I was about to skirt him and look for Tony Jeffrey at the dessert buffet when I noticed a gentleman leaning against a column almost hidden behind a half-wall, listening to Nick’s discussion group.
Gray-haired, medium height, with a slight stoop to his shoulders, he looked familiar. He wasn’t wearing a fitted tux, just a decent business suit and tie, as if he’d come over from the office. Then I spotted Patra zooming in on him, and comprehension sank in—this was Tony Jeffrey, looking far older than his stockholder image on the firm’s brochure.
Dang, why did so many of the people involved with CAD look like decent guys? Shouldn’t they look shifty and mean? The man standing there in the shadows owned a large part of a corporation that provided handguns to every gang in this country and around the world. He was responsible for the deaths of innocents by the thousands, maybe millions. And that was before we got into the big guns for the military and police forces.
He looked like somebody’s aging accountant father.
A bodyguard stopped Patra before she came too close. While I filled my plate with cheese and olives, I watched Senator Paul Rose and his entourage approach the gun manufacturer. No wonder Jeffrey hid in shadows. Everyone wanted a piece of his time.
I texted Patra and asked if she could hear anything. She looked up, found me, and shook her head.
I had too many deaths and not enough suspects. I stood in the shadows, nibbling my dinner, and watched the crowd. Lots of men glad-handing, exchanging cards—politicians and lobbyists would be my surmise. A few of CAD’s corporate sponsors schmoozed at the bar, but not many. This was evidently not their kind of affair. The people here were into serious political arm-twisting.
I assumed the older women in this crowd were mostly wives, although several of the whitened-teeth flashing group were probably lobbyists. A few nubile young things like Melissa were attached to older men. A few others worked the crowd.
I thought I caught a glimpse of the back of Magda’s head as she steered a gray-haired tall dude into an alcove. I would avoid going in that direction.
In the shadows along the walls lurked security with Bluetooth earphones and weapons beneath their coats. Senator Paul Rose, as a leading presidential candidate, would be heavily guarded. Men with billions, like Jeffrey, might have their own parade, except some of his uglies were in lock-up tonight, I hoped.
The lack of women was so evident that I decided to follow their movements while Nick and Patra tried to close in on Jeffrey. A polished, business-suited female about Magda’s age whispered to Jeffrey, then swung her slender hips in the direction of the back of the bar.
Guessing that was where the restrooms were hidden, I moseyed along after her. I didn’t think I could take a photo in this crowd, but maybe I could fake it in closer quarters. Anyone who got close to Jeffrey was worth investigating.
I checked the angle of my fascinator in the mirror and refreshed my lipstick while the unknown female used the facilities. When she emerged to wash her hands, I was shoving pins into my hair. “I hate my hair,” I said, because most women hated their hair and it made a great conversation starter. “If Frankie would just let me cut it all off, I would.”
“It’s lovely hair,” she said graciously but stiffly, reaching for a towel. “But if you want it cut, then you should. Men shouldn’t dictate how we use our bodies.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise at her reflection. “You’re not part of this crowd, are you?”
She smiled faintly. “I accompany my father because my mother can’t. That doesn’t mean I have to agree with his politics or old-fashioned attitude.”
Ah, that meant she was probably Jeffrey’s daughter, not his plaything. Dang, I wanted a good reason to hate him.
“Smart lady,” I said approvingly. “And when my career takes off, and I’m rolling in my own money, I’ll whack my hair.” Liar, liar, pants on fire, but I was just making conversation. “I’m Linda Lane, friend of Melissa Winters.” I stuck out my hand.
She shook with her fingertips, as if I might have a communicable disease. Her nails were manicured with nearly indiscernible polish, her hair was a brownish-blond, and her gown was beige—as if she worked at invisibility. “Melissa. . . Ed Parker’s date?”
Date, yup. “Yes, an interesting couple, aren’t they?”
She shrugged and picked up her beige clutch. “I figure she’s his beard, but maybe she really does have talent. Good meeting you, Miss Lane.”
Beard? Ed Parker was gay? And in the closet in this day and age? Weird. Wouldn’t the macho guys in the AGA love to hear that?
Travel had taught me to always be prepared. Now that the place was empty, I figured I’d avail myself of the opportunity while I had the chance.
Just as I closed the stall door, I heard the main door open. Ever cautious, I checked under the door and saw a rather boring pair of stacked brown heels. It was Melissa’s voice that I recognized, however. I jerked upright, but then realized she wasn’t addressing me.
“Mr. Arden? It’s me, Melissa Winters, from art class, remember?” It was obvious from the way she talked that she had reached voice mail. “I am. . . I was a friend of Rebecca Beatty’s and Esther Hanks. I really need to talk to you. It’s awful important. I know you’re in the hospital and all, but when you can, please. . .” She gave her phone number.
She sounded as if she might be crying. I hastily righted my clothing and was just about to leave the stall when I heard the main door slam open. Restroom doors are usually on hinges that close quietly. Most people would have to be furious or very strong to pack enough power to slam one—which screamed danger to me.
I hastily climbed onto the toilet so my feet weren’t visible. I expected angry shouts and weeping arguments and maybe an insight into Melissa’s life with Ed.
I got two pops and a gasp.
It took me five seconds to get past the shock of my shattered expectations, wrap my head around what actually happened, and leap into action—five seconds too long.
The heavy restroom door closed. I didn’t hear anyone leave, but I hadn’t heard them enter either. I pulled myself up on the top of the stall and saw no one. I jumped down and pushed open the stall door.
Melissa lay sprawled, face down, on the tile floor, two holes oozing red from her back.
In emergencies, all my instincts shut down, and I go into robot mode. My head ticked off everything that I needed to do, but first, I crouched beside her to take her pulse. Her eyelids fluttered. “Tell the reverend,” she whispered. “Tell him. . . George did it.”
Since George Paycock’s skeleton was currently in the police morgue, I had to assume she wasn’t telling me he shot her. I was holding her hand and texting Nick and Patra with the other. They were closest and could come fastest.
“George did what?” I looked around for something to pack into her wounds. They weren’t pumping much blood. I had a nasty feeling that wasn’t good.
“George killed Esther.” Tears were running down her cheek, and she shuddered and clutched my hand. “And probably Owen.”
“Who shot you?” I asked, because I couldn’t be in two places at once, and I was too human to leave her here alone while I chased a killer.
“GenDef—”
Patra and Magda burst into the room just as the light faded from Melissa’s eyes and her last words died on her tongue.
Magda swore a blue streak, grabbed the fancy towels from a basket beneath the vanity that I hadn’t even noticed, and flipped Melissa over. I was punching out 911 when she began applying pressure to Melissa’s blood-covered chest.
No wonder there hadn’t been blood on her back. The exit wounds from some really nasty bullets were in her front.
Patra was nattering into one phone and texting on another. I could hear Nick ordering people away outside.
“We have to get you out of here before anyone realizes you were in here,” Magda said, grabbing my phone before I could talk to the dispatcher. “Call Graham.”
My ph
one started ringing the instant she disconnected my call. My formidable brain was shutting down. I knew I needed to go after the killer. I needed to report to the police. I needed to tell Graham what I’d learned. But a nice Sunday school teacher had been murdered. And all I wanted to do was listen to my mother and run and hide.
It was too much. I was freezing up inside.
I’d seen dead bodies before, but no amount of experience can protect against the shock of watching someone die, especially if it’s someone you know.
Dazed, I answered my phone.
“Get out,” Graham ordered in my ear. “I’ll give the video to the cops. Get out now before the killer realizes his mistake. My guys are already after him. Sam is at the door and will drive you home.”
The line went dead.
I’d forgotten the damned camera and recorder on my head. I snatched it off and flung the fascinator in a corner like a snake.
To my eternal shame, I let my mother throw me to Graham’s goons.
Chapter 24
Julie woke with a snort, straightened too quickly, and almost toppled over. Fortunately, the bed was large. She grabbed her laptop before it hit the floor.
She remembered someone waking her downstairs in the library and leading her to her room. She must have brought her laptop with her and continued working in bed, then fallen asleep again, sitting upright. She clicked the computer open to see where she’d left off, and the battery manager gave her a notice of imminent demise.
Dragging herself from the warm bed, she tottered to the tiny bathroom, splashed water on her face, and finally recalled what she’d been working on—the videos, the months of appalling videos.
Drying her face, she ran back to her phone and checked her messages. Last night, she’d hated texting the dwankie, but Lucas was the only person crazy enough to go back to the park. She wouldn’t send Zander.
This morning, Lucas had sent her an image of a blueprint from Gregory’s office that meant nothing. . . .
Jislaaik! She widened her eyes as she understood what he was telling her with this complicated image. She needed tea. Her mind was working too slowly. Without changing from yesterday’s clothes, she dashed into the hall to check Zander’s door, but the overachiever was already up and about. Since she was safe now, he had no reason to be working so hard, but he’d dug his teeth into the park puzzle and wouldn’t let go.
She was grateful, because the authorities were certainly operating on backward time. Lava couldn’t move slower. She ran downstairs to find Zander in the library.
He had acquired another monitor and computer. He glanced up from his eternal spreadsheets in concern when she rushed in. “You should still be sleeping!” he scolded.
“So should you.” She slapped her phone down in front of him. “Tell me what this looks like.” She opened the blueprint image first, then the image from her video camera that she’d sent to Lucas last night.
Zander shook his head. “Big room,” he said, shrugging at the drawing. Flipping to the shadowy night photo she’d clipped from the video, he wrinkled his forehead. “A pallet of crates.”
She zoomed up the image to show lettering on the crates. “This comes from my camera at the back of the park, near the Jesus cave, where the park has no security cameras. I thought the cave would make good footage, but I think I’ve caught thieves. These crates are being transported by forklift—at night—on the video. The park is supposed to be closed at night.”
He studied her phone some more. “I see a large G and a large D but I cannot read the small letters in between.”
Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, she sat down at the table, fiddled with his computer, then called up the cloud account where they’d been storing images for everyone’s use. “Patra and Graham were working on General Defense’s warehouses yesterday. Here’s a shot from there.”
He turned the monitor so he could see what she’d called up. “This shows large crates prepared for shipment,” he said, not understanding. “That is what factories do.”
She pointed at the extra large G and D imprinted on the sides of the crate.
Zander flipped back to the night picture from the park. “They’re storing weapons underneath Jesus?”
I woke up beneath Graham’s suffocating—naked—weight. A warm, strong body in my bed felt so good that I chose to wallow in sensation for a moment. He had one arm over my—bare—breasts and a leg pinning my thighs. I was pretty certain I had been dressed the last time I remembered being awake—in the bathroom of the 701. I blocked that and returned to enjoying naked pleasure.
I thought I’d remember being ravished, and I didn’t. That was a shame. Graham and I had never slept together, but I was willing to have my space invaded if this was the result.
His breathing changed, and I figured he was waking up.
I opened my eyes to check, and the first thing I saw was a ceiling made of midnight with galaxies swirling across it. I was in Graham’s bed. No wonder I was comfortable. My futon left a lot to be desired in comparison to his cushy mattress.
“Why am I here?” I asked aloud, just because.
His big hand played an amazing tune on my breasts. He lifted himself over me so all I could see were wide, muscled shoulders and pectorals—and his perpetual scowl. Then he kissed me, and I forgot the question.
I lost track of time as well. At some point, I became vaguely aware of an occasional pinging chime, but not until we were fully satiated and sprawled amid the twisted covers did the noise begin to annoy. I lay there in almost contentment and admired the ceiling again.
Graham growled and sat up. “Four. They’re all loose in the wild.”
I considered that, but thinking meant remembering last night, and I wasn’t ready yet. “Not computing.”
“Your family.” He dragged the sheet off and wrapped it around his waist, not out of modesty but because it was cold up here. Leaving me the comforter, he stalked like a lion toward the bathroom. “Every one of them is out of their cage and roaming free.”
“You track when my family leaves their rooms?” I asked in incredulity, flinging a pillow after his broad, scarred back.
“Servant bells, so they know when to make up rooms,” he called over his shoulder. “The attics used to be for servants. That’s the original purpose of the hidden staircase. It has a door in Max’s old room if you don’t want to be seen.”
Really, the man needed to be put out of my misery. He had just given me the most incredible sexual experience in my life—not that we’re saying much here—and then he walked off as if it was nothing.
I’d take an ax to his head, except I was pretty sure he had brought me here last night to comfort me, so I didn’t have to be alone with my horror.
Curmudgeon that I am, I preferred to be distracted by irritation. Yanking on last night’s little black dress, I gathered up the rest of my clothes and sauntered down the hall to his office. It was good to know that Graham actually slept occasionally.
I could hear voices carrying up the main stairs, but I was more curious about the hidden exits.
I knew that the spiral steps behind the office wall went down to the closet in the bedroom Magda was currently occupying, two floors below. It made sense that the stairs would also connect to a room on the level in between. I just hadn’t realized it, and Graham had never told me. I was so going to kill him—or I would, except I was pretty sure the stairs didn’t connect to the study I slept in. Score one for me.
I took the stairs down, found the door, and entered Max’s old bedroom from behind an ancient wardrobe, of course. I didn’t emerge from a snow-covered Narnia, but this uninhabited room was close enough to a dusty old attic. The wardrobe hid the sliding door but someone had conveniently left enough space between the wall and the wardrobe for me to get out.
My grandfather’s chamber was stuffy. The ancient bed probably could use a new mattress, and the fading gray covers were moth-eaten. But it was private, and no one saw me make the
walk of shame to my own room in the adjoining study. Nice.
As I showered and regained a few of my neurons, I let last night creep back to me. Melissa and Rebecca had deserved better, much, much better, than ignominious death by greedy thugs who treated them like disposable napkins. My guess was that it wasn’t the hired help who’d killed Melissa last night in that fancy venue, not by a long shot. But no matter how wealthy their killers might be or what justified their actions, they were no better than common criminals. I couldn’t bring the women back to life, but I could avenge their deaths. Anger felt better than grief and shock. I knew how to use anger.
I stepped out of the shower, knowing it was already too late to see EG off to school. I was pretty certain she had only half a day of school today, and then she was on vacation until after New Year’s Day. I had to solve this mess now. Melissa’s death, practically in my arms, had made it personal.
Downstairs I grabbed tea and toast, waved at a groggy Tudor, looked in on Julie and Zander safely bent over their computers, and dashed down to my office. I needed to see what had come in last night, if anyone had chased the shooter.
I read through Nick and Patra’s reports, combed all the videos, read the police reports, and sat up, more furious than ever.
The police didn’t have bullets for George Paycock or the woman we were assuming to be Esther, so they were operating in limbo. Lacking our information about CAD, they had no reason to associate those bodies with Melissa’s murder. Yet.
Whoever Graham’s security guards had chased had escaped before they could catch a look at him, or her. Witnesses had reported that the shooter hadn’t been large and had blended instantly into the fleeing crowd. The cowardly guests had panicked the instant they’d heard a commotion and left the building.
I thought the size of the shooter might eliminate most of the armed security brutes I’d noticed around the room. A man using the women’s room might have been noticed, but I couldn’t be certain of that. That the shooter had blended so well into the crowd indicated he or she was most likely one of the rich party-goers. The catering staff would have been noticeable shoving out the door. I needed to know if security had identified those allowed to conceal carry. I shot a note to Graham.
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