

  “Well, if you figure out what it is, let me know.”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Sir?”

  “Yes?” Morris answered the uniform.

  “You have a call in the conference room from Portland, sir. A Detective Stalinski says it’s urgent.”

  Morris left the room and Ian wondered how he could find out the contents of that phone call.

  Chapter 22

  Christian and Brayden laughed as they got on the elevator the next morning.

  They thought they’d give his parents the good news, but Kaitlyn and Jock had already left.

  “Wait up,” Quinlan hollered.

  “Getting a late start this morning, aren’t you? It’s almost six thirty, Quin,” Brayden said.

  “I’ve been up and solving problems for over an hour, brother dear.” His gaze ran over them and Christian couldn’t help but grin.

  “No need to say why you two are just now getting up and about,” Quinlan mumbled.

  She laughed. “Aw, come on. Don’t you want to know?”

  He actually blushed.

  Both she and Brayden laughed.

  “We had some celebrating to do,” Brayden said, leaning down to kiss her.

  And what a celebration it had been.

  “Really? And what is there to celebrate? Did I miss the news flash that this guy had been caught?”

  Christian straightened and watched as the humor fled from Brayden’s face.

  “Well, actually, we did talk to the cops last night and Christian finally gave them a name.”

  She looked down and swallowed.

  “And his name would be?” Quinlan said.

  Brayden’s hand on hers tightened. She cleared her throat. “Richard Burbanks.”

  “The congressman?”

  Brayden started against her. “You know him?”

  “Hell! I shook the bastard’s hand.” Quinlan’s eyes burned at her. “Why in the hell didn’t you say something yesterday. He sat right there. Right there in the . . .”

  “In the what?” Brayden asked, looking from her to Quinlan.

  “I forgot to mention something yesterday.”

  “Did you, now, babe?” he asked quietly.

  She threw up her hands. “Yes, I did. Scared the hell out of me when I walked in and saw him. Heard his damn voice. But you know what? I got mad, Brayden. I was so furious, I didn’t care. And I felt good, because I knew what I was going to do, knew what evidence there was against him, and he had no clue. No clue.”

  Quinlan was muttering as they reached the bottom.

  Again she threw up her hands. “I’m sorry. But I’d do it again. There.”

  “Hey.” Quinlan reached out and grabbed her hand. “What is this?”

  He smiled his one-dimpled grin.

  “And here I thought you were so smart,” Brayden said.

  “Most people call it an engagement ring, dear,” she said.

  Quinlan rolled his eyes. “’Bout damn time. Congratulations.” Then he shook his head, muttering about bastards and sons of bitches.

  He strode off through the lobby.

  “Well, that went well, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “Come on, and try to remember if you forgot to inform me of anything else.”

  • • •

  A warrant? There was a damn warrant out for his arrest? His? He was a Representative to the United States Congress! His career and reputation were spotless. How in the ever-living hell had this happened?

  He wouldn’t even know about it, if not for someone in the Portland police department. The sergeant had called him, but then he always had. Greed was a wonderful motivator.

  The girl had guts. She’d always had guts.

  Richard looked at his watch, trying to decide what to do. He could stay and fight it, but by God, they’d been to his house. His damn house.

  He knew what they’d found.

  He should have listened to Estella all along and destroyed what was in that room and just killed Josephine. But damn if he had been able to let go. Estella was right, he was weak. Josephine made him weak.

  This storm . . . The fallout . . . God. D.C. was a place of survival; the first to turn on the unwary, the unlucky, the revealed were colleagues and former friends.

  The headlines . . .

  Thinking quickly and estimating the time he had left, Richard grabbed his wallet, checking the amount of cash he had on hand. Not enough. He reached for his cell phone, but that would never do, neither would his car keys. They’d find him too damn easily then. Entirely too easily.

  He hurried down the stairs. Looking back up toward his wife’s room. No need to wake her. She’d slept through the phone, and if he did tell her, he’d only have to hear how she’d told him so. How she would never be able to hold her head up. How no one would like her now . . .

  In his study, the early morning light slanted through the windows. No snow today, thank goodness.

  He swiveled the Renoir out of his way to reveal the safe behind.

  It must be going on seven. He had to get out of here.

  Quick and deft, he spun the lock. Inside, he took out several thousand dollars.

  No one knew of his place off the North Carolina coast, a cottage on a lonely island. He’d bought it earlier in the summer under another name, right after he’d learned of Josephine’s location, long before he won the election. It was going to be his and Josephine’s special place. Now, she’d get to see it. He could take her out on his boat. Just the two of them.

  He shoved the money into his coat pocket and shut the safe.

  From the back of his chair, he grabbed his coat.

  The French doors opened and shut silently. The frozen ground crunched under his shoes. He turned and looked back, noting his tracks were visible. Hell.

  Cursing the season, he ran around in circles. To the edge of the woods, around and around, scuffing his feet along the ground to make a muck of things.

  Finally, satisfied at the chaos he’d made of the frosted and dead grass, he took off through the woods, careful to brush away tracks.

  It took him longer to get through the woods than he would have liked.

  At the edge of them, he looked toward the large gray stone house sitting on the rise.

  How was he going to get in?

  Same as before, he supposed.

  But the police would suspect he’d been here.


  A plan.

  Damn if he didn’t have a plan, and he’d always had a plan. But he never thought she’d actually betray him.

  Josephine wasn’t even here. She was in town with the family at the hotel. Taking a deep breath, he watched as his exhale fogged in the early morning light.

  He would bet the party was still on. No one had mentioned otherwise, and even if it wasn’t, they had to come home at some point.

  The trick was in finding a place to hide until things settled down. And in a house that size, there were many hiding places.

  Sliding away from the cover of the forest, he hurried to the side door.

  No wait.

  Test the waters.

  Taking a deep breath, he quickly changed his plans.

  He walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

  • • •

  Dressed in gray clothing, so as to blend into the early morning light, Ian Kinncaid slid quietly up the stairs. His hunch was that Mr. Burbanks had already fled. Someone had tipped the bastard off. The safe had been opened, its contents rifled through, and not very thoroughly.

  Was the congressman agitated?

  He smiled as he eased around the corner and down a hallway. Voices and clatters drifted up from what Ian assumed was the kitchen. The house was getting ready to serve its master his food.

  Too bad one of them hadn’t laced it with a little arsenic. He shrugged. Though cyanide would work too. Either or, they both got the job done.

  Whatever got the job done.

  Ian was determined to get this damn job finished.

  Time was running out. He could feel it. He needed to finish this, not only for his family, but there were people waiting on him. People who did not like to be kept waiting.

  Focusing on the task at hand. He listened at one door, the silence beyond beckoning. Carefully, he cracked the door. The soft scent of a flowery perfume drifted on the air. Mrs. Burbanks.

  He gently eased the door shut.

  At the next one, he listened and opened it. The heavy smell of aftershave, mixed with the dark leathers, told him whose room this was.