by Karen Rose
Anderson stared at him. “And why wouldn’t I?”
“I’m not without resources.”
Laughter lit Anderson’s eyes, filled his voice. “You’re offering to pay me? Grayson, I’m appalled. I would never accept money from you. This meeting is over.”
Grayson waited until Anderson had risen from his chair before he spoke. “Why won’t you take money from me? You take it from everyone else.”
Anderson froze. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Bob Bond’s money was good enough when you two fixed cases together.”
“We did not,” Anderson declared. But his eyes had changed. He was scared. Good.
“My adopted family is quite well-off. But then you know that, since you know so much about me. Even if I don’t borrow from them, I’ve invested well. I can pay more than Bond did. Much more.” He drew his checkbook from his pocket. “How much, Charlie?”
Anderson lifted his chin. “I can’t be bought.”
“So you did it for free? Somehow I don’t think so. How many wealthy families got their kids off burglary and drug charges with your ‘help’? How’s that going to look when it starts to come out? Bob Bond’s death is being reopened as a homicide by the police. We’ll get access to all of his bank records. How much will be traced to you?”
Grayson wanted to throw the quarter million in Anderson’s offshore accounts in his boss’s face, but technically he didn’t know about that. Not all of it anyway. He wasn’t sure where Stevie got her information from, but once she’d told the cops to look at Kapansky’s mother more closely, they’d uncovered the payment from Anderson.
So the most important information, the thirty grand to Kapansky, he could use. It was back-door discovery, but Grayson found he could live with that.
“Bob Bond committed suicide,” Anderson said, but his eyes said he knew the truth.
“No, he didn’t. He died just like Denny Sandoval. Drugged, then hung. Tell me, Charlie, how far are you willing to go to keep your secrets?”
Anderson was taking deep breaths. “So you’re blackmailing me now? That’s rich.”
Actually, Grayson had been talking about the bomb Anderson had paid for, but he could flow with it. “Clever choice of words. I might say we’re even. I won’t expose your dirty secret if you don’t expose mine.”
A muscle in Anderson’s cheek twitched. “We might say that.”
“We might, except for the thirty grand.”
The man’s eyes flickered. “What are you talking about?”
“The thirty grand you transferred to Harlan Kapansky’s mother. I see that you know who Kapansky is.”
Anderson went pale. “No. You’re lying.”
“You don’t know who he is?” Grayson mocked. “Then it was stupid to pay his mom.”
“I didn’t pay him. I don’t know anything about that. You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. I have the bank records if you want to see them. Your name is clearly listed as owner of the account the thirty grand was transferred from. Why would I lie?”
“To make me look bad so no one will believe me when I tell them about you.”
“I think all your case fixing will make you look bad enough, Charlie. You don’t need my help. And if I was lying about Kapansky, which I’m not, the guy who really paid him will walk free. Maybe he’d even try again. It makes no sense for me to lie.”
Anderson faltered. “No. It’s not possible. I did not pay Harlan Kapansky.”
“Check it for yourself. It’s in your bank.”
Anderson took out his phone, wiping a sweaty palm on his trousers. He slowly typed in a lot of numbers and his face went ashen. “Sonofabitch.”
“Told you,” Grayson said.
“This account isn’t mine. I didn’t pay Kapansky. I didn’t pay to have you killed.”
Yeah, right. But he’d play along. “Then who did?”
“Let me think.” Anderson shoved his hands in his hair. “After Bond died, there was someone else at his firm. Someone brokering the deals. Not just with me. I can name names of other attorneys fixing deals. But I did not pay for your murder.”
Grayson frowned. Anderson sounded almost credible. “Who’s the broker?”
“I don’t know. I never talked to him.”
“What about Muñoz? Whose idea was it for me to take lead chair against him?”
Anderson turned for the door.
“We have so much on you,” Grayson said softly. “It’ll be better if you cooperate. Maybe we can even make a deal.”
Anderson’s shoulders sagged. “Mine. It was my idea.”
“Who paid off Sandoval and Brittany Jones?”
Surprise and hate flickered in Anderson’s eyes. “Bond.”
Grayson pictured Bob Bond in his mind. There was no way the man in the photo Elena had obtained was Bond. The man in the photo was too skinny. “The picture we have can’t be Bond. You saw the picture, so you know.”
“That must have been one of Bond’s flunkies. Stupid enough to get caught on camera.”
“So are you.”
Anderson looked up in the corners, too calmly. “They’re hidden well.”
“That’s kind of the point,” Grayson said mildly.
The next move happened so fast Grayson couldn’t stop it. Anderson pulled a gun from his coat pocket, put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. The shot was deafening, the silence after even more so.
Grayson ran around the table, dropping to one knee beside Anderson. Joseph and Hyatt burst in one door, Stevie in the other, guns drawn. Above their heads a ceiling tile was pushed aside. A guy in tactical gear looked as stunned as everyone else.
Anderson had no pulse. Grayson laid his boss’s arm on the floor, then stood, staring at the body that seconds before had had a whole head. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
For a long moment, everyone stared at Anderson’s body, then at one another. Grayson sank into the nearest chair. “I shouldn’t have told him he was on camera.”
“He knew Bond and the others had been murdered. Knew he’d be next.” Joseph grasped Grayson’s shoulder, hard. “My heart stopped when he pulled out that gun.”
“He made a real mess,” Grayson said dully. “Giuseppe’s gonna be pissed.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Joseph murmured.
“We need that broker,” Stevie said. “We need to find out who in that firm is dirty.”
“It’s a law firm,” Hyatt said. “They’re lawyers. They’re all dirty. No offense, Smith.”
“None taken. It could be anyone at the firm, so we need a list of personnel. I can subpoena their records, but expect them to fight it, if only on principle. This will take a while. We need somebody inside the firm to get us personnel information, give us the lay of the land. Off the record. Somebody a defense attorney will trust.”
Stevie looked at Hyatt. “Thomas Thorne might have connections.”
Hyatt grimaced in distaste. “I do not like that man.”
“He saved Detective Skinner’s life,” Stevie reminded him gently.
“I’ve been in the courtroom with Thorne several times,” Grayson said. “He’s a royal SOB, but I’ve never caught him in a lie. I’ll talk to him.”
“You set it up,” Stevie said, “and I’ll go with you. If he’s not in his law office, he should be at the club in a few hours. And if he won’t listen to us, I’ll sic Lucy on him. Given J.D. just got shot because of all this, Lucy will be very convincing about now.”
“Who’s Lucy?” Joseph asked. “And why would she be more convincing?”
“Lucy’s the ME,” Grayson said. “She’s also engaged to J.D.”
“And she owns a nightclub with Thorne and one of their friends,” Stevie explained. “She can get Thorne to cooperate when nobody else can.”
“I don’t care who gets that asshole to cooperate,” Hyatt barked. “Just do it.”
“I’ll call Thorne on my way to meet Paige,” Grayso
n said. The adrenaline that had him rushing to Anderson’s side was ebbing fast. I need to hold her. Needed her to erase the image of Anderson blowing his brains out. “Unless I have to stay here?”
“No,” Hyatt said. “We’ll clean up. You go.” He added in a begrudging voice, “You did okay, for a lawyer.”
Coming from Hyatt, that was high praise. And yet Grayson wouldn’t accept it. “You’d know none of this if Paige hadn’t come forward,” he said. “She didn’t deserve how you treated her yesterday. And now you know she was right about cop involvement.”
Hyatt rolled his eyes. “I’ll send her a handwritten apology.”
“You do that.” Grayson pushed himself to his feet, his body unsteady. “I’m ready.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Stevie said. “I’m going to the hospital to check on J.D.”
“I’ll drive you to Reba’s building, Grayson,” Joseph said. “I’ll be back to help after.”
Thursday, April 7, 3:40 p.m.
Reba rose when they came in, her eyes showing surprise when Clay followed them.
“My personal security detail,” Daphne said quietly. “I hope you understand.”
“I do,” Reba said. “I became accustomed to having my own detail when my father was in politics.” She gestured to two chairs in front of her desk. “Please.”
It’s showtime, Paige thought, steeling herself to speak the words she’d rehearsed in the car, knowing they would leave an acrid taste in her mouth. “I wanted to apologize. We approached Rex based on information from a source who wasn’t reliable.”
Reba’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Betsy Malone told what happened at your parents’ estate the night Crystal Jones was murdered. We believed her. But she also said she’d been clean for a year. We found that was not the case. She OD’d on barbiturates. She’s dead.”
Paige watched Reba’s face, saw shock spark in her eyes. “That’s terrible. I didn’t like her because of what she’d done to Rex, but I wouldn’t have wished her ill.”
“I know. But when a witness lies about one fact, the rest of their story comes into doubt.” I’m so damn sorry, Betsy. You talked to us and now you’re dead. “We’ve moved on to other persons of interest. I apologize for any distress we caused your family.”
That Rex had killed Crystal was no longer a certainty in her mind. But that the McClouds as a unit were somehow responsible was.
Uttering the disgusting apology had the expected effect.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” Reba said regally. “You’ve apologized for yours.” Obviously she believed that Paige had offered the apology to clear the slate for her own agenda. Obviously Reba considered this business as usual. “Now that we’ve put that unpleasantness aside, how can our foundation help you, Mrs. Elkhart?”
“I am prepared to fund Paige’s endeavor,” Daphne said, “but I have questions about how we’d manage to integrate her martial arts program into the community. We want to serve those with disabilities and from lower-income brackets. Those who would benefit from the self-esteem-building aspects of martial arts, but who cannot afford the fees.”
“Interfacing with district schools and adult vocational programs will be a big part of our kickoff,” Paige added. “I saw that you’d done this successfully at the middle school level and wanted to reapply any approaches that worked well.”
“Our MAC program,” Reba said. “The McCloud Alliance for Children donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to two hundred schools over sixteen years. Add to that the assistance to individual classrooms and families and that amount doubled.”
“Did you track the MAC children?” Daphne asked. “Perhaps discovering how the program changed their lives?”
Reba looked intrigued. “No, we haven’t. Perhaps we should.”
“I’d love to see any material you have on the program,” Daphne said.
“You came to the right place,” Reba said. “I’m the family historian.” Rising, she pulled a three-ring notebook from a shelf. “These are the materials used, the letters we sent to the schools, and the accounting model for the donated funds.”
“May we take notes?” Paige asked.
“Of course.” Reba pointed to a small table off to the side. “You might be more comfortable there. Take all the time you need, Miss Holden.”
Keeping the stunned satisfaction from her expression was hard. Paige carried the notebook to the table, positioning herself so that Reba could see only her back. She took out Joseph’s camera pen. Her practice photos had come out crisp and clear.
As Reba detailed many of the foundations’ other programs for Daphne, Paige looked through the notebook, taking notes for show. Most of the documents were of no importance, mainly invitations and flyers detailing the program itself.
Then she hit the mother lode. Photographs, one group photo for each year of the MAC program’s existence. And behind each photo was a typed list of names, middle schools, and home addresses, identifying each child by where he or she stood in the picture.
She snapped a picture of each photo and each document, pausing when she came to the second-to-the-last photo. On the front row stood a little girl with golden ringlets and a new blue dress. She looked sad. Haunted, even.
Paige’s throat closed. Twenty-year-old Crystal had gone to that party to commit a crime. She’d had something to blackmail somebody with.
Paige moved on to the final year and left the notebook on the table. “I’ve got what we need, Mrs. Elkhart,” she said. “Would you like for me to wait outside?”
“No.” Daphne stood and extended her hand to Reba. “I’d be happy to sponsor a table at the benefit for breast cancer research. I’ll take the other opportunities into consideration and get back to you.”
“That would be fantastic.” Reba walked them back to the receptionist’s desk. “If you’ll give Ann your address, we’ll get the necessary paperwork out to you.”
“If you’ll send the paperwork to Ms. Holden, she can be sure it gets to me.”
“I’ll write down my business address,” Paige said and, unclipping Joseph’s pen from her notebook, wrote the address for Clay’s office. She ripped the page out of the notebook to give to the receptionist as the door to the outside hall opened behind her.
Instantly Daphne moved, placing her body between Paige and the door. But Clay had moved faster, now standing between Paige and Daphne. While not as broad as Grayson’s, Clay’s back was wide enough to effectively block her view.
Clay was accustomed to protecting people, but that Daphne had put herself between Paige and a potential threat made Paige’s heart warm. This was a woman who’d make an excellent friend. And not only because she had a closet of designer clothes. Although that certainly didn’t hurt.
“Reba,” a man said.
“Stuart,” Reba said warmly.
Paige heard a kiss-kiss greeting and let herself relax. Clay also relaxed his stiff stance, but only a fraction. The newcomer was just a client.
“Do we have an appointment?” Reba asked. “You’re not on my calendar.”
“Not today,” Stuart said. “I’m here to see your brother-in-law. Is he here?”
“He’s, um, not back from lunch yet. You can wait in his office. But first, I want you to meet one of our new donors. This is Elizabeth Elkhart. Mrs. Elkhart, this is Stuart Lippman, one of the foundation’s attorneys.”
“I’m happy to meet you,” Daphne said softly.
“We appreciate the generosity of our donors. I hope you’ll keep us smiling,” Stuart added with a charming smile of his own. The door opened once again.
“Stuart!” The greeting was delivered in a drawl, slightly slurred. “Good t’see you.”
Paige could smell the alcohol from where she stood. It was like the guy had bathed in it. It was Louis, Claire’s husband. Stepfather to Rex McCloud.
Louis had been at the estate the night Crystal was murdered. And he’d been old enough to molest little girls throug
h the MAC years, whereas Rex had been a child.
“Let’s go to your office, Louis,” Stuart said. “We can talk there.”
“About what?” There was a tiny pause. “Rex called you, didn’t he? Fucking little asshole. Well, you can just leave. We’re not spending any more on that waste of air.”
“Louis,” Reba began, embarrassment clear in her tone. “Let’s go to your office.”
“It won’t matter. Claire and I are together on this. Call her if you don’t believe me.”
“Let’s go call her,” Stuart soothed. “Sort this out.” The two men moved toward the bank of offices on the other side of the reception desk. Paige leaned right, just able to see them around Clay. The lawyer had his arm around Louis, his hand on the bigger man’s shoulder urging him forward, but Louis stopped and turned.
His eyes did a quick trip from her head to her feet and when his eyes met hers, she saw surprised recognition. He saw me last night, after we talked to Rex. Louis looked her up and down, his gaze provocative. An unpleasant shiver went down her back and then he very deliberately winked at her. Startled, she reacted on impulse, her thumb pressing the clip on the pen she held. Snapping a picture of Louis Delacorte.
And then he and Stuart were gone, leaving an awkward silence.
Reba cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. He’s, um…”
“Every family has one,” Daphne said kindly. “Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you,” Reba said, her tone stilted. “I’ll look forward to seeing you at the benefit.” Still flustered, her face still red, Reba opened the door and ushered them out.
Twenty-two
Thursday, April 7, 4:00 p.m.
“You okay?” Joseph asked.
Grayson turned from the stalled traffic to his brother. “No. I’ve never actually seen someone blow their brains out. I had no idea the phrase was so accurately descriptive.”
“It’s not something that leaves you anytime soon,” Joseph said soberly. “Look, after you get Paige, I want you two to go to my place and get some sleep. You’re running on fumes. I’ll sleep on the couch if it’ll help.”