by Gayle Lynds
Now that the shock of Creighton's revelations was wearing off, he remembered Creighton's reference to Tokugawa's Fist. It was obvious Creighton needed him. "Why are you telling me all this now?"
"Because there's a good chance Julia's on her way to question you, with the police close behind. We need you to hold her there. But don't turn her over to the police. Stern will arrive soon, too. She'll finish it."
"Finish it?" Of course, it was the logical extension of everything Creighton had told him. "Let's be clear about this. You mean kill her." He liked Julia. She was odd, like him. She and Marguerite had gone their own ways, like him. Marguerite had defied the family, just like him.
"We don't have a choice."
Brice still resisted. There are always choices."
In the jet flying high over the Midwest, Creighton smiled. Brice was responding just as he'd hoped. "Not if I'm to be president, and I will be."
"How?"
Creighton explained the plan he and Vince had set in motion. It would burst upon the American public tomorrow morning and continue in building revelations until Monday, the day before the election. As he talked, he could feel Brice's complete focus. He knew Brice's resistance was weakening. "The plan's perfect. It'll make me president, and it'll give the entire family opportunities we've always wanted."
Brice said nothing. He knew Creighton's prediction was right—unless Julia exposed him. If Brice let Julia expose him. But unease curled in his belly. Killing Julia was a step into the unknown, an act that could never be retracted.
He'd never resorted to murder.
As Creighton finished, his voice over the miles resonated with warmth and familial affection. He needed Brice's commitment, and he sensed now was the time to ask. "So that's it, Brice," he said simply. "I'm counting on you to help me and the family with Julia."
Brice thought about this morning when Creighton had gathered his staff and family in the library at Arbor Knoll. How Creighton had used his magnetism and logic to transform the group from gloomy despair into cheers of optimism. Brice had always admired Creighton's ability to shape a meeting to his needs. And that's what Creighton was doing right now—manipulating Brice. But then, Brice considered himself a fellow master, perhaps even better at getting what he wanted.
With a sense of primeval ownership, he gazed around his den—at the great fireplace, the huge Picasso, the one-of-a-kind furnishings. He felt the size and beauty and expense of his fine mansion as if it were not just his reward for life, but his right. Others in the family might be seduced by Creighton's closeness to the presidency, but not Brice. Despite the family's inviolate rule of Tokugawa's Fist, Brice knew he could do what he damn well pleased.
Still, there was no harm in asking. "And what do I get in return?"
In his jet, Creighton smiled. His free hand rested on the briefing book on his lap. Inside was a recipe to woo the voters of California, but more than that, it was a text on power—its uses and its rewards. Brice's simple question told him he'd won, because he knew Brice's yearlong depression was only a desperate need for exciting work.
He said, "I'd like you in my administration. Since you're retired, you've got the time. How about an appointment on one of the presidential commissions? There's health. Maybe literacy. Or perhaps you'd like to head one of the agencies, like FEMA." FEMA sent aid to natural disaster areas. "Any of those ideas strike your fancy?"
Brice's freckled face went rigid. Instantly he forgot Julia. He remembered his boredom, and who he was. Creighton was offering far too little. "Don't insult me, big brother," he said coolly. "Make it something in your cabinet."
"The cabinet? You've got no government experience!"
Brice was in negotiations, so he reacted automatically. Insistence hardened his words like cement between concrete blocks. "Secretary of Commerce. If I do what you want, I expect you to give me Commerce."
Commerce excited Brice. Building Redmond Systems into a behemoth was nothing when compared to the possibilities of that lofty cabinet post. From there he'd cut a wide international swath, making heads of state, business tycoons, and military forces around the world pay attention to U. S. business and expertise. . . and to him. The challenge could be enormous. He'd force them to give the United States what it needed to maintain economic superiority.
Creighton said, "There's not a snowball's chance in hell—"
"Bullshit, Creighton. I know exactly how much what you want me to do is worth. If I do it, you have to appoint me Secretary of Commerce. And don't moan about nepotism. If Jack Kennedy could appoint his brother Bobby as his fucking attorney general, you can give me Commerce. I'm one of the top businessmen in the country. Just ask Forbes magazine. If Bill Gates or Lee Iacocca or Ted Turner or Sandy Weill at Travelers Group wanted it, you wouldn't be able to kiss their asses fast enough. I'm as qualified as them, maybe more so, and you damn well know it."
There was silence. Creighton was stunned. But Brice was right. "I'll think about it."
Brice smiled. "Too late. If I open my mouth, you won't just lose the election. You'll go down for murder. It's not only me who should remember Tokugawa's Fist. We have to stand together. And that includes fair pay for services rendered."
Fury rushed through Creighton, but also grudging respect. After all, they were both Redmonds. And now that he thought about it, the choice of Commerce made sense. Just as Brice rebelled against nonworking aristocrats and monied snobs, he'd easily stand up to world business leaders who tried to outwit, bribe, force, and boldly steal U.S. business. And at the same time, he'd apply the maverick vision that had made Redmond Systems so stunningly successful to the Commerce Department. With Brice, the United States would be represented by a fierce in-fighter who'd stop at nothing to gain advantages for the nation's companies and merchants. He should have no more trouble with the Senate on this during the honeymoon period after he was elected than he'd have with Vince.
Brice said quietly, "You wouldn't ask for anything less than what you were qualified for, so why would I? Money isn't power unless you know how to use it."
Among the traits that had made Creighton so successful was his ability to know when to bend. He chuckled. "Commerce is yours." Amusement rippled through his words. "You'll do a hell of a job."
Brice laughed, too. "You're goddamn right." Then he said the words that he knew would shoot terror into Creighton's heart, but he felt no remorse: "If I decide to do what you ask."
"What!" Creighton bellowed.
"Don't shit me, Creighton. We both know the bottom line is whether or not I help you kill Julia." He hesitated. "Tokugawa's Fist or not, I've got to think about it." He slammed down the phone.
22
His black leather jacket flapping, Sam Keeline ran down and checked the subway one last time, but there was no sign of Julia Austrian or the woman who'd been chasing her. He hadn't found Austrian's corpse, and he felt a relief that was more than he'd feel for just an ordinary stranger. There was something about that woman that had hit him the instant they looked at each other. Like. . . No, not like Irini. Not ever.
He rushed back to his Durango, mercifully still in the no-parking zone and unticketed, and drove to Austrian's apartment building on Park Avenue.
He slowed and parked. What now? Police cars were lined up in front, their signal beacons flashing scarlet in the dreary night. A small knot of shivering bystanders stood watch under a streetlamp. Reporters had shown up, and as he got out to talk with them, TV vans pulled up to add to the clot of vehicles that now blocked the street.
The news was bad: A highly respected psychologist named Orion Grapolis had been murdered, and they were looking for Julia Austrian. The police wouldn't confirm she was a suspect, but Sam could tell. Cops around the world were the same. He could read it in the flatness of their eyes and the hardness of their tones. They thought she'd killed the psychologist.
He was stunned. What was going on? Austrian had no history of violence that he'd seen in the research he'd put together on her.
But then, who could tell these days?
Too many killers turned out to be somebody's well-liked next-door neighbor.
Puzzled, worried, he returned to his Durango, pulled out his file on Julia Austrian, and began to read. He studied the information, rereading, trying to figure out where she would go next. What she would do. Time pressed in around him. Austrian was in mortal danger. Then his gaze fixed on a name—Brice Redmond—and Redmond's address.
When the front doorbell rang, urgent and impatient, Brice knew it couldn't be anyone but Julia. With dread, he paced, waiting. This was one decision he was reluctant to make. He heard the butler answer the door, and on a gust of cold air Julia stormed into his den, shivering and furious.
"Your Norma Kinsley, or whatever her real name is, killed Mom! Now she's killed Orion Grapolis! Why? Where did you get her, Brice?"
He stood motionless. Something in him wanted to tell her what he knew. But he couldn't make himself. He wanted to head Commerce! Yet—
He had to stall—not just for Creighton, but for himself.
He needed time to think. "Norma? I don't understand. How could she—"
Julia had run straight here from the subway stop at Eighty-sixth Street, and her accusations spilled out uncontrolled, much as her thoughts had spilled out in her session with Orion when she'd recalled in detail the evening of her debut. It seemed as if a dam inside her had broken. As soon as an emotion roiled in her belly, it flew uncensored from her mouth.
"Someone sent this 'Norma' to watch me, to keep tabs on everything I did. How did you hire her? From whom? Tell me!" Quivering with rage, she barely felt the warmth of the fire in the oversized fireplace beside her. "I can see again, thanks to poor Orion's hypnosis, and I want to know what in hell's going on!"
Protest suffused Brice's mystified face. "The companion we hired killed your mother? I don't understand. How could that be possible? Mrs. Roberts, at the service in the village, gave me the names of three women and read me their backgrounds. I picked one. Roberts has always been reliable. She—" He stopped and stared at Julia's angry face. "You can see? Julia, how? What. . . When—?"
She studied him—the fading red hair, the freckles, the astonished and hurt expression. She was bone tired, and suddenly she was very cold again. Her thin blazer had been no protection against the bitter November night. She turned to the big fire and held out her hands, trying to warm herself as she thought about it all. Was Brice lying? Why would he lie? Why would he send her mother's killer to kill her?
She'd been blind a long time, and she came from a rich family. One of the impacts was she'd been well taken care of. But now she hadn't a nickel in her pocket, a vicious killer was on her trail, and she didn't know whom she could believe. She missed the protective wrap of wealth that had made solving problems so easy. She shivered again and with a jolt wondered whether she'd meant it when she'd threatened to kill the murderous woman in poor Orion's office.
"It's wonderful that you can see," Brice went on, excited, but when she didn't respond and continued to stand unmoving in the great den and stare at him, he grew sober. "I can see you don't want to talk about your vision, miracle or not. You want to know who sent the killer, but you already know as much as I do. I thought it was damn decent of Roberts to take care of us so swiftly, but there's obviously something very wrong. The killer must've substituted herself somehow. Maybe we'd better call the police." He needed to decide—
"That's an idea." She felt strangely worried. Why was she so suspicious? Surely Brice couldn't want to harm her.
As Brice sat down behind his desk, he looked at his hand. It showed not a tremble as he laid it on the receiver. He cocked his head and studied Julia, who stood framed in the fireplace opening. Her brown hair shone gold in the back-light of the fire. Her arms were crossed over her breasts. Her body radiated outrage and worry. Her face was streaked with sweat, and those remarkably blue eyes shouted anger. Physically she favored the Austrians, and he'd never considered her beautiful, but in that moment, wreathed in fire, she seemed extraordinarily lovely . . . and suddenly foreign and dangerous.
His pulse seemed to slow as he contemplated her: A virago. Accusatory and meddling. In no way a Redmond.
An outsider.
"No," she stopped him suddenly, "not the police. I have to think. I—"
Brice nodded. "Maybe you're right. Creighton doesn't need any more scandal right now. Tell you what. I'll call him. We should ask his advice. Yes, that's the best way to handle it. Creighton can give us ideas about what to do. After all, he started out in the Justice Department. He has the connections in law enforcement." On the other hand, he could tell her the truth—
But as he picked up the receiver, his gaze fell to his big desktop. It was a vast empty plain. Not a single paper in sight. This was the way it—and his life—had been the past year. Boring. Lifeless. He was filled with a ravenous hunger for the excitement of an impossible challenge. If it was true that we entered this world alone and left alone, while he lived he needed at least the comfort of work. It—not human companionship—was the only connection to the world that made sense to him.
His pulse began to race. At this moment Creighton needed him badly. Tomorrow would be too late.
Brice's life could turn around instantly. His desk could overflow again with the heart-pounding thrill of the new and the formidable. If he did what Creighton asked.
The situation began to make sense to him in a new way. In the end, it came down not just to Tokugawa's Fist and family solidarity, but to Julia. . . or him.
To Julia's life. . . or his future.
He'd thought about it. He wasn't making the decision lightly.
"Creighton?" She hesitated. Going her own way might have been a bad plan, but . . . could she trust Creighton? A companion had been his idea. Was she crazy to be so suspicious? "Maybe you're right—"
She turned. And immediately was alert.
She stared out the windows. Movement in the garden had caught her attention. Then the doorbell rang. Uneasily she strode into the marble foyer. The butler rustled past. Through the glass panes of the front door she saw the blue-black uniform of an NYPD policeman. With a jerk of her head, she peered back out the windows of the den. The dark shadows moving across the garden were police, too. She shifted her weight, apprehensive.
Why were they here? Brice hadn't called them. And why were they skulking in the garden, surrounding . . .
What could they want. . . Her! It had to be Orion's murder. She'd threatened to kill the murderer, but Edda could've thought she'd meant Orion. Julia! What have you done! Julia! Oh, my God!
Chills shot up her spine. The police could be here to arrest her. She couldn't take the chance.
Something shifted inside her. It was true she'd been pampered and sheltered, but she wasn't weak. And she was no fool. She had no evidence or witness to back up her story that the fake Norma had killed Orion.
Without a word, she rushed back through the house.
"Julia!" Brice's astonished bellow followed like a furious lover. "What are you doing? Are you mad? Come back! Julia!"
His feet pounded after her. They were the last sounds she heard as she dived down the kitchen stairs into the cellar and locked the door behind her.
Maya Stern waited in the deep umbra of a shadow. Her pulse was even, and a controlled excitement was beginning to rustle in her belly. She was still in her homeless disguise—her nostrils distended by the baby bottle nipples and her hair hidden beneath the shapeless cap. She held her .38 tucked up under her arm where no headlight from a passing car could make the metal glint and attract attention.
She'd made an anonymous phone call to the police, as Creighton Redmond had ordered her, and told them it was likely Julia Austrian would come here to her favorite uncle for help. They'd flush her out.
But she'd get the woman first. Kill her.
Upstairs in Brice Redmond's swank den, the door was closed against the foyer, where New York's finest waited like a pack of
well-trained hunting dogs to pounce with their questions. He'd returned to the den the moment he'd seen Julia head down into his mansion's cellar.
Face flushed, heart hammering, Brice made the first call Creighton had instructed him to make. To an unspeaking Maya Stern. Brice felt regret about Julia's situation, but he'd learned long ago to cut his losses. He quickly described into the phone where Julia would come out into the street.
His second call was to Creighton himself. "She came here just as you said. She's trying to find out who sent Stern. From the look on her face, I'd say she's dangerous."
"Are you holding her?"
"No, she surprised me and bolted when she saw police in the garden. She's on her way out through the basement. Who would've thought she'd have the presence of mind to think of that old entrance? Very clever." Then Brice chuckled, sounding now exactly like his oldest brother. "Your woman's waiting. Julia's running straight into the black widow's web."
In the dim light of a single overhead bulb, Julia ran across the cellar. As a child, she'd played down here with Brice's sons. There was nothing quite as spooky and fun as a big, dark basement with its granddaddy longlegs and heavy odors of coal and must. Many of the cellar rooms had been stacked with interesting boxes. Every day there'd been piles of linens to be sent out for washing and ironing. And always the cat could be found to chase reckless mice across the brick floor.
It all came back to her—the happy play. It made her feel guilty about being so suspicious of Brice. Then she shrugged it off. If she was wrong, she'd apologize later.
She pushed open the old laundry door. It creaked. She froze, worried someone had heard. The door hadn't been used in years. Its hinges were rusty. Outside, the wind rustled dry leaves in the alley. She closed her eyes to listen better. It made her feel blind again, and terror briefly clutched her chest.