No One Left to Tell

by Karen Rose

  “For how long?”

  “Years. Before Stevie’s husband and little boy were murdered.”

  She blew out a breath. “You’re sure?”

  “No. Now I’m not.” Grayson shoved a hand through his hair. “What am I going to say to Stevie? The guy who you trusted with your life is a stone-cold killer?”

  “Maybe I can find something online with his voice. An old interview or something. Then you can be sure before you tell her. I’ll have to use your computer, since mine’s in pieces. Where are my clothes?”

  “Downstairs where you left them. Use my robe.” He pulled on a pair of sweats. “I’ll log you in to my computer, then I’ll walk the dog. It’s daylight. It should be fine.”

  “I’m not worried about this Dandridge. He spared you, twice. I’m worried about the guy who planted the bomb. And about the guy in the photograph, paying off Sandoval. I’m worried about where Brittany Jones is, and what trouble she’s brewing. Just take Peabody out back again. I’ll ask Clay to exercise him.” She bit her lip. “Oh crap. Clay spent the night at the Peabody Hotel. He’s probably worried about me.”

  “No, he’s not. Stevie found him there last night. He knows you’re okay.”

  “Good. Then let’s confirm Silas Dan—” Fierce barking cut into the quiet and Paige paled. “Peabody.” She reached for her gun, then realized she wore Grayson’s robe. “Shit.” She threw open the door and ran down the stairs.

  He was close on her heels, but not close enough to grab her. “Paige. Stop.”

  She stopped abruptly, halfway down the stairs. He nearly plowed her over, which would have sent them both headfirst into the foyer.

  Where Joseph stood very still, his back against the front door. The gun in his hand was pointed at Peabody, who growled low in his throat, teeth bared.

  “Peabody, down,” Paige said quickly and the dog instantly obeyed.

  Joseph’s shoulders sagged. He lowered his gun and raised his brows at the sight of them on the stairs. “I guess I won’t be dropping by unannounced anymore.”

  “I thought you put on the alarm,” Paige said to Grayson.

  “He knows the master code,” Grayson said, bypassing her on the stairs. He took the leash from the hook beside the door. “Come on, Peabody.”

  “Why doesn’t the damn dog growl at him?” Joseph demanded.

  “Because I told him that Grayson was okay,” Paige said, pulling the sides of Grayson’s robe more snugly together.

  “Do you plan to tell him that I’m okay?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t figured out if you are yet.”

  “I brought your stuff from the hotel.” He opened the front door and retrieved the suitcase and the bag of kibble from the porch. “I also brought you both cell phones. They’re not your old numbers, but they’ll do until you get replacement phones from your providers.” He held up a plastic drugstore bag. “And a toothbrush for you.”

  Paige crept down the remaining stairs, very aware that she was naked under Grayson’s robe and that Joseph knew it. His eyes sparkled with laughter even though the rest of his face remained stoically unmoving.

  “I could tell Peabody you’re temporarily okay,” Paige hedged. “For the toothbrush.”

  “What if I made you coffee?”

  “Then I’d worship you forever.” He laughed and Paige blinked. His face was transformed when he laughed. She remembered that Grayson’s mother had said he’d been born angry and wondered why. “Of course there’s no deal if the coffee sucks.”

  “I wouldn’t expect it.” He measured her, up and down. “Are you both all right?” he asked, suddenly sober again. “I went out to the scene. There’s nothing left of his car.”

  “We’re okay. We were lucky. If that warning had come thirty seconds later…” She followed him through the dining room, where he stopped and she felt her cheeks light on fire. Her clothes were everywhere. Grayson’s pants were still in a heap where he’d left them—on the floor next to the table. Next to her pants and a single boot. She had no idea where the other boot had landed.

  Joseph coughed, but Paige knew it was a smothered laugh.

  “Go ahead and say it,” she sighed. “Yes, we were lucky and we got lucky, too.”

  “Not touching that with a ten-foot pole,” he said, going into the kitchen, leaving her to pick up their clothes in a rush.

  “I’ll be back,” she said loudly. “I need to change.”

  “You, um, do that,” Joseph said and she peeked into the kitchen. His shoulders shook as he measured out the coffee. He was laughing so hard he spilled a scoop on the counter and had to start over again.

  “How long before your sisters hear about this?” she asked from the doorway.

  “Ten minutes, fifteen tops. Less if they’re all online.”

  “Wonderful.” She took the discarded clothes and her suitcase up the stairs.

  Thursday, April 7, 7:45 a.m.

  “Thanks for letting me stay last night.” Adele slid onto a stool at Krissy’s kitchen counter as her friend made coffee. “I wasn’t sure where else to go.”

  She’d met Krissy at the Y shortly after she and Darren had moved back to Baltimore. Krissy’s baby was about Allie’s age, so they’d attended mommy-baby classes together. But more important at the moment, Krissy had just finalized a nasty divorce. When Adele had finished packing her bag the night before, she’d called Krissy, hoping for a place to stay and some advice.

  On getting a divorce, if it came to that. Hopefully Darren would calm down and realize he’d overreacted. And hopefully I’ll find a way to tell him the truth.

  Adele had no intention of sharing anything more personal with Krissy, such as the medallion she now carried in her purse. She’d tossed and turned all night, worrying about what to do next. Who to ask for help.

  That the medallion and the attempts on her life were connected was a huge stretch. It was more likely a killer had picked her name out of the phone book, despite Darren’s belief that that only happened on TV. Except… They threatened to kill you if you told.

  So I never did. She’d told Theopolis only the basics years before when he’d treated her for her suicide attempts. Even he didn’t know names, places, dates.

  Telling now might do nothing more than help her put her own life back together. But God knew she needed to do that, if only to keep her own child safe. From me.

  She’d debated all the options in her mind, everything from the police to the media to just telling Darren and getting it over with. She’d decided on the first, but with a step in between. The police would never believe her story without proof. She hadn’t even kept the box the chocolates had come in. They’d think she was a crackpot.

  So sometime before dawn she’d decided to hire a PI to find out who was trying to kill her. Once she had proof, she’d go to the cops. If the medallion was connected, she’d tell the media, too.

  In the meantime, she’d plan for the worst. She had to find a way to fight Darren for Allie. He will not take her.

  “I can’t believe Darren did that.” Krissy poured the coffee with a frown. “I liked him.”

  “I’m hurt that he could believe I’d cheat. That he believed the worst about me.”

  Krissy hesitated. “He doesn’t have proof, does he? No pictures or anything.”

  “No,” Adele said forcefully. “Because I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Maybe he’s just upset over his dog.”

  “That didn’t give him the right to treat me that way.”

  “No, it didn’t. It just doesn’t sound like him. He’s always treated you like a goddess.” She shrugged and handed Adele a card. “My lawyer. He was good, but expensive.”

  Adele steeled herself. “How expensive?”

  “His retainer was five thousand. But he’s good,” she said when Adele flinched. “If Darren’s behaving so irrationally, maybe you can use that against him.”

  But I behaved irrationally first. Which Darren would make sure every
one knew.

  “Maybe. When you went through your divorce, did you have pictures?”

  “Hell, yeah. My alimony doubled when my ex saw the pictures. He didn’t want them getting out. They were…” Krissy sipped her coffee. “Damaging.”

  “How did you get the pictures?”

  “I hired a PI. Best money I ever spent.” Krissy wrote down an address. “In case you decide you need some ammunition.”

  Adele frowned. “This isn’t the best part of town.”

  “Just don’t go down there at night. He said his cheap rent keeps his rates down.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give him a call.”

  Thursday, April 7, 7:45 a.m.

  “Coffee and the morning paper, sir?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Please. You can leave the carafe. I think this is a two-cup day.”

  He’d already had his run on the treadmill in his private gym. He’d showered and was ready for a healthy breakfast before work. Back to normal. Normal was good.

  It was nice to return to routine. No crashing minivans. No staged suicides. No managing Silas Dandridge. And no PI and state’s attorney harassing everyone.

  The maid set the newspaper next to his laptop, poured his coffee, opened the drapes across his picture window, and bowed out discreetly, as she did every normal morning.

  He settled in his chair and checked his cell phone. Then frowned. He’d expected a text from Kapansky. The man should have been in Dunkirk, New York, by now. Brittany Jones should be dead by now. He dialed Kapansky’s number.

  And his frown deepened when the call went straight to voice mail. Kapansky had turned off his phone. The man knew better than that.

  A bad feeling chipped away at his normal good mood. He unfolded the paper and read the headline with fury, dread, and disbelief. STATE’S ATTORNEY SURVIVES CAR BOMB.

  What the hell? He read, fury quickly overwhelming the other emotions. It just got worse. Both Smith and the woman had survived by leaping from the car seconds before the explosion. How could they have known? They couldn’t possibly have known.

  Unless they’d been warned. He came to his feet, pacing his office floor. Silas. It had to have been Silas. But Kapansky had killed him. He stopped abruptly, his blood gone cold.

  Unless Kapansky had failed. He’d instructed Kapansky to text him last night. He’d been with credible other people for the express purpose of an alibi. He hadn’t wanted to receive a call that people would remember. I should have had him call me.

  I should have made sure I heard his voice.

  Now Silas was on the warpath. His next step was… Me. He thinks his family is safely hidden. So he’ll come after me. He turned, realizing just how Silas would do it.

  From far away. With a sniper’s rifle. Fuck.

  He dove and rolled, pressing flat against the wall below the window that ran the length of the room. Just as the plate glass above him exploded. Shards of glass filled the air like snow, catching the morning light like a million prisms.

  The moments after were quiet, then he could hear the noise from the street, twenty-five stories below. The door was thrown open, his maid’s face ashen.

  “Get back!” he barked.

  She obeyed, jumping back a foot. “Should I call 911?”

  “No.” He swallowed hard, sitting up gingerly, keeping his head below the window frame. “Call the glass cutter. Have him replace the window. Then clean up the mess.”

  The maid nodded unsteadily. “Any special kind of glass?”

  “Yeah.” The shock was wearing off, rage rapidly taking its place. “As bulletproof as he can get. And, Millie? It was a bird. The biggest goddamn bird you ever saw. Clear?”

  She nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

  He waited until she was gone to crawl across the room, avoiding the jagged pebbles littering the carpet. Silas had made a whole lot of critical errors.

  Killing Kapansky was one. Not that Kapansky was worth too much mourning, but it meant Brittany Jones was still alive. She was only an irritant, though. As long as he kept paying her, she’d keep her mouth shut.

  Warning the prosecutor and the PI was a bigger issue, but still manageable. They were on Rex’s trail and that was fine with him. Lousy, good-for-nothing addict. Let them arrest him. This time no one would be running to his aid. No attorneys would be defending him. Maybe he’d finally wise up and be the man his family needed him to be.

  No. Rex would always be Rex, with that silver spoon stuck up his ass. Rex McCloud isn’t worth my contempt. So let the PI and the prosecutor accuse him.

  And if the prosecutor got testy over the car bomb, there was a money trail for him to follow. It would result in the loss of a key man on the other side of the table, but he had other contacts in the pipeline. Developing a new key man wouldn’t be that hard.

  And if the prosecutor and the PI continued to press closer? Then I’ll take them out myself. He certainly couldn’t fuck it up any worse than Silas had.

  He stood, brushed off his clothes, shook the glass from his hair. Of all the errors Silas made, pissing me off was the worst. Silas thought his family safe, snug in their little Toronto hotel room. He’ll be rethinking that.

  Stepping from the room, he placed another call on his cell.

  “Pearson’s Aviation.”

  “I’m booking a private flight from BWI to Toronto. Steve Pearson is my usual pilot.”

  “I’ll put you in touch with him.”

  “Thank you.” Steve Pearson had a way of managing to fly without leaving nasty records all over the place. Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m going or that I’ve been there. Because if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

  “This is Steve. I can fly you there this morning. Flight time is forty minutes.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have at least one passenger on my way back.”

  “Not a problem. When should I meet you at the runway?”

  He had to get all the glass out of his hair. “Ninety minutes tops.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Eighteen

  Thursday, April 7, 7:45 a.m.

  Feeling more confident now that she wore actual clothing, Paige rejoined Grayson and Joseph in the kitchen. Grayson sat, staring miserably into his cup of coffee. A shiny new laptop was on the table.

  Joseph pointed to it, all smile gone from his face. “Yours until you get yourself a new one. Grayson said you needed to run a search.”

  She sat down and pulled it to her. “Thank you. You could probably find this faster.”

  “I probably could. But I hear you’re good at uncovering information. I’m making omelets,” he said before she could respond. “You want?”

  “Please.” She logged in to her news-article database while Joseph poured her a cup of coffee. Dandridge, Silas, she typed and began sorting the results. She glanced at Grayson. “‘There is no try.’ Why did that particular phrase trigger your memory?”

  “He said it when he wanted a warrant and I’d say, ‘I’ll try.’ He did the whole quote.”

  Joseph looked up from whisking the eggs. “What quote?”

  “It’s from The Empire Strikes Back,” Grayson told him. “Yoda says it.”

  “‘Do or do not. There is no try.’ My karate master said it, too.” Paige refocused on the screen. “Here’s a file photo of Dandridge.” She turned the laptop so that he could see.

  “It’s not the guy who paid Sandoval,” Grayson said, “but he’s the same size as the man who dragged Logan away. Same hands. Silas has hands like frying pans.”

  Joseph folded the omelet. “Would you have believed Silas could kill like this?”

  “No,” Grayson said without hesitation. “I knew him to be honest. Devoted, even.”

  “What does that mean, devoted?” Joseph asked.

  “He was passionate when he believed in a cause. He was there for Stevie when Paul was killed, in ways the rest of us couldn’t have been. He was her partner.”

  “Then what cou
ld have made him turn this way?” Paige asked softly.

  “I don’t know. It’s taking every ounce of my self-control not to call his house, just to hear his voice again. I need to know if I’m crazy or I’m right.”

  “Give me a few minutes,” she said. She ate breakfast while she sifted through the videos and articles that were returned on the search of Silas Dandridge’s name. Finally she found an old clip in which he spoke. “He was interviewed by the local news about a homicide.” She hit play and Grayson shut his eyes, listening intently.

  “No comment. Any questions should be sent to the office of public relations.”

  By watching his face, she knew.

  “It’s him,” Grayson said hoarsely. “I need to tell Stevie. We need to bring him in.”

  Paige darted a quick glance at Joseph, saw he shared her misgivings. “Wait,” she said when Grayson reached for his phone. “I believe you, but who else will? It’s your word—and right now, your boss has painted you as unable to handle Homicide.”

  “She’s right,” Joseph said. “If you bring him in now, all he’ll do is deny everything. Think about what might motivate a good cop to go so bad. Get some proof first.”

  “Maybe his family was being threatened,” Grayson said. “Or he was blackmailed.”

  “Either are options,” Joseph said. “What do you know about this guy’s family?”

  “He’s married with a daughter.” Grayson tried to recall. “We never talked much about home or family. We were both all about the job. The only time I ever saw him outside of work was at the gym in the mornings. And twice at the firing range.”

  Paige saw the flicker of sad realization in his eyes. “Good shot, huh?” she asked.

  “Really good. He could have made the shot that killed Elena Muñoz. Easily.” Grayson’s mouth firmed to a hard line. “Run a background on him. Please.”

  “He’s fifty-six years old,” she said when the results came up. “Wife, Rose, forty-nine, daughter Cherri, twenty-five, and daughter Violet, seven.”

  “Run Cherri,” Grayson said. “He mentioned Rose and Violet, but never Cherri.”

  An entry on the first page of results had Paige sighing. “Cherri died seven years ago in West Virginia. She was eighteen. I’ll pull the official death cert in a minute. She was married in Maryland at age seventeen. Groom was Richard Higgins, nineteen.”