For The Love Of Laurel

by Patricia Harreld

  Uh-oh. None of this boded well. Mari being snooty?

  He poured himself a Coke. No alcohol tonight. He sensed he would need all his faculties in top form. He made his way to the patio. The only light was from bamboo lamps around the outside plus candles on a table for two complete with red and white checkered tablecloth. It looks more like a seduction than a lecture.

  Laurel sat at the table in a blue sundress with spaghetti straps. She acknowledged Dylan as he stood in the doorway. “Come and sit down. The pizza will be here shortly. Sorry it’s so dark. Daddy never had lights put out here for some reason.”

  So much for seduction.

  Mari brought in a salad, put some on two plates, and set the plates in front of them.

  Laurel was drinking water. Dylan was glad he’d opted for soda. She took her fork and started on the salad. He did likewise. She picked out the tomatoes and set them aside. He might just as well not have been there. He finished his salad first.

  “More?” So she had been paying attention.

  “No, thank you. You?”

  She shook her head and blotted her mouth with a linen napkin. “I’m surprised you aren’t drinking scotch. I thought Daddy’s expensive stuff was your favorite.”

  “That stuff tends to dull the edges. I figured that was the last thing I needed right now.”

  She gave him a half-smile. “But it may be the first thing you want when I’m through with you.”

  Mari brought in her homemade pizza and put it on the table. It was the perfect size for two. The aroma of garlic, onion, and sausage was irresistible. The crust was thick and flaky. The sauce was freshly made from Mari’s secret recipe. Dylan had once asked her to share it with him, but all she would say was that it involved cooking her own tomatoes until they were rendered down to a perfect consistency and adding spices. Which spices, she wouldn’t tell. Next came a layer of cheddar and mozzarella cheese. Sausage and onions were sautéed together, and chopped olives usually completed the dish; except tonight, she had added sliced mushrooms cooked in wine.

  He and Laurel each took half and savored the mixture of spicy flavors. When they had finished, they both spoke at once.

  “I know . . .”

  “What . . .”

  “You first,” she said.

  “I know why you called this meeting.”

  “You aren’t stupid. I made damn certain you knew I knew . . . things.” She went to the side table, picked up some papers, and dropped them on the table.

  He glanced at and then ignored the papers. “Stupid of him to leave his email logged in.”

  She paused a couple of beats. “He didn’t.” She sat back down at the table.

  “You hacked into his email?”

  “I figured out his password.”

  He sat back in his chair, stunned. “How?”

  “You think I’d tell you? I’m not crazy. Next, I may try yours.”

  “Hell, I’ll give it to you. I have nothing to hide. I delete most of them anyway.”

  “And the ones you don’t?”

  “By all means, read them. I don’t care, but I warn you, unless you want to know how to keep your prostate healthy or enlarge certain body parts, you’ll be bored to death.”

  Her lips quirked. “I get those, too. So what is it?”

  “What is what?”

  “Your email password.” He could tell she didn’t expect him to give it to her.

  “dyl5dea8kra95. Username dyl.krft. At Gmail. Want me to write it down for you?” His tone was suddenly heavy with sarcasm.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  He stood. “I’d like that drink now. Will you excuse me a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  “You want anything?”

  “No.”

  He was back within a minute. She hadn’t moved. He set a shot glass on the table and filled it from the bottle he held in his other hand then tossed it back like water and poured another. He sat down, putting the full glass and bottle on the table.

  Hesitantly, she reached out and put her hand over his. “Dylan, what’s the matter? It’s just an email address and I already had it anyway. You know that because I wrote to you. I just wondered if you would give me a different one.”

  He left his hand under hers for a few moments, basking in its softness and the sympathy she conveyed with that one small act. Reluctantly, he pulled away and picked up the glass but didn’t drink. “It’s the only one I have at the moment. Aren’t you going to ask me what it means?”

  “All right. What does it mean? I get d-y-l and k-r-a.”

  “The numbers are for my sister.”

  “Your sister? I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “Sandra.” He dropped the name like a stone between them. “My twin sister.”

  “Is that her birthday—and yours?” Laurel said, her voice just above a whisper.

  “It’s the day she died. Drug overdose.”

  “Oh, Dylan. I’m sorry.”

  He shook off her pity. “She got in over her head before she realized what was happening and she couldn’t get out, no matter how hard she tried. My parents and I did everything in our power, but drugs had an insidious pull she couldn’t conquer. I decided the only way to keep from killing myself after she died was to do something positive. Thus, the remaining part of the password.”

  “Dea? DEA? Oh, God, you worked for the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  “Work.”

  “Still? You work for the DEA? Then what are you doing here?”

  “It’s part of my cover. I don’t need to tell you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Of course not. Did my father know?”

  He stared into her eyes. “He is . . . was part of it, Laurel,” Dylan said. “He had, first Ben Carruthers then me, to keep you safe, courtesy of the government. You are a prime target for any drug lord who would like to get to Gerald through you, either by getting you hooked, killing you, or kidnapping you to draw him into the open.”

  “But now that he’s dead, they can no longer hurt him, so what would be the point in hurting or killing me?”

  “You don’t know these people. Their vendettas run long and deep.”

  She pointed at the papers on the table. “And these? What’s all this about?”

  He picked them up and scanned them. “What about them? They’re two years old.”

  “But they make Miles Gunderson part of the equation.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Is he DEA, too?”

  “No. He’s a plastic surgeon, as you know.” He stared at her, inviting her to get it.

  She read the emails. “I don’t really understand this. It sounds like my father went someplace to infiltrate and kill people.”

  “Sounds like it,” he said.

  She read them again. “Oh. I think I see. Miles is a plastic surgeon. He was going to alter Daddy’s appearance, if necessary.”

  “Smart woman. I knew you’d get it.”

  “There are a couple of things I don’t get. First, why use email instead of a phone?”

  “Phone conversations can be monitored, but emails can be encrypted. Ours were. Gunderson was stupid not to delete the decrypted messages.”

  “Why was my father wherever he was in the first place?” She studied the emails once more.

  Her expression change as she began to understand.

  She sounded faint. “It is what I thought. He was an assassin.” Cold, blunt, unrelenting words. He could tell she didn’t want to believe it.

  “No.”

  “That’s what he was. What else could ‘neutralize’ mean?”

  “Granted, it’s a euphemistic way of saying someone was killed, but as I told you before, these are the bad guys. The ones I’m protecting you from and the ones your father tried to eliminate so people like my sister would live a normal, healthy life. Assassin isn’t the word I would use.”

  “Hit man?”

  “Asset.”

  “As
set? Are you serious?”

  “I didn’t coin the term.”

  “Assassin, hit-man, asset, whatever. It’s still murder.”

  “Justified. You would believe and understand that if you had a Sandra in your life.” His tone was unyielding.

  She looked away. “Of course. You’re right. It’s just hard to think of one’s father in that capacity.”

  “Well, while you are, there is something else you should know. I didn’t work for your father. I worked with him. I’m paid by the government. Same with Ben Carruthers. He went on to other assignments for the DEA and I was charged to take his place. At some point, I, too will be replaced when I’m needed elsewhere.”

  “And my father? Did the government pay him too?”

  “Yes, but he was already wealthy before they hired him.” He swept his hand around. “You don’t think he could afford all this on a government salary, do you?”

  She stood and walked out the patio door onto the lawn. Dylan followed her out.

  “I feel as if my whole life is a lie,” she said.

  He put his arms around her and gathered her close to comfort her. She put her head back against his chest and sighed. “Don’t let go yet.”

  “I won’t. I’m right here for as long as you need me.” He put his cheek against hers and felt her tears.

  “Why, Dylan? Why did he get involved in something like that? If what you say is true, he didn’t need the money or the aggravation. So why?”

  “I don’t know what caused him to join the DEA. I asked him once and all he would say is, ‘For the love of Laurel’.”

  So much unsaid. So much unknown. When Dylan left, he said he would do a quick perimeter check of the property before heading to the apartment. Laurel still felt shell-shocked but she knew she had to take advantage of the opportunity to get into his email before he could move or erase it in case it contained anything that could help sort the truth from the lies. She acknowledged it was a slim chance, but she might as well try it.

  She hurried to her home office and booted up the computer. She logged in with dyl.krft, still not believing the password would work. But it did.

  Suddenly his account was right in front of her. There were no new messages in the inbox. Nothing sent, either. He had one folder called Misc. She clicked on it. There was an email, but she had no idea who it was from because the sender wasn’t a name, but numbers and letters. She stared at the text.

  z1Y2UuTk5OSJPXIMsDv11KR2vYT6HBWNxgIId==

  It looked like something a two-year-old child with keyboard access might type, but she knew better. It had to be some kind of code. After trying for a couple of minutes to make any sense of it, she gave up, highlighted it, and then copied and pasted it to a Word Document to save it.

  It was late and she had a full day tomorrow. Besides, she knew someone who could probably crack the code for her—even if it was a high-level government code.

  Dylan walked the grounds with a flashlight. Normally, he did this during the day, but his conversation with Laurel had unsettled him, and he wasn’t ready to go inside just yet.

  He was surprised at himself for telling her about Sandy. He’d never told anyone. He didn’t know yet if finally sharing it with someone would make things worse or help ease the ache in his heart whenever he thought about her. It had killed his father, and his mother tried to be stoic, but every time he saw her or spoke to her on the phone, she would break down. He knew he should be in touch more, but it wasn’t easy for him, either, so he took the coward’s way out. She undoubtedly felt the same. She never initiated contact. Sometimes he almost hated his sister for what she’d done to the family, but guilt would set in immediately. Who was he to judge? It could just as easily have been him. He wished it had been.

  Nothing looked suspicious so he went inside. He put the flashlight in a kitchen drawer. Too keyed up to sleep, he logged onto the computer, wondering if Laurel had been in his email. He couldn’t fathom why he’d given her the information to make it possible. Maybe he was getting tired of all the crap and subconsciously decided it was time she knew the truth. If she didn’t have the ability to decrypt on her computer, the message would be indecipherable. If she did, fine. If not, and she knew someone who did, fine.

  He knew the rather intimate moment they’d shared in the yard meant nothing to her. She was shocked, needed a steadying hand, and he happened to be in the area. But it got to him. He wasn’t in a position to fall for her. He had nothing to offer. He was too jaded, too angry. He’d seen too much of the bad side of life to even consider he might ever taste the good side. She was used to luxury from money Gerald made before joining the DEA. He’d invested it wisely, which was why part of his cover was to handle the investments of Chaber Pharmaceuticals. His ability to make money was almost uncanny. Dylan had once asked him how he did it but he couldn’t explain. “It must be inborn because I could never teach it.”

  He checked his email, but there was no answer to his last message. Was Laurel even now looking at the same screen?

  For the love of Laurel? Dylan never knew what Gerald meant by that, but suspected it involved regret and guilt—something Dylan was more than familiar with. If everything he did was for his daughter, there must be a lot of guilt in him because he put his life on the line every day, much like Dylan did for his sister.

  “If you’ve got the code, Laurel, and no way to decode it, I wish you sweet dreams because when it’s decoded, your dreams may become nightmares.”

  Laurel showered. Afterward, she went to the kitchen and made herself some tea. Mari was finishing the dishes.

  “Leave it until tomorrow, Mari. You’ve done enough already.”

  Mari beamed. “Happy to do it. It is so nice to see you having a good time with a man, even if it was just a pizza dinner.”

  Laurel took a sip of tea. “I hate to disappoint you, but it was more of a business meeting.”

  Mari shrugged. “I can still hope. I’ve known Dylan for many years and I think he is a fine, upstanding man. I see a light in his eyes if he glances your way when he thinks no one is looking. You and he could be a good match.”

  Laurel laughed and kissed Mari’s cheek. “You are too much of a romantic, but I love you anyway.”

  Mari hugged her. “I love you, too.”

  Laurel finished her tea and went to her room. She turned her radio to a classical station and let it play softly. Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber was just beginning. It was one of her favorite pieces and its soulful melody fit her present mood perfectly. She got into bed and let the music wash over her as she tried to think of everything she had to do tomorrow.

  But all she could think of was the evening. And him. She couldn’t get the feel of his strong arms around her and his slightly rough cheek against hers out of her thoughts. There was nothing sexual about it. Just one human giving unsolicited—yet, heartfelt—comfort to another, expecting nothing in return.

  What a complicated man he was, caught up in a difficult situation, dealing with it admirably despite the danger and deceit that surrounded him every day.

  He was absolutely closed-mouth about himself. Why did he tell her tonight? Had things changed between them because she found the emails? And what of the email she just saw?

  “Oh, Dylan, I wish everything was the way it was before, when I knew nothing. And, Daddy, I wish you were here with me. I need you so much to explain all this.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on her nightstand and wiped away the tears that threatened to fall on her pillow.

  She acknowledged the futility of her wishes as the last notes of Barber died away. This is all your fault, Gloria.

  Chapter 12

  Laurel sat up in bed and put her feet over the side. Of course it wasn’t Gloria’s fault. Just because she would still have her sanity intact if Gloria hadn’t hired her, didn’t mean there was any intent or malice. Snooping into Gloria’s husband’s life had gotten her important information she wouldn’t otherwise have. It was her own choice to pursue the
connection with Gerald and Dylan. Whether she wanted the information or not was a whole other question, and now that she had it, what was she going to do with it? However, she couldn’t do anything until tomorrow.

  Sunday was usually a relaxing day. When her father was alive, he took time out of his schedule to spend Sundays with her, especially when she was a child. How many times had they gone to the zoo or Sea World or Disneyland? How often did they go to Belmont Park and ride the roller coaster, or to the museums at Balboa Park? When was the last time they simply walked barefoot on the beach, hand in hand? God, she didn’t realize how much she would miss him. Now Sunday was just another day she had to wait through until she could get back to work.

  Monday morning, she had a cup of coffee and an English muffin then got ready for work. She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a stack of business cards. She shuffled through them until she found the one she was looking for and stuck it in her purse. As she reached the gate, she stopped to program a temporary code for the gardeners. They were due tomorrow and she didn’t want to forget. Without giving it any thought, she programmed in 5895. She wrote it down so she could give it to Dylan and Mari when the gardeners called for it. She stared at what she’d written. God. It was the date of Sandra’s death. She reprogrammed the gate, tore the paper into pieces, and stuffed them into the ashtray.

  She drove to the house where Miles had dropped off the woman. As she got out of the car, she pulled the business card out of her purse. She opened the gate to the front yard, glad it didn’t have a code. The yard was small as yards went in Rancho. Maybe most of the property was at the back of the house.

  Eucalyptus trees swayed in the breeze. Shadows from two massive pines made the yard seem dark. There was a neat row of yellow mums planted along the front of the house. A woman was on her knees, her gloved hands cradling what appeared to be the last plant. Carefully, she situated the roots in a hole and covered them with dirt. She noticed Laurel coming toward her and stood, peeling off the gloves.

  “Can I help you?”

  Laurel gave her a friendly smile. “Your yard is lovely. Are you the lady of the house?”