Portland, San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, Miami, Atlanta, and our nation’s capital, Washington, DC had been the targets. And every attack was different. Different locations, from shopping malls to federal buildings to outdoor concerts. Different ammunition, from suicide bombers to long-range rifles to knives. This made the threats a true bitch to prevent, because law enforcement couldn’t rely on patterns or profiling.
An international terrorist group claimed responsibility for that series of attacks, and in response, the President of the United States declared an official war on terror—whatever that meant. Many believed his declaration to be nothing more than empty words. In his defense, it was difficult to defend against faceless monsters.
But the damage was done. American citizens became afraid to leave their homes, especially to attend large public events—concerts, sporting events, anything that might have a political agenda. And more than ever, Americans decided they wanted to carry guns, knives, and other weapons in order to defend themselves.
It was in response to this climate of fear that attitudes like Truman’s took root. Truman had decided it was imperative to carry on, business as usual, to show the terrorists that our country’s leaders wouldn’t cower in fear. By standing resolute, the hope was that citizens would avoid holing up in their homes, living in isolation.
“You’re a good person, Truman,” I said. “And a good leader, but—”
“Sir.” The woman in royal blue from moments ago entered the library and closed the door behind her. I hadn’t noticed it before, but her eyes were bloodshot and her face splotchy. She held a tissue in her right hand. “Declan is ready for the photo op and toast.”
“Where is he?” Truman asked.
“He’s just outside.”
“Bring him in.”
The woman left.
“Susan is my chief of staff,” Truman explained. “She’s very good at what she does. But Melissa Centers was her best friend.”
Susan returned, a man on her heels. It was the man who had saved me from face-planting on the mansion’s front steps.
“Declan, man, glad you could make it tonight.” Truman stepped forward with his right hand outstretched.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Declan pumped Truman’s hand, and I couldn’t help but notice—and admire—the way his tux hugged his body perfectly. No rental for this guy. And his shoes screamed wealth. “I’m sorry about Melissa. It’s a great loss for your state.”
He called the lieutenant governor by her first name. So, he knew her.
“Thank you. That means a lot.” Truman gestured toward me. “I’d like you to meet Brooke Fairfax. Brooke, this is Declan O’Roark, a friend of mine and a friend to Kentucky.”
A friend to Kentucky, I thought. Was that code for “huge financial donor to Truman’s political agenda”?
Declan slid his gaze to mine. He stepped closer, and when I offered my hand, he slid his into mine and shook. His hand was warm and smooth to the touch, though his forefinger was slightly calloused.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Brooke.” His voice was also smooth, his accent worldly, yet I couldn’t place it. Irish, maybe? But with something else mixed in.
“You too.”
His lips curved into a smile, and I found I couldn’t turn away from the warmth of his blue eyes, or from his tousled and curly dark hair. It worked for him. Kind of like the custom tuxedo.
By the way he was looking at me, he knew I was analyzing every inch of him. I tore my eyes away, silently berating myself. “What kind of toast are you giving?” I asked them both, but I kept my eyes on Truman.
“Declan is the largest supporter of the Bluegrass Derby Foundation, which raises money for various children’s charities around the state. They’re also the primary sponsor of the Derby festival.”
“How generous,” I said, sliding my eyes back to Declan, but only briefly. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”
Truman touched my arm. “After the toast, I plan to make my exit from the party. Will you stay? I want to catch up with you.”
“It’s late,” I said. “We can talk tomorrow.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’ll call you.”
He angled his head, and I couldn’t ignore the curious look Declan was giving me behind him. I was not about to let anyone know where I was staying. I couldn’t trust that the person who had sent me the video of the lieutenant governor wasn’t lurking in the darkness somewhere close.
“I’ll let Susan know to put your call right through. Just say the word, and I’ll cancel whatever is on my schedule to meet you.” He turned away from me. “Declan, shall we?”
Declan nodded, and the two men followed Susan back in the direction of the party. Just as Declan was passing through the door, he looked back at me with a curious expression I couldn’t quite decipher.
Truman stood before the room of partygoers, who represented the upper crust citizenry of his state, and led them all in a moment of silence and prayer for Melissa Centers.
I glanced around the room, studying the people. Some of the women were sniffling and dabbing tissues beneath their eyes; some of the men pinched the bridge of their nose. Others rubbed their hands back and forth across their faces and jaws. Still others linked their hands on the backs of their necks. Centers had been well liked; one media outlet had called her “a bright star who showed great promise on the political scene.”
Mike and Carlos stood vigilant at the main entrance to the ballroom. Like me, they were busy scrutinizing the crowd. Luckily Mike hadn’t spotted me again; he might have come over and accused me of interfering. Which I was. Because in my heart, I had already committed to making sure Truman stayed safe.
I continued my perusal of the bowed heads, but stopped when I discovered Declan O’Roark staring at me from across the room.
I angled my head. He lifted a glass in acknowledgement.
“Amen,” Truman said from the stage.
I tore my quizzical look from Declan and focused on Truman.
“We will officially say goodbye to Lieutenant Governor Centers on Monday,” he said. “But tonight, we lift a glass in her honor. We celebrate her life and the way she served the Commonwealth of Kentucky. I’m now going to ask Declan O’Roark to join me on stage. Declan would like to share with you a special announcement.”
Declan stepped up on the stage beside Truman. He nodded as people applauded, then raised a hand to silence the crowd. He didn’t smile. Instead, he seemed sad as he stood in front of the microphone.
“Good evening, my fellow Kentuckians,” he started in his non-Kentucky accent. His eyes scanned the room until they found mine again. I shifted on my feet, looked away, then back at him. “Tonight, I mourn with you. It is with a heavy heart that I share with you Lieutenant Governor Centers’s final wishes for the Bluegrass Derby Foundation. We met the day before she passed, and we decided that the majority of the money raised inside the foundation this year—including all proceeds from the Bluegrass Derby festival—would go to Holly’s Angels, a special charity to help young victims of violent crimes here in Kentucky. In addition, I personally will donate one million dollars to the foundation. I will also match, dollar for dollar, up to another million dollars of the money raised here tonight and at the pre-Derby gala at my house on Derby eve. I do this to honor the lieutenant governor and her incredible dedication to the children of this great commonwealth. Thank you.” He nodded and backed away from the podium.
People around the room erupted in applause and cheers. I clapped as well as I absorbed the reaction to Declan’s announcement. I could see that Melissa Centers wasn’t the only one who was well liked.
“Thank you, Declan, for your generosity,” Truman said when he returned to the microphone and the applause had died down. “As a special treat, Declan has generously donated enough of his latest small batch bourbon for a toast in the lieutenant governor’s honor. Those of us who knew Melissa knew that she had a sophisticated palate that leane
d heavily in favor of Declan’s bourbon—which is why she announced last night that his bourbon is to be the official bourbon of the Bluegrass Derby this year. It is only fitting that we lift a glass of that bourbon in her honor.”
I heard a few joyful snickers. Servers entered, once again carrying trays of drinks. But this time, the drinks were served in delicate, curved glasses, each holding no more than an ounce of amber liquid. The servers stood around the perimeter of the room, apparently awaiting some signal.
I let my gaze drift from them to the stage. Truman gave a nod.
There was a sudden commotion to my right. A metal tray hit the marble floor with a loud clang and the shattering of glass. People screamed, backing away from a server in black pants and a white jacket.
Mike pushed through a crowd of people toward the man, who was writhing on the floor.
“It’s the same bourbon,” I whispered to myself. And as the thought took hold, I realized I had to stop the bourbon from being served. As quickly as I could move in four-inch heels, I darted over to Mike. “It’s the same bourbon,” I said louder.
Mike’s eyes widened. “What’s the same bourbon?”
“It’s the same bourbon used for the toast that killed Centers.”
A state policeman was yelling for people to back away. Mike and I stepped closer to the server, who was convulsing on the floor. He barely looked old enough to serve bourbon. White foam leaked from the corners of his lips, and a thin line of blood ran from his nose and down the side of his cheek.
Mike tilted his head into the microphone attached to his shirt. “Seal the exits. Don’t let anyone leave.” He turned to Carlos. “Inform the valets not to retrieve anyone’s vehicles.”
Carlos took off in a jog.
“All of you,” he said to the servers still holding trays of bourbon, “carry the drinks back to the kitchen. No one is to drink or even touch the bourbon.”
Men and women turned slowly to do as he ordered. They walked in the direction of the kitchen as if they were all carrying ticking time bombs.
A loud murmur spread through the room, and many turned toward the door, where they were stopped by state police officers.
I knew the drill. They wouldn’t be allowed to leave until everyone was checked and cleared.
I turned back to the victim, who now lay lifeless on the floor. A state policeman had been performing chest compressions—but now he touched the young man’s neck, then looked up at another uniform and gave his head a little shake.
The server was dead.
I glanced toward Truman, but he was already being whisked out of the room to safety. Declan was left standing behind the podium. A man was beside him, whispering into his ear. Declan must have felt my stare, because his eyes met mine. But then he immediately turned, and he and the man beside him stepped off the platform and out of sight.
“Red wine, please.” I set my clutch on the bar where a man in a tux sorted bottles, placing them in sectioned boxes on the floor.
“Sorry, ma’am, but we’ve been instructed not to serve any more drinks.”
I shot him a hard look.
“Don’t shoot the messenger. Take it up with the men with badges.”
He nodded toward the door behind me, where several state police officers were interviewing guests and making notes. Men and women were lined up at the exit, but each person was required to answer a series of questions and provide contact information before they could leave.
Mike and Carlos stood nearby, talking quietly. Of course, they knew as well as I did that the person or people responsible for this were not inside this room. That wasn’t their style.
“Can I buy the lady a drink?”
I hadn’t even noticed Declan approach. His tie was still tied securely around his neck, despite the fact that most men had taken the opportunity to loosen theirs if not lose them completely. He rested an elbow on the bar and slid his other hand in his pocket.
I grabbed my clutch and eyed this man who reeked of wealth. “And where do you plan on obtaining this beverage?”
“I’m a resourceful man.” He offered me his elbow.
I stared at his arm, then his eyes. This man was trouble. “Someone was killed tonight.”
“All the more reason to have a drink. It will calm your nerves.”
He thought I was anxious? I was pretty sure I wasn’t showing any outward signs of fear. “What makes you think having a drink with you will calm my nerves?” I was sure a drink with Declan O’Roark would only serve to increase my anxiety.
He dropped his arm and faced me. His lips slid into an easy grin. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it when another voice spoke.
“Ms. Fairfax, you’ll need to come with us.”
Declan and I both turned to Carlos.
“Where are you taking her?” Declan asked.
I quirked a brow at his rush to defend me, a woman he’d only just met.
“We’re questioning everyone, sir. Trying to get everyone out of here as quickly as possible.”
I turned back to Declan. “Thank you for the offer. And for the chivalry.” I didn’t bother to tell him that there was no way in hell I was going to have a drink with him. Not now. Not ever.
“Rain check, then,” Declan said softly.
“Mmm,” was the only sound I made before I followed Carlos.
He led me to a sitting room off the foyer. Mike was waiting there, his look severe.
“Have we confirmed where the video came from?” I asked. “Is it him?”
Instead of answering, Mike said, “The director wants you involved.” There was regret in his voice. Or perhaps anger that the director would specifically ask for me.
“No.”
“He won’t give you a choice. You know that.”
I laughed under my breath, fixing my stare on Mike. “I always have a choice, Agent Donaldson. Tell him I refused. Now, may I go? Or do you have a reason to hold me longer?”
“You think I want you involved?” he asked.
“I know you don’t. So, lucky for you, I’m making it easy for you.”
Carlos stepped in front of Mike. “Brooke. Does the man you were just speaking to know who you are?”
“I don’t know why he would. We only just met.”
“We need you to get to know him.”
“You think Declan O’Roark’s involved in this?”
“It was his bourbon that killed the lieutenant governor.”
“And the cocktail server tonight,” I added.
Mike nodded. “Twenty-one-year-old from the University of Kentucky. Just picking up some extra cash working for the caterer. Other servers said that he was fooling around in the back while pouring the bourbon for the toast. According to witnesses, he threw back two shots, then laughed about how each drink cost the rich and powerful Declan O’Roark fifty bucks. Apparently it was an exceptional small batch only to be served during special derby events this month.”
“So, you think some rich guy spiked his own ridiculously expensive bourbon with poison as some form of bioterrorism? That’s ludicrous.”
“The director wants information on him nonetheless.”
“Yesterday, was the lieutenant governor the only one targeted?”
“Tests are being conducted. Everything’s being sent to the state police laboratory. Does this mean you’re willing to work with us?”
“No.”
“Then don’t expect to get answers to any more questions.”
“Tell the director I’ll be in touch.” I spun on my high heel and headed for the door.
“We need to know where you’re staying,” Mike said.
I paused only a moment before I pulled open the door and made my exit.
Chapter Three
Declan
“I’m sorry, Governor.” I stared out the window of my home office. “I will cooperate with authorities in any way I can.”
I hung up, threw back the rest of a glass of bourbon, and was two sec
onds away from hurling the heavy crystal tumbler across the room when another voice spoke.
“Declan?”
Aidan stood in the doorway. He was dressed in jeans and a fitted black sweater. I knew he’d been out at the Lexington bars, most likely picking up a new girlfriend after the last one hadn’t panned out. Lather, rinse, repeat.
“Thanks for coming.” I walked over to a dry bar and set my glass next to a clean one. After pouring two fingers of bourbon in each and adding a few ice cubes from the bucket, I handed him the clean glass. “Someone else died tonight. Poisoned also.”
“From our bourbon?” Aidan looked down at the glass in his hand, paused, and then took a generous sip of the same liquid that may have killed two people.
Aidan was a world-renowned horse trainer who had trained my entire stable of thoroughbreds. He was currently training On Liam’s Watch, who was scheduled to run in the Bluegrass Derby next month. But more importantly, he was my best friend.
“It would appear so.” I savored another slow sip, then turned and walked back behind my desk.
Aidan followed, standing opposite me in front of the desk. “Damn. Who died?”
“A server—college kid. Just before a hundred and fifty glasses were passed around to guests of the governor’s Derby kickoff party.”
“I’m surprised the cops didn’t arrest you on the spot.”
“They told me not to leave town.”
“What do we do?” Worry showed in the vertical lines between Aidan’s brows, and for good reason. Part owner in Elkhorn Reserve Distilleries, he was new to my life of start-up businesses. “I’m just a horse trainer, Declan. You know I don’t know how to handle this legal shit. And this is murder, man. Surely they don’t think—”
Secret is in the Bones (Paynes Creek Thriller Book 3) Page 31