by Dee Davis
"Yes."
He waited for the explosion, but instead, Cullen sank down into his chair, releasing a long sigh. "But he says he didn't kill this Ernhardt Schmidt."
"And I believe him." Gabe shrugged, not interested in discussing the ins and outs of Nigel's defection.
"But he's your friend." Kingston spit the word out as if it were a curse. "Why should we believe you?"
"Because ballistics backs him up," Madison said. She was sitting on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, her gaze encompassing both Kingston and Cullen. "Nigel carries a 9mm Beretta. He had it out when we found him with Schmidt. But the slugs they got out of Candace Patterson and Ernhardt Schmidt were .38s. No match. He didn't kill Schmidt."
"Well, if he hadn't already been dead, Nigel would have killed him," Kingston stated, stubbornly sticking to the point.
"Probably," Gabe said, fighting against his anger, not willing to divulge anything more. Whatever had happened between the two of them, it stayed there. He shot a glance at Madison, hoping she'd understand.
"It doesn't really matter. Whatever his intentions were, they've been thwarted." The hint of a smile played at her lips and then was gone. As usual they were communicating on a level separate from the others. Like a team. And he couldn't deny that it felt really good.
"Which, unless I'm missing something here, leaves us back at the beginning." Cullen reached for a small ball on his desk and began to squeeze it. "Everything we've gathered in the way of evidence is now shot to hell."
"Something like that." Madison shrugged, working to convey a sense of nonchalance Gabe knew she was far from feeling. "Anyway, it's not all a wash. We've got the correct information now, and we're trying to rethink the issue. It's looking like maybe something beyond the accord is motivating our killer."
"That makes absolutely no sense at all," Kingston said, jumping up from his chair. "Of course it's the accord. Every one of the people murdered held a key role in the negotiations. How could it be anything else?" His face was turning red, his anger apparent for all to see.
"I tend to agree." Cullen's voice was calmer, but no less concerned. "It just doesn't make sense for it to be anything else."
"We haven't dismissed the idea that the deaths are tied to the negotiations," Gabe assured them. "But we have to explore all the options."
"I suppose so," Kingston said, taking his seat again. "I didn't mean to yell. It's just all so frustrating. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop. And I can tell you right now being on the hit list isn't helping matters any."
"I assume you've taken additional precautions?" Gabe asked. If Kingston's outburst was anything to judge by, the man probably had an army of bodyguards 24/7.
"Of course." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Cullen, too. I doubt anyone could get to us, but then I'd have thought the others were safe, too."
"I don't think anyone is really safe, Kingston." This from Madison, who was obviously thinking of Jeremy.
"It wasn't your fault, Madison." Cullen leaned over to pat her hand. "You did what you could."
She nodded her agreement, but Gabe knew she wasn't agreeing at all, merely putting an end to the conversation.
"Have you ruled out Chinese dissidents?" Cullen asked, judiciously changing the subject.
"More or less. We're still making some inquiries, but it isn't looking likely. We've also ruled out the groups Schmidt usually works with. Since he was here, it would seem likely he would have been our man if one of his usual employers was involved."
"And you're sure it wasn't him?" Kingston asked.
"Absolutely," Madison said. "Again it's a matter of ballistics. Ernhardt favored a Walther WA2000. We found it at the apartment. Our killer uses .223 cartridges."
"He could have changed weapons," Kingston offered, but didn't sound convinced. "I mean he's used both a rifle and a handgun."
"True." Gabe shook his head. "But most mercenaries tend to get pretty comfortable with their weapons. Kind of like a violinist and his violin. It's almost a signature. And since being caught isn't the norm, Schmidt wouldn't worry much about it being a tip-off."
"But someone found him and killed him. If he knew he was being hunted, maybe that would warrant the change in M.O.?" Cullen leaned forward, obviously interested.
"Still no go." Gabe leaned back against the bookcase. "The guy was killed in his bed, which means he had no idea anyone was on to him. Otherwise he'd have been watching. Between that and ballistics, I'd say we can rule Ernhardt out."
"So you think the real killer is the one who shot him?" Kingston frowned.
"It seems probable," Madison answered. "If it was our killer though, it would mean he's getting inside information. No one else knew we were even chasing Schmidt."
"Nigel," Cullen spat.
"It's possible," Gabe acquiesced. "But not likely. If Nigel had been in contact with the actual killer, then he wouldn't have needed to try and kill Schmidt himself."
"I thought you weren't sure?" Cullen's eyes narrowed shrewdly.
"I said probably." He shrugged, pretending he didn't care, knowing Cullen saw right through him.
"The point is, it doesn't make sense to assume that Nigel was the leak." Madison neatly turned the conversation away back where it belonged.
"Then who is?" Kingston's question was for Cullen.
"No one here. I can guarantee that. But we haven't exactly been keeping our operation a secret. Hell, the press has been nosing around here for days. Anyone could have found out with a little effort."
"Maybe." Gabe wasn't really buying into the idea, but until they had more information he wasn't ready to speculate, either.
"What about the killer?" Cullen asked. "Are you still thinking there's more than one?"
Madison nodded. "It fits the pattern. Particularly if we're talking about someone with the desire to cause havoc with the accord."
"And if it proves to be something else altogether?" Kingston shifted in his chair to look at her.
Madison shot a look at Gabe, and he returned a slight nod. At this point it didn't seem worth the effort to try and hold their cards, especially with Cullen and Kingston.
"Then it could be one killer. If this is emotionally motivated, variation in M.O. isn't as unusual. There's a lack of planning. A tendency to act in the moment with materials at hand."
"But all of the murders, with the possible exception of the fire in Robert Barnes's warehouse, seem premeditated." Cullen frowned, trying to follow her train of thought.
"Yes. But there's a lack of sophistication even with the methodology. And that could mean something."
"Well, either way it's going to hurt the accord," Kingston said, stating the obvious.
Cullen nodded his agreement "The president has been reduced to emergency teleconferences with Beijing. I can tell you, he's not pleased with the current situation, and he'll be even less so when he hears about the prime minister's part in all of this."
"He'll deal." Gabe had no time for politics. It seemed inexplicable to think that an economic agreement meant more to Cullen than the deaths of his so-called friends and colleagues. But it was par for the course. Gabe thought his job required selling his soul, but Cullen probably had a direct feed to hell.
Cullen's eyes narrowed, and Gabe wondered for a moment if he could read minds, then snapped out of it. Cullen was just a man, a greed-driven one, but still wholly human.
"I don't need to remind you how important it is that we find whoever is behind this—whatever his motive." Cullen leaned forward, his gaze encompassing them both. "We're against the wire now, and starting from scratch. I pulled the two of you into this because you're supposed to be the best. So prove it. Find me a killer. And find him now."
*****
"LOOKS LIKE YOU TWO ESCAPED more or less in one piece." Payton looked up from the report he was reading. "How did Cullen take the news?"
"Pretty much as expected," Gabe said, dropping down into a chair at the conference table. "Kingston Sinclair was ther
e, too."
"Wonderful," Payton said, "double the fun."
"I don't know about that. But at least we lived to tell the tale." Madison smiled, walking over to the computer terminal where Harrison was working. "You finding anything?"
"Nothing earth-shattering," Harrison said, fingers still clattering away at the keyboard. "Everyone killed falls into the same income bracket. Most of it inherited. And with the exception of Jeremy, they're all around the same age. Late forties and fifties. Without exception, they attended prep schools, followed by Ivy League colleges, but they're all over the map as far as which ones. Most of them have lived in New York at one time or another, but not necessarily at overlapping times, and I don't think Alan Stewart was ever north of the Mason-Dixon line."
"How about commercial enterprises?" Gabriel asked, coming to stand next to Madison, his proximity as always making her hyperaware. "Anything in common?"
"The only ones that encompass them all are the accord and the business consortium." He looked up with a shrug. "I told you there was nothing to write home about. A majority were lawyers, but given the number in the sample, it falls within the statistical norm for the population, given their education level. And most of them weren't practicing anyway."
"Rich kid's occupation." Payton sat down in a chair at the adjacent terminal.
"What?" Madison asked, confused.
"It's a catchall for rich kids. Something that lives up to Daddy's expectations without any real strain on the offspring. Look at JFK, Jr."
"You're saying they do it for legitimacy?" Harrison asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Yeah. It's not that hard to get into law school with the right connections, and once you're out, no matter what you wind up doing, you can always say you're an attorney. Instant gratification."
"Madison's an attorney." Harrison grinned. "And her father's rich. You saying she only did it to please her father?"
Madison's stomach churned, and she stepped back, ready to make a quick exit, hurt that Harrison would set her up for the kill. But Gabriel blocked the way, his hands on her shoulders holding her still.
"Madison doesn't do anything to please her father." The tone of his voice brooked an end to the discussion, but Payton ignored him, his steady gaze locked on Madison's.
"Whatever she does, I'm quite sure she does it for herself. And does it well." He smiled, and Madison was warmed by not only their acceptance, but their jumping to her defense. "But I stand by my generalization." His smile widened. "There are of course always exceptions to the rule."
"I didn't mean it like it came out." Harrison ducked his head, obviously chagrined. "I was just trying to prove Payton wrong."
And suddenly they were all laughing, at ease with one another in a way they hadn't been since Nigel's betrayal.
Gabriel was the first to sober. "So what we've got is a bunch of middle-aged wealthy men—"
"Don't forget Candace," Harrison interrupted.
"And a woman," Gabriel amended, releasing Madison to walk back over to the conference table, "who worked together on the accord, but other than that, seem not to overlap consistently in other areas of their lives."
"That's it, more or less," Harrison said, coming over to sit at the table along with Madison and Payton. "Except that Jeremy Bosner was fairly well past middle age."
"But other than that he fits the profile?" Payton asked.
"Yeah, I guess so." Harrison frowned. "Although he didn't inherit his money, either. At least not the bulk of it."
Madison propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hand. "You mentioned that before. Are you saying that most of the victims inherited their wealth?"
He nodded. "That, or they stand to inherit the bulk of their father's estates. The point was I guess that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Most of them are either working for their families, or living off family money."
"Which, except for the amount of work involved, is essentially the same thing," Payton said thoughtfully. "You said most. How many exactly?"
Harrison reached over to pull a piece of paper from the printer, then scanned it. "Actually all of them, except for Jeremy Bosner. Candace Patterson is a little outside the norm, I guess when you consider that she didn't know Lex Rymon was her father until recently. But she's still working in the family business."
"So how does it break down? Working in the business vs. living off of trusts or something?" Gabriel asked, doodling on the piece of paper in front of him.
Again Harrison consulted his notes. "Of the nine victims, McGee and Macomb were out-and-out living on their trust funds. Frederick Aston used his when needed. He was an actual practicing attorney—" he shot a snide look at Payton "—when he wasn't running for office. Bingham Smith used his family's money to start his business, as did Alan Stewart. Candace Patterson worked for her father, and Dashal and Barnes each ran their family's companies. Jeremy was the only one that made his own money. Although his parents would definitely qualify as upwardly mobile."
"Are they living?" Madison asked, an idea forming in the back of her mind.
"The parents?" Harrison frowned down at his sheet, then abandoned it for a second one off the printer. "Looks like Jeremy's have been dead for quite a while. Ten or fifteen years. Stewart's father passed away just recently, looks like about a month ago. Bingham Smith's mother appears to have passed away when he was a child. And Dashal lost his mother to cancer five years ago. Other than that, the rest are living." He looked up from the report. "Why?"
"I'm not sure, really. Just a hunch. And with Jeremy Bosner in the mix it really doesn't fit. But what if this isn't about the victims at all? What if it's something to do with their fathers?"
"Seems a little farfetched," Payton said. "Unless the fathers are all involved in the accord, as well."
"None of them in a major way," Harrison said. "In fact, most of them not at all."
Madison sighed, unable come up with anything substantial to back up her idea, but unable to completely dismiss it, either, now that it had popped into her head. "I'll grant you the connection through the accord makes a lot more sense. It just seems coincidental that they all come from old money, and with the exception of one, seem to have used it one way or the other to make their way in the world."
"At this point, I'd say anything is worth checking out."
She was certain Gabriel had meant that as support, but it was somewhat lacking in the enthusiasm department.
"I'll look into it," Harrison volunteered. "There's no harm in checking."
"Good. And in the meantime, Madison and I have a meeting with Anderson McGee's parents. Not that I'm expecting anything earth-shattering."
"You never know," Payton piped up with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "The case has to break sooner or later. Might as well be now."
*****
THE PENTHOUSE APARTMENT rivaled her father's in opulence, the view only slightly less coveted than Philip Merrick's. Martha and Thomas McGee had obviously produced offspring early in life, their relatively unlined faces testament to the fact.
Madison sat on the sofa, teacup in hand, wondering what, if anything, these two septuagenarians could possibly know that would help. Gabriel sat in a wing-back, dwarfing the chair, his teacup balanced on the arm. He looked as if he'd like to run, and she swallowed a smile, not wanting to show pleasure at his discomfort. Still it was perversely enjoyable to see him out of his element for a change.
"I'm not sure there's anything we can do to help." Martha McGee echoed Madison's thoughts, her face a mixture of anxiety and doubt. "We really didn't have much contact with our son."
"But you provided him with a place to live, and money to support him." Gabriel observed, leaning over to put the teacup on the coffee table.
"Yes," Anderson's father agreed. "We've always taken care of him." His smile was strained, his red eyes reflecting his grief. "You probably know by now that Anderson wasn't exactly right in the head."
"He was clinically depressed," M
rs. McGee elaborated.
Her husband reached over to take her hand, the gesture obviously familiar and comfortable. "It was more than depression. He was diagnosed five years ago as a paranoid schizophrenic. But I suspect the condition has existed undiagnosed for years."
"He took medication," his mother offered in an effort to negate what she obviously perceived as an embarrassment.
"He was medicated, but it really didn't do much but keep him sedated."
"But I thought he was working with the accord?" Gabe asked. "It was my understanding that he wrote or at least edited all correspondence between the delegation and the accord."
Mrs. McGee smiled. "He was an expert at dealing with the Chinese."
"He had his moments," his father qualified. "But you have to understand that there were days when he couldn't have even told you his own name."
"So he wasn't helping?" Madison asked, exchanging a glance with Gabriel, his confusion mirroring her own.
"He thought he was. And the world thought he was. It suited Cullen's purposes, and it helped Anderson to feel needed." Mrs. McGee's smile indicated the high opinion she had of Cullen Pulaski.
Mr. McGee, on the other hand, didn't seem to share her enthusiasm. "He was using the boy. It's as simple as that. Pushing him when there was no need."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Gabriel said, his dark brows knitting together.
"Cullen needed an expert, but he didn't want someone with the possibility of ulterior motives. Anderson fit the bill."
"But if he was incapacitated—" Madison began, only to have Mr. McGee wave her off.
"He was lucid enough to play the part when necessary. But the effort cost him a great deal."
"It gave him dignity." Mrs. McGee pulled her hand away, squaring her shoulders.
"Dignity." Mr. McGee's laugh was harsh. "How can someone that sick ever have dignity? Cullen Pulaski took advantage of him. It's as simple as that."