James shook his head. “No, baby. You’re allowing rage to cloud your judgment. You’ve gotta detach and think about this like a cop. Donny isn’t on any papers, and wields no power. There’s no way for her to get to anything Haines left to Akhan; I’m too sure the old boy had a legal electric fence around his estranged wife to keep her from getting her claws into any assets he didn’t want her to have. Think.” He stared at Laura, took the glass from her, and set it down before it cracked in her hand from her too-tight grip.
“She’s being groomed for succession. Perfect fit. The wife of their dead colleague, Donald Haines, Sr. That would be politically correct as well as media salable. On the surface, honorable. Old Liz would be easy to manage, because then they could take Donny Jr. as a hostage; if she doesn’t play the game as their pawn, something tragic could happen to her boy ... whether violence, or a media rape.”
James nodded and blew out a slow, controlled breath. Laura let hers out in an exasperated rush.
“That’s my baby. Dead on target,” he said. “Now tell me, who did she walk in with and is her expression media-friendly, or tight?”
Laura reached for another glass of wine, just to position her body and James for a full frontal view of the door. “I’m not sure who she walked in with,” Laura admitted, “but Moyer just graced the door right after the ex-director of Homeland Security, who used to be the governor of Pennsylvania.” Her voice trailed off in an awed whisper. “Check out who’s in the little party by the door ... the ex–FEMA Director, two big Philly real estate developers, and a coupla guys in suits I don’t know.”
She took a quick sip of wine. “Now we study the crowd to see which way the big fish move. They may have come together, or not—that I’m not sure of, and neither is anyone else in the room. Moyer could have timed his and Elizabeth’s entrance with theirs as a power ploy, something the pros do all the time to give the illusion of connections that don’t really exist, and those guys could be uninvolved. That’s just the thing, James. Ya never know.”
James moved her slowly through the room toward the gala entrance. “Polanski just went over to Moyer.”
“Alan,” Mike Polanski said calmly, fawning as he moved to where Alan Moyer stood with Elizabeth Haines. “May I steal him for a moment, dear?” Polanski’s eyes begged for her understanding and a private audience.
“No problem,” Elizabeth said with a weak smile, and slipped away to talk to his colleagues, James Devereaux and George Townsend.
Once she had removed herself from their conversation, Polanski launched right in on his urgent point. “Laura Caldwell is here with that cop, Carter. She married him.”
Alan Moyer declined a passing tray of wine, his small, intense hazel eyes set deep in his puffed face. He stared up at the gaunt man before him with disdain. “I saw. So she married him. Why am I not surprised?”
“She wants a meeting. Tomorrow, in Philadelphia,” Polanski said, his eyes nervously darting around the crowd as he spoke. “She’s ready for a truce. She said she’d confer all the land back to Micholi, the way it was before Haines—”
Moyer held up his hand to stop Polanski’s excited flurry of words. Polanski watched a slow red tinge of fury overtake Moyer’s face and creep along the gleaming bald surface of his scalp between the perfectly barbered wisps of his silvery white hair, although his expression remained impassive.
“It has already gone too far,” Moyer said calmly. “A meeting at this juncture is unnecessary. It’s out of my hands.”
Polanski leaned in closer, against his better judgment, and pressed the issue, panicked. “He’s a cop. A detective. If anything happens to his wife, the guy will be relentless, and if anything happens to him, they’ll investigate this until they can nail someone to the cross. That’s how the equipment left in North Central near Akhan’s landed at Philadelphia Police Headquarters,” he added in a choked whisper. “Who knows who they know? Haines always had his finger on the black pulse, so did Scott, but we don’t have anyone with such insight anymore. We need to back off, consider her offer. The Devereaux family is well-connected in New Orleans, and we could just cut our losses in Phila—”
“I see some people I need to speak with,” Moyer said, dismissing him. “You worry too much, Polanski, and that can be bad for your health. I suggest you let it go and meditate on serene subjects.”
Laura watched the two power brokers from the Micholi Foundation confer, and also saw Devereaux and Townsend hang back. When Polanski left Moyer’s side, his expression seemed haunted. Moyer looked in her direction briefly, his old jowls set tight and his eyes burning with hatred. It was the same expression on his face when he’d appeared in court for his son’s trial.... Oh, shit.
“We need to leave, now,” she said in a tense whisper.
“I thought you wanted to pick Elizabeth’s brain and find out if Moyer’s gonna agree to a meeting.”
“There won’t be a meeting,” she said quickly, threading her arm through James’s to move him to the door. “The decision has been made. Liz got the lucky pick. Me and Akhan are in the way—”
“But that’s so sloppy. It doesn’t make sense, if they can get what they want through a clean transfer.”
“It makes all the sense in the world, because it’s personal.”
She didn’t have to say another word to James, and she was glad that there was enough trust between them for him to take what she’d told him at face value. James murmured to the door attendant that his wife had a brewing migraine, and then grabbed his cell phone to hail the limo. Her phone was out in seconds as they went to the front steps and waited. She deftly punching Megan’s number on speed dial.
“Tell Sean to dig up anything he can on Moyer, asap. I wanna know how and when he got into bed with the Micholi foundation people, if his people are Old Russian extraction, anything you got on the man.” She closed her phone without a good-bye, and almost ran down the wide, cement front steps with James to greet the limo when it pulled around the corner.
The driver got out and opened the door. He seemed confused, but asked no questions. Laura almost ducked into the vehicle, but hesitated.
“I don’t feel so good, James,” she said loud enough for the driver to hear. She stared at the driver and then her husband. “Give me a moment,” she told the driver. “I’m pregnant, and don’t want to upchuck in the vehicle. Can you wait here while my husband walks me inside to the ladies’ room?”
The driver nodded. James’s grip tightened on her arm as he hustled her back into the gala.
“The driver’s a blond, and we had an Italian jobber drop us off,” Laura said quickly, almost not stopping at the door greeter.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?” the greeter asked, seeming concerned.
“I’m just a little nauseous from the headache. Can you tell me where the ladies’ room is?”
The greeter pointed them in the right direction, and James was practically welded to her hip.
“You got good eyes, Laura,” he muttered, hustling her along.
“I’m sure security is gonna be a nightmare, getting out of the back door impossible,” she said, panting as she hurried down a long corridor to the restroom.
“Plan?”
They stared at each other.
“I’ll go in, slap my face, spill water down my front, and come out with a towel, blotting my front. I’ll claim VIP humiliation, and refuse to walk out the front—and you beg mercy not to have your wife’s dignity assailed by having her go through a gala with vomit on her dress. Cool?”
“Done. Meanwhile, I could use a little assist from the boys. Lemme make two calls. Hurry.”
Without delay, she dipped into the ladies’ room, slapped her face hard twice to make it look flushed, ruffled her hair, and splashed water down the front of her gown. She was out of the restroom by the time James had closed his cellular.
“I told Steve that Caluzo might need to have someone check on his boy, who no doubt ain’t breathing any more. Go
t a squad car on the way to detain our problem out front by giving the limo driver a hassle. Let’s go find a brother working security. Now would be a good time for tears.”
They slipped behind velvet stand turns that had been placed to keep guests from straying to sections of the museum beyond the gala. Within moments they were hailed by two security guards.
“Hey, hey, hey, sir, ma’am, this is a restricted—”
Laura heaved and covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, my God. I never thought pregnancy could be so vile, or I would have never let them do the fertility process on me, James. Get me out of here!”
“Ma’am, the front exit is—”
“I can’t go that way,” she shrieked, looking truly crazy, and lowering the paper towel away from her breasts.
The young security guard looked at his older partner.
“Man, listen ...” James said in a calm tone. “My wife is about to die a thousand deaths because she just upchucked in the ladies’ room and can’t walk through that crowd smelling like that, and her gown all messed up.” He pulled Laura to him and rubbed her shoulders as she turned her face away. “They don’t let a lot of us in events like this, feel me? So, she’s ...”
Laura timed fake sobs perfectly, and both guards glanced at each other in full accord.
“Look, brother,” the older guard said. “We could lose our jobs. You know they’ve got events like this on lock. All doors except the front one are supposed to be off limits. But, damn, that’s a shame to have her walk through all those folks like that.”
“Man, I hear you, and would really appreciate the favor,” James said as humbly as possible. “You’ve got the power brother—to make her die going out the front, or let this sister save some face, going out the back.”
“Aw-ight, look, if we let you out that way, you ain’t get there ’cause we was involved. Cool?”
“Thank you,” Laura breathed into James’s lapels. James extended his fist for the two guards to pound. “Thank you. I owe you.”
“Cool. Well, then, hurry up,” the older guard urged, and began walking quickly in front of Laura and James, while the younger guard kept his post, glancing around nervously.
Half running, half jogging down the corridor behind the older guard, they kept alert, and within moments he’d ushered them through the control room past several other guards, made some sort of eye signal not to ask questions, and allowed Laura and James to slip out the back, closing the door behind them with a thud.
Fresh air allowed them to take a deep breath, and then begin a flat-out dash to the waiting rental several blocks away. She stopped once, took off her heels, and resumed the pace on cold concrete, but the moment they hit lot gravel and glass, he scooped her up and kept moving.
It was only for a few seconds, but the action of being picked up so that her feet wouldn’t be injured by debris was surreal. It was also spring, she noted. Here she was a woman of her age, and again she was running barefoot, after an altercation, in a gown ... just like on her damned prom, and fighting for her life, her dignity. And strangely, this time like before, she had a real man from around the way to step up and help her ... just like that kid who’d given her an unmolested lift home did. She’d never gotten that kid’s name ... but the man who’d shoved her into a rental after checking it thoroughly had a name she’d taken—James Carter.
He pulled out of the self-park lot like a man possessed, and barreled down the street, yanking a firearm out from under the dash. “Change of clothes, under the seat. Do it now.”
She complied, knowing that Dulles airport was out of the question. They’d expect that. BWI was the closest option, and they’d have to change tickets in transit.
“James, I don’t think your boys stopped the limo,” she said glancing over the backseat.
Gunshot report was the answer that shattered the back window as she screamed. James swerved away from oncoming traffic and headed up Fourteenth. Before she could remove her hands from over her head, James had hollered at her to take the wheel, never slowing down. She gripped the wheel, eyes wide, her ability to control the car, fragile. He leaned out the window and sent three shots into the limousine’s grille, then quickly leaned back into the car, grabbed the wheel from her, and spun out to go in the opposite direction.
“He can’t maneuver in that big rig like we can, so hold on!”
Sirens were everywhere in the distance and gaining. Cars and pedestrians screeched to a halt and jumped out of the way.
“Grab my cell, hit Cap, and tell him we’re taking fire in the streets of D.C. proper! Then get a damned gun and hold the bastard off, but try not to hit any folks in the street!”
She was motion itself, grabbing the cell from James’s waistband at the same time she dipped low and snatched the second gun from beneath the dashboard. She hit the unit and pressed the phone to her ear. “They’re shooting at us in the District!” she hollered to whomever answered the line. She didn’t know if it was even Captain Bennett, nor did she care, because another shot whirred by them and put a neat hole in the front windshield.
She dropped the phone on the seat and rolled down her window, pointed the gun behind her, and closed her eyes as she squeezed off several rounds. The limo swerved behind them. Police lights entered the drag race from two side streets and cut the limo off. James floored the accelerator, turned into a side alley, screeched to a stop, and jumped out of the car. He grabbed his phone and the small bag of clothes. Laura was still barefoot and he threw a pair of sneakers at her. “Change as we run—gotta ditch the ride and get to a subway. The corner. We jump the rails, come out walking slow and easy. Seen it done by perps trying to get away from us every day. Let Cap straighten it out on the back end.”
By the time he’d finished his statement, he had on a hooded sweatshirt, had lost the cummerbund and jacket, but kept his tux pants, and his feet had been jammed into sneakers. She ran behind him, yanking a sweatshirt over her head, and only stopped for two seconds to rip down the gown and pull on a pair of sweatpants. When they exited the other side of the alley, she’d been transformed, like James, and they were on their way down a flight of Metro steps. She ditched her beaded purse, taking only her cell, ID, and Blackberry out of it to shove into her pockets. James had the bag over his shoulder, which contained money, his wallet with a different ID, and her laptop.
Pacing, they waited in the white-tiled space for the train to come, not even caring if they were on the right line or not. They just had to flee the scene, as the main priority. Later, once above ground and away from the sirens, they could navigate the city by cab and get to Amtrak. From there, the airport was within reach.
Laura bent over, gulping in air as the wait ground her nerves down to a thin filament. In a subway, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, if a gunman came for them—or if the police did. Every time she opened and closed her eyes, dots of light danced like floaters within her vision.
She’d fired shots in an open street. A limo driver had tried to kill them, had tried to actually blow the gas tank of their rental car! They’d created a serious security breach in Washington fucking D.C., and had hacked a computer to get on an A-list using bogus names, when everyone there knew their real names. Canada no longer gave exile to American fugitives. Mexico was out. She’d take her chances in prison before going underground there. Multiple felony charges swirled in her head until she thought she’d pass out. Instead she dry heaved, and then felt James’s hand on her back.
“I want you to stand up, lean on me, and breathe slowly, until the train comes,” he said in a firm, quiet tone. “All right?”
“But James,” she gasped, wheezing out the words. “The many legal implications—”
“Breathe in and out, and lean on me before anyone walks down here and gets suspicious. You look like you’ve been running, and that’s not good.”
She nodded, went to him, and leaned on him, forcing herself not to cry. Panic was eating a hole in her brain. Claustrophobia was set
ting in. She wanted to be free, away, moving. Standing still was making her crazy. The train came, and she almost tore away from him to jump through the doors, but he held her firm, and walked slowly to get on and sit down coolly. Only when the doors closed and they’d passed several stations did she feel and hear him audibly exhale.
He’d been prepared for the worst, and the worst had come. But had it not been for his skill and planning, she knew she might well have a bullet in her skull right now.
They hailed a cab once they surfaced. She glanced around, but couldn’t tell what section of the city they were in for a few moments. Then it hit her, Georgetown—the only place, other than by the station and tourist areas, where a cab would be available at this time of night. D.C. was not like Manhattan, in that regard, and she thanked God in heaven that they’d ended up on the right train.
Union Station looked like a sanctuary, and they booked the last thing smoking out of there to Newark.
“Newark,” she whispered, as they walked away with tickets from the automated machines.
“You see all these cops in here?” he whispered, keeping his back to the milling patrols that scoured the echoing, marble terrain. “We dip into a bar in here, go buy a drink, and quietly fade into the backdrop of weary travelers. By now, they’ve got a dragnet at Dulles and BWI with our pics probably posted, plus probably at Philly International as well, knowing that’s where we’d most likely catch a flight from. So get on that BlackBerry of yours and get us tix out of Newark or even JFK for Jamaica.”
Chapter 13
Caribbean sunshine never looked so good. She didn’t care that she appeared to be a vagrant, or that what she was wearing was ridiculously hot under the outrageous sun. Sleep on the flight and a chance to breathe and think had done wonders for her mind, not to mention her spirit. They’d agreed not to contact Akhan and the rest of the family until they’d gotten a hotel, checked in, and were sure they weren’t being followed.
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