The Wharf

by Carol Ericson

  “Oh, I don’t know. You’re a cold-blooded killer.”

  Kacie was leaning so heavily against him he was afraid she was going to fall over. Her body had started trembling and shaking.

  “Believe me or not, Brody. I had nothing to do with your brother’s kidnapping or those notes to your father.”

  “I don’t believe you, Langford. Why are you coming forward now after all these years?”

  He shifted from one foot to the other. “Because my daughter’s writing a book, and I want to give her a story. I owe her that.”

  “You owe me that? You owe me my mother.”

  “You know, sweetheart, you ended up better off. That nice family adopted you and moved you up to Seattle. Your mother was a whore.”

  Kacie’s trembling stopped and her muscles tensed.

  “Shut the hell up, Langford. You murdered your daughter’s mother and you think she needs a story? What are you really after?”

  “Okay, you got me. I also happen to be dying—lung cancer. What do I have to lose now?”

  “Then you can end your miserable life by telling the whole truth. What happened to my father?”

  “He killed himself, as far as I know. Once that happened, I figured it was a good time to leave the city.”

  “And Bannister? You killed him because he was going to tell Kacie the truth?”

  “I never touched Bannister.”

  “You beat up Cookie for the same reason?”

  “I don’t know any Cookie.”

  “Just stop lying.” Kacie took a step toward her father, but Ryan held on to her arm. “You’re dying. Just stop with the lies, unless that’s a lie, too.”

  He coughed as if to prove the veracity of his claim. “Why would I lie now? Everything I told you tonight is the truth. I killed your mother because she left me. She wasn’t my first kill, and she wasn’t my last. I tried to disguise my motive by killing others in the same way, and I did pick them out of the phone book, within reason. I did not send any notes to Detective Brody, I did not kidnap his son, and the only thing I’ve done since I’ve been back in this city is try to get close to you, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t. Call. Me. Sweetheart.”

  Langford chuckled. “Feisty, just like your mother. But that feistiness got her in trouble. So watch yourself, sweetheart.”

  Kacie wrenched away from Ryan and flew at her father.

  “Kacie, stop!”

  Before Ryan could reach them, Langford had his arm around Kacie’s neck and a gun to her head.

  He raised his own weapon. “Let her go. This isn’t what you came here for.”

  “It’s not, but I won’t put up with this stuff from any woman. And you wonder why I drugged you in the first place? I wanted to have control when I made my confession to guard against something like this.”

  “Now you’ve made your confession. Let her go and be on your way.”

  Langford tightened his hold on Kacie. “You’re not going to write any of this until I’m gone, right?”

  She coughed and gagged.

  “She can’t breathe. Let her go. Even if she does write your story, she can’t prove any of it.”

  “I don’t need the cops investigating me before I kick the bucket.”

  Kacie gasped. “I’m not writing this story. Let me go and disappear. I never want to see you again.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I thought you’d be grateful. Instead you’re just like your mother, just like Layla.”

  He wrapped his arm tighter around Kacie’s neck and she kicked his shin. He staggered back and the hand with the weapon dropped.

  Kacie twisted away from him, and Ryan charged. He knocked the older man backward.

  Langford still had his weapon, and he swung it toward Kacie. Ryan rolled between them and tensed his body, ready for the bullet meant for Kacie.

  The shot rang out and Langford grunted. Had he missed?

  “Kacie?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Another shot echoed along the wharf and Ryan twisted his body to get a look at Langford.

  He had flung his arms out to the side, his gun inches from his hand, a pool of blood spreading along the pavement beneath his head.

  “Is everyone all right?” A bright light flooded the area, and two uniformed cops rushed forward, brandishing their service revolvers.

  Ryan squinted at them as he pulled Kacie into his arms. “Did you shoot him?”

  “No, sir. We had a sniper set up. When he grabbed Ms. Manning and put a gun to her head, the sniper got to work.”

  A million questions assaulted his brain, but Kacie needed him. Deep sobs racked her body and he sat up against the chain-link fence, pulling her into his lap.

  “It’s okay now. It’s okay. It’s all over.”

  She raised her tear-streaked face. “It’s not over. It’s just beginning.”

  “No, no, Kacie. You’re fine. It’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s not okay, Ryan.”

  “It’s hard. I know it’s hard, but we’ll get through it together.”

  “All this time, I thought your father was the killer and he wasn’t. It was mine. My father was the killer.”

  Epilogue

  Kacie zipped up her suitcase and scanned the hotel room once more. “Do you think I should even leave a tip after everything I went through here?”

  “Hey, it wasn’t the maids’ fault.” Ryan pulled back the drapes, and sunlight filtered into the room.

  She reached into her wallet and pulled out a twenty. “It’s tax-deductible anyway.”

  “Are you going to be doing any writing in Crestview?”

  She sat next to one of her bags on the bed and pinned her hands between her knees. “I don’t know, Ryan. I need time to process all this. How do you deal with it? How do you come to terms with the fact that your father is responsible for taking human lives and causing such destruction and despair?”

  “Why don’t you talk to someone, Kacie? I know a great therapist in town. We work with her all the time.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it? All those years I blamed Joseph Brody for my mother’s death, and it turned out to have been my own father.”

  “We’ll see about that. When that DNA test comes back, it may turn out Langford was lying anyway. I don’t know how much to believe about what he said.”

  Ryan insisted on giving her hope by suggesting that Russ Langford wasn’t really her father, but she’d rather not harbor that wish.

  She tucked her hair behind one ear. “Why would he lie about being the Phone Book Killer? He never wanted the publicity for the crimes.”

  “That part makes sense, but what about all that other stuff? What about Bannister, the doll, Cookie, the initial attack on you in the steam room and someone trying to get to your computer? Even the brakes on my car. He denied all involvement.” Ryan crossed his arms and wedged his shoulder against the window.

  “I was thinking about that. Maybe the steam room, the doll and Bannister were all Walker’s doing, his way of punishing me.”

  “What about Cookie? Walker had nothing to do with her beating, and we can’t ask her because she’s still in a coma.”

  “Did you ever think that what happened to Cookie was unrelated to everything else? Someone attacked her at an open house. Maybe someone from her past.”

  “And Marie’s disappearance?”

  “You said it yourself. She was paranoid.” She clapped her hands together. “Maybe now that Russ Langford’s confession is out there, she’ll feel safe enough to come home. I already told Ray Lopez he’s welcome to the Langford story.”

  “Is he picking it up?”

  “I don’t know. Without the Brody connection, he didn’t seem quite as interested. He believes Langford was the Phone Book Killer, but he’s still intrigued by the unanswered questions surrounding the case.”

  “For once, Lopez is right.” Ryan scratched his chin and sat beside her on the bed. It dipped and she s
hifted against his solid shoulder.

  “There’s so much that doesn’t make sense,” he said, “and we’re still left with the greatest mystery of all. Why did my father jump from the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “A lot of people wonder that about their friends and relatives. None of us knows what drives other people. Your father could’ve suffered from depression. The case might have been the last straw.”

  “I don’t know if I can ever accept that, Kacie.”

  “I know. There’s a lot I can’t accept.” She took his hand. “But I can’t deal with it right now, Ryan. I’m putting the book aside. I feel like I granted my mom a measure of justice.”

  “I think you did.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry to keep harping on it. You need a break. Hell, I need a break.”

  “She needs a break.” She pointed at the TV, where a horde of reporters was following London Breck out of the courthouse, yelling questions at her. The blonde in the large sunglasses didn’t answer one of them, instead ducking into a waiting limo.

  “I told you. Sometimes money is a curse.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s get out of this city.”

  “You love this city. We both do.”

  “Yeah, but what did Cookie say? Sometimes it just gets to be too much.”

  Kacie turned and put her arms around his neck. “We have a chance, don’t we, Ryan? I just want to start over with you, away from the drama and the danger and the lies. My lies.”

  He kissed her and she knew everything was going to be okay.

  After he took her breath away, he traced her lips with his finger. “I’m going to take care of you in Crestview, and you can write whatever you want to write. There’s a big mystery going on right now about who’s stealing Mr. Pritchard’s tomatoes. The book could be explosive. Another bestseller.”

  Smiling, she rested her head against his chest. They could start over. She had found love—with one of the sons of Joseph Brody.

  * * * * *

  Don’t miss the heart-stopping conclusion of

  BRODY LAW when Carol Ericson’s THE HILL

  goes on sale next month. Look for it wherever

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  Chapter One

  If ninety-two-year-old mogul and client Virgil P. Westfield hadn’t died last night under suspicious circumstances, legal assistant Sasha Campbell would never have been entrusted with this important assignment in the up-and-coming resort town of Arcadia, Colorado. She draped her garment bag over a chair and strolled across the thick carpet in the posh, spacious, brand-new corporate condo owned by her employer, the law firm of Samuels, Sorenson and Smith, often referred to as the Three Ss, or the Three Asses, depending upon one’s perspective. Currently, she was in their good graces, especially with her boss, Damien Loughlin, Westfield’s lawyer-slash-confidant back in Denver, and she meant to keep it that way. With this assignment, she could prove herself to be professional and worthy of promotion. Someday, she wanted to get more training and become a mediator.

  “Where do you want the suitcase?” Her brother Alex was a junior member of the legal team at the Three Ss and had driven her here from Denver. He hauled her luggage through the condo’s entrance.

  “Just leave it by the door. I’ll figure that out later.”

  Before the mysterious death of Mr. Westfield, she and Damien had been scheduled to stay at the five-bedroom condo while attending a week-long series of meetings with the four investors who had financed Arcadia Ski Resort—Colorado’s newest luxury destination for winter sports.

  That plan had changed. Damien would stay in Denver, dealing with problems surrounding the Westfield estate, and Sasha was on her own at Arcadia. Nobody expected her to replace a senior partner, of course. She was a legal assistant, not a lawyer. But she’d been sitting in on the Arcadia meetings for months. They knew and trusted her. And Damien would be in constant contact via internet conferencing. Frankly, she was glad she wouldn’t have to put up with Damien’s posturing; the meetings went more smoothly when he wasn’t there.

  Drawn to the view through the windows, she crossed the room, unlocked the door and stepped onto the balcony to watch the glorious sunset over the ski slopes. Though the resort wouldn’t be officially open until the gala event on Saturday, the chairlifts and gondolas were already in operation. She saw faraway skiers and snowboarders racing over moguls on their last runs of the day. Streaks of crimson, pink and gold lit the skies and reflected in the windows of the nine-story Gateway Hotel opposite the condo. In spite of the cold and the snow, she felt warmed from within.

  Life was good. Her bills were paid. She liked her job. And she’d knocked off those pesky five pounds and fit into her skinny jeans with an inch to spare. Even the new highlights and lowlights in her long blond hair had turned out great. She was gradually trying to go a few shades darker. At the law office, it was bad enough to be only twenty-three years old. But being blonde on top of that? She wanted to go for a more serious look so she’d be considered for more of these serious assignments. Alex tromped onto the balcony. “I can’t believe you get to stay here for five days for free.”

  “Jealous?”

  “It’s not fair. You don’t even ski.”

  He gestured with his hands inside his pockets, causing his black overcoat to flap like a raven’s wings. There hadn’t been time for him to change from his suit and tie before they’d left Denver. Throughout the two-and-a-half-hour drive, he’d complained about her good luck in being chosen for this assignment. Among her four older brothers and sisters, Alex was the grumpy one, the sorest of sore losers and a vicious tease.

  She wouldn’t have asked him to drive her, but she’d been expecting to ride up with Damien since her car was in the shop. “This isn’t really a vacation. I have to record the meetings and take notes every morning.”

  “Big whoop,” he muttered. “You should send the late Virgil P. a thank-you card for taking a header down the grand staircase in his mansion.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say.” Mr. Westfield was a nice old gentleman who had bequeathed a chunk of his fortune to a cat-rescue organization. His heirs didn’t appreciate that generosity.

  “Speaking of thank-you notes,” he said, “I deserve something for getting you a job with the Three Assses.”

  The remarkable sunset was beginning to fade, along with her feeling that life was a great big bowl of cheerfulness. “Number one, you didn’t get me the job. You told me about the opening, but I got hired on my own merits.”

  “It didn’t hurt to have me in your corner.”

  Alex was a second-year associate attorney, not one of the top dogs at the firm. His opinion about hiring wouldn’t have influenced the final decision. “Number two, if you want to stay here at the condo, I’m sure it can be arranged. You could teach me to ski.”

  He gave her an evil grin. “Like when we were kids and I taught you how to ride a bike.”

  “I remember.” She groaned. “I zoomed downhill like a rocket and crashed into a tree.”

  “You were such a klutz.”

  “I was five. My feet barely reached the pedals.”

  “You begged me for lessons.”

  That was true. She’d been dying to learn how to ride. “You were thi
rteen. You should have known better.”

  His dark blue eyes—the same color as hers—narrowed. “I got in so much trouble. Mom grounded me for a week.”

  And Sasha still had a jagged scar on her knee. “Way to hold a grudge, Alex.”

  “What makes you think you have the authority to invite me to stay here?”

  “I don’t,” she said quickly, “but I’m sure Damien wouldn’t mind.”

  “So now you speak for him? Exactly how close are you two?”

  Not as close as everybody seemed to think. Sure, Damien Loughlin was a great-looking high-powered attorney and eligible bachelor. And, yes, he’d chosen her to work with him on Arcadia. But there was nothing between them. “I’d have to call him and ask for an okay, but I don’t see why he’d say no.”

  “You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.”

  Alex made a quick pivot and stalked back into the condo. Reluctantly, she followed, hoping that he wouldn’t take her up on her invite. Spending five days with Alex would be like suffocating under an avalanche of negativity.

  Muttering to himself, he prowled through the large space. On the opposite side of the sunken conversation pit was an entire wall devoted to electronics—flat-screens, computers and gaming systems.

  “Cool toys,” her brother said as he checked out the goodies. “Damien is the one who usually stays here, isn’t he?”

  “Makes sense,” she said with a shrug. “He’s handled most of the legal work for Arcadia.”

  “He’s kept everybody else away from the project.”

  “It’s his choice,” she said defensively. The four Arcadia investors were rich, powerful and—in their own way—as eccentric as Mr. Westfield had been about his cats. They insisted on one lawyer per case. Not a team. The only reason she was in the room was that somebody had to take notes and get the coffee.

  “Binoculars.” Alex held up a pair of large black binoculars. “I wonder what Damien uses these for.”

  “He mentioned stargazing.”

  “Grow up, baby sister. His balcony is directly across from the Gateway Hotel. I’ll bet he peeks in the windows.”