Sweet Caroline's Keeper

by Beverly Barton

  "Gavin," a male voice behind him called.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Ellison Penn's flunky, Barry Vanderpool, motioning to him. Ellison thought Barry was something special just because he'd graduated from one of those Ivy League schools and could speak half a dozen foreign languages. Well, Barry could enjoy being the big man's favorite while Perm held the top position at Peace­keepers. But sooner or later the old man would either die or retire, and when that day came, Gavin intended to take over. Then he'd sMp Barry off somewhere overseas, never to re­turn to D.C., and promote Mike Latham, his own hand-picked man.

  "What's up, Barry, my man?"

  "I wanted to speak to you about something that concerns me, however. . ." Barry glanced nervously around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "You know how highly I think of Mr. Penn."

  "Yeah, sure, he's like a father to you."

  "I wouldn't go that far, but yes, I do admire and respect him greatly, as you know my father did when he worked with Mr. Penn."

  "Does this story have a point, Vanderpool? If it does, how about getting to it."

  "My first allegiance is to Peacekeepers International. That's the only reason I'm mentioning this to you." Barry took a deep breath. "Mr. Penn told me that first thing in the morning I'm to put together all of Preston Shaw's files and search the computer system for anything that might be stored there."

  Gavin knew that he was one of a handful of Peacekeepers agents who knew the truth about Preston Shaw's betrayal and about why he was killed and by whom. Was Ellison afraid that something in Preston's files might have been overlooked when they'd gone through them nearly fifteen years ago? Did he just want to make sure that nothing showed up now—that nothing came back to bite them in the butt?

  "This thing with Caroline McGuire has gotten old Ellison curious, is that it?" Gavin asked. "Or did he seem unduly concerned about something in particular?"

  "You don't understand," Barry said. "Mr. Penn asked for those files because he intends to allow Mr. Wolfe, Caroline McGuire's bodyguard, to go through them to see if he can find anything that will help him in his investigation. I must tell you, Gavin, that I find Mr. Perm's willingness to allow a civilian to view classified documents highly irregular."

  Gavin nodded. "Yeah. Highly irregular." What was that wily old fox up to? Gavin wondered. Who had persuaded Ellison to give Wolfe a look at the files? Oliver Harper, maybe? Who else with that much power would be interested in Caroline? Surely Ellison planned to check the files himself before he allowed Wolfe to see them. Or was there something else going on? Just exactly who was this Mr. Wolfe? Was it possible that Ellison knew the man? Whatever was going on, he intended to find out. After all, his own future could very well depend on it.

  Gavin grabbed Barry's hand and shook it soundly. "Thanks. You did the right thing coming to me. I'll talk to Ellison and find out what's going on. No need for you to worry."

  No need for anybody to worry about anything. Gavin smiled. If Ellison Penn was keeping secrets—or giving away secrets—then he intended to catch the man in the act. Best way to find out what you need to know is try the direct approach first. Go straight to the horse's mouth.

  When Gavin found Ellison Penn, he was deep in conver­sation with their hostess, a strikingly attractive woman, for someone of her age. But then Brooke's mama had probably gone under the plastic surgeon's knife more than once. Half the old biddies here tonight had gotten everything on their faces and bodies lifted, tucked or suctioned.

  Ellison saw him approaching and gave him a don't-bother-me glare, but Gavin ignored the warning. As Gavin neared him, Ellison disengaged himself from the charming Mrs. Har­per and headed Gavin off before he reached their hostess.

  "What do you want, Robbins?" Ellison asked.

  "I hear you're making Peacekeepers International files open to the public."

  "You heard wrong," Ellison said.

  "So Caroline McGuire's bodyguard won't be given access to all of Preston Shaw's old files?"

  "Allowing Mr. Wolfe access to those files does not con­stitute opening them to the public."

  "Does Mr. Wolfe have a top-priority clearance?" Gavin demanded.

  Ellison hesitated. His square jaw tightened. Gavin would give a million bucks for a two-minute glimpse into the old man's steel-trap mind right now.

  "As a matter of fact he does," Ellison said, with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just between us, Robbins, I've checked out Mr. Wolfe thoroughly. And I've seen a rather interesting personal file on him. He's for­mer CIA."

  Heat crept up the back of Gavin's neck and suffused his face. Damn! He should have known it would be something like this. Wolfe was former CIA, was he? Gavin found that fact very interesting. Interesting enough to do a little check­ing of his own. And soon.

  Caroline placed her shoes on the rack, then unzipped her dress and removed it. Just as she hung the black silk creation on a pink satin padded hanger, she heard a soft rap on the outer door to her bedroom. Without looking, she knew it was Wolfe. Who else would it be but David Wolfe?

  She had known several men named David over the years, and other than the fact that the name itself held a special meaning for her, none of those other Davids had meant any more to her than guys named John or Jim or Tom. But David Wolfe was different. From the moment she saw him standing at her front door, she had felt an odd sense of recognition, as if she already knew him. Of course that wasn't possible. She'd never met the man before in her life. But that feeling wouldn't leave her, no matter how hard she tried to reason it away. On a purely emotional level, her body and her heart had immediately responded to him.

  There was no way on earth he could be her David. The very idea was ludicrous. So, why did it matter so much to her that his name was David? Why was she so upset that he had deliberately not told her his given name? Dope, she chided herself. He didn't tell you because of this very rea­son—because he knew you would put too much emphasis on the name. Even before you knew his name, you were prac­tically trying to seduce him. And failing miserably, she re­minded herself. Being a femme fatale was not her forte. She had never seduced a man. . .had never wanted to seduce a man.

  Another knock, louder and a bit more forceful, brought

  Caroline's wayward thoughts into focus. She grabbed a lavender silk robe off a hanger and put it on over her black bra and half-slip, then walked out of the huge closet. Wolfe stood on the threshold, leaning against the door frame. He had removed his tuxedo jacket and bow tie, undone the top three buttons on his white shirt and taken off his glasses. How was it possible for one man to look so good? she won­dered. Large and lean and devastatingly male. With just enough muscles, just enough body hair, just the right amount of self-assurance without coming across as cocky.

  "Is there something you want?" she asked, trying her level best to sound cool, in control and totally unemotional.

  He looked her over, from head to toe, his gaze pausing a couple of times. Once on her face and then at her breasts, which swelled over the top of her low-cut, black lace bra. Feeling as if he had stripped her naked, Caroline pulled the lapels of her thin robe together and ran her hand around to the back of her waist, searching for the tie belt. When she realized it wasn't there, she simply held the lapels together with one hand.

  He lifted his gaze to her face again. "Unless I find some­thing in your stepfather's Peacekeepers files to give us a clue or we can figure out where else to look, I'd say the odds of our finding the object your key opens aren't very good. The Dundee lab hasn't been able to definitely identify the key from the photos we sent."

  "And your point is?" She stayed where she was, keeping the width of her bedroom between them. Having learned the hard way how dangerous it was to get too close to an open flame, she had no intention of being burned by the same fire a second time. And for her, David Wolfe was definitely a blazing inferno.

  "I suggest that you give it one more week and if nothing shows up, you—''

  "
I'm not giving up!"

  "As long as you have that damn key in your possession, your life will remain in danger." Wolfe stepped over the threshold. "All I'm suggesting is that you take yourself out of the equation. Give me the key and let me continue the search on my own, until I've exhausted every possibility."

  "I thought you just implied that after looking through Preston's Peacekeepers files tomorrow we will have ex­hausted all known possibilities." She couldn't—wouldn't—let anyone have the key. And she had no intention of stopping the search. Not until she was convinced that it was a hopeless cause.

  "Caroline, please be reasonable." He took several steps toward her, then stopped in the middle of her bedroom. "It's only a matter of time before another attempt is made on your life. Is finding the object that your key unlocks worth risking your life?"

  She lifted the chain around her neck enough so that she could grasp the key. "This key will unlock the identity of the person who killed Preston and the reason he murdered him. I owe it to my stepfather to see that his killer is brought to justice."

  "Damn!" Wolfe stormed across the room, grabbed her shoulders and shook her soundly. "It's clear from the way he was killed that Preston Shaw was executed. That probably means the man who killed him was simply following orders. He was simply a tool, just as the gun was, in Shaw's killing. The man who pulled the trigger on that gun is unimportant. There is no point in your tormenting yourself this way when you will never know the identity of that man."

  Caroline's pulse raced, her heart beat wildly. She looked into David Wolfe's eyes—no longer cold, but deadly hot— and shivered with a combination of fear and longing. "How. . .do. . .you know? How can you be so sure? And you're wrong about his identity not being important. Even if he was only a trained assassin—"

  Wolfe tightened his hold on her shoulders. "You have to let this go. If we don't unearth something in another week, I want you to give me the key."

  When she opened her mouth to protest, he lifted his hand from her right shoulder and placed his index finger over her lips. "What if I promise to find your David, a man who knew your stepfather, and give him the key? Would you trust him to do everything in his power to solve the mystery?"

  She stared at him, dazed by his question. "Do you think you could do that, find David—my David?"

  "If it's the only way to get you out of danger, then yes, I'll find your David for you. He will probably refuse to meet with you, to allow you to know who he is, but my guess is that he will want to do whatever is necessary to help you."

  "All right," she said. "We will give it another week, from tomorrow. And if by that time we still haven't found what­ever the key unlocks, then you find my David."

  "And you'll let me give him the key."

  "Find him first and then I'll decide."

  His hands skimmed down, over her arms, across her el­bows and to her wrists, which he manacled in his tight grasp. "You shouldn't waste your life waiting for a man who's never going to be able to give you what you want and need. You have to stop fantasizing about this mysterious David of yours."

  "You couldn't possibly understand what it's been like for me." Try as she might, she could not break eye contact with David Wolfe. She felt as if he held her spellbound. "To have someone in your life who has somehow become a part of you and yet you can never see him, never touch him, never talk to him. This man whom you say can never give me what I want and need has spent the past fourteen years doing just that. Don't you understand at all? David has been giving me what I needed, everything I needed, since I was twelve years old.

  "The money for the best psychiatrist in the South. Money for nice clothes and piano lessons and swimming lessons and school trips. He paid for my senior trip. He put me through college. He arranged for my first job with the photographer in Richmond and he saw to it that I got a bank loan when I opened my own studio. He doesn't know that. I'm aware of everything he's done for me, but I am. When Aunt Dixie died, she left me a letter explaining everything that David had done for me."

  Dixie Jennings had broken the promise she had made to him. No, actually, she hadn't. She had said in their one tele­phone conversation, "I vow that as long as I live, I'll never tell Caroline how generous you've been to her." Apparently, she had not kept that truth hidden after her death.

  "All right, so he was a man who took care of an old acquaintance's child. Good for him. But you're a woman now. A successful woman who doesn't need a keeper. You need a man who can love you and marry you and give you children. Your David can never be that man!"

  "How can you be so sure?" Tears collected in her eyes, swimming over the surface.

  "Because I'm a man." His fingertip brushed across her upper lip as his thumb cradled her chin. "Believe me, if your David could come to you and claim you for his own, he would have done it already. He can't come to you. Not now or ever."

  Wolfe released her abruptly. "But just because he can't be a part of your life doesn't mean he won't help you in any way he can."

  Odd, Caroline thought, the way Wolfe spoke of a man he didn't know. But his words hadn't been a revelation to her. In her heart of hearts she already knew the truth—her David could never be a part of her life.

  "Even though I understand that what you say is true, I'm not quite prepared to give up my fantasy," she said.

  He nodded, a sad look in his eyes as he gazed at her. "Just don't hang on to that fantasy too long, sweet Caroline, and let life pass you by." He turned and walked out of her room.

  She waited, her breath caught in her throat, until he dis­appeared across the hall, then she rushed toward her bed, threw herself across it and let the tears fall. The cards that her David attached to her birthday and Christmas presents always read My sweet Caroline. Why of all the endearments in the world had David Wolfe chosen to use that one? Her heart was breaking into a million pieces and no one could help her, no one could heal her. Neither of her Davids. Nei­ther of her guardian angels.

  Chapter 13

  Wolfe arrived at the Peacekeepers International building in Washington, D.C., at precisely ten minutes till nine and was passed through the security check on the ground level. He had left his Sig Sauer in the car. As the lone occupant of the private elevator to the top floor, which housed the president and vice president's suite of offices, he had a few minutes to prepare himself. It had been nearly three years since he'd been in this building, since Aidan Colbert had reported to Ellison Penn. He reminded himself that he must act as if, before today, he'd never been in this building or the suite of offices with which he was so familiar.

  When the elevator doors opened, Barry Vanderpool, the boy wonder at Peacekeepers, was standing there like a sen­tinel. The twenty-four-year-old had piercing black eyes, shortly cropped auburn hair and a lean, hard body that was obvious despite the cover of a business suit.

  "Good morning, Mr. Wolfe."

  Barry possessed a military stance and carried himself like a trained soldier. Wolfe halfway expected the man to salute him.

  Wolfe nodded. "Good morning, Mr. Vanderpool."

  "Mr. Penn is expecting you. If you will follow me, please."

  As the highly efficient Barry escorted Wolfe down the hall, Gavin Robbins emerged from his office, coffee cup in hand. Barry paused and nodded to Gavin.

  "I hope Ellison's secretary is giving you the red-carpet treatment," Gavin said as he followed them down the hall. "We here at Peacekeepers like to maintain a good working relationship with all the federal agencies, especially you CIA boys."

  "Former CIA," Wolfe said. "I'm retired."

  "Retired kind of young, didn't you?" Gavin asked.

  Wolfe paused and glared at Gavin, but didn't respond to his question. Instead he continued walking, which prompted Barry to do the same. Wolfe sensed rather than saw Gavin stop and stare at his back. Barry knocked on the closed door to his superior's inner sanctum.

  "Come in." Ellison's voice rang out clearly.

  Barry opened the door, stepped back and
indicated with a wave of his hand that Wolfe was to enter. Wolfe glanced across the room to where Ellison rose from his desk. When they met in the middle of the office, they shook hands, then Ellison closed the door.

  "I have all of Preston Shaw's files on the table over there." He indicated with a nod. "I had Barry set things up for you this morning." He pointed to the portable table, stacked with file folders, computer disks and an assortment of boxes. "As you know, Preston was with Peacekeepers for a good many years."

  "Is there anything on that table that we didn't go over with a fine-tooth comb nearly fifteen years ago?" Wolfe asked.

  "You know there isn't," Ellison replied. "So, want to tell me what this is all about, why you made such a production of requesting to see Preston's files?"

  "Two reasons. First, it gave me a front for meeting with you without anyone asking questions. And second, I want to know exactly what you've been concealing about Preston Shaw. And don't try to tell me that you have no idea what I'm talking about."

  "You already know that we suspected Shaw of being in­volved with a secret organization of men who had a long-range plan to gain control of the government, partially by gradually putting their people in place in Congress and top-ranking government positions. Hell, they even infiltrated Peacekeepers International by recruiting Preston."

  "As you say, I already know all of this. What don't I know?"

  "The proof we were given that Preston was the man who assassinated Senator Harwell might have been falsified."

  Wolfe suddenly felt cold, then went momentarily numb. As if something was draining the blood from his body. He stared at Ellison, his mind screaming accusations, but all he said was "Are you telling me that I was given orders to execute an innocent man?"

  "What I'm telling you is that there is a possibility the Loyalists Coalition wanted to get rid of Preston and planned to use us as the means by which to achieve that end, then changed their minds when they realized he had damning ev­idence against them. But somehow. . . by mistake, the infor­mation was sent to us, anyway. It doesn't mean that Preston didn't kill Senator Harwell."