Though Tank was not technically on duty, he still insisted on renting a Lincoln Town Car and driving since he didn’t trust Bruce behind the wheel on a two-lane road next to a cliff.
“It’s nice out here,” Tank said. “I could see coming to a place like this, breathe in some fresh air. Get a massage. Would you have a restaurant?”
Bruce didn’t answer.
“If you did, they’d be a captive audience,” Tank continued. “You could charge a hundred bucks for a steak, and what could they do about it? There’s nowhere else to eat.”
Bruce remained silent. He wasn’t concerned with how much he could charge for a steak—he had to get the place first.
Then Bruce and Tank both turned and looked up the road when they heard the rumble of a motorcycle approaching.
Noah climbed off the Harley and approached the two men standing near a car at the base of the lighthouse.
“Are you Noah?” Bruce said, extending his hand. “I’m Bruce Mulvaney. This is my friend, Tank.”
The three men shook hands.
“Good to meet you. I’m Noah. Noah Ashley.”
Bruce grimaced. “Don’t tell me you’re Alistar Ashley’s kid?”
“I won’t because I’m not,” Noah said. “Alistar was my grandfather, but he pretty much raised me.”
“Alistar worked for me for a brief period,” Bruce said. “A very brief period. His first task was getting me this lighthouse. A task at which he pretty much failed. I was forced to fire him, but there’s no reason to hold a grudge. What’s your grandfather up to these days—if you don’t mind me asking?”
“No, not at all,” Noah said. “He’s pretty much up to being dead. His Aston Martin was broadsided by an oil tanker about six miles from here, just north of Crimson Cove. Went off the cliff.”
“Alistar went off a cliff? In my DB5?” Bruce said, the shock noticeable in his voice.
“I’m pretty sure it was his Aston at the time,” Noah said.
“See? I told you the roads were dangerous out here,” Tank said.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Bruce said. “So, this is your meeting. What’s the deal?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Noah said. “There isn’t going to be a deal.”
“I don’t understand,” Onyx said from the spiral staircase after the men were gone and Noah had come inside the lighthouse. “Why did you call off the deal?”
“Do you know you have like $40,000 in vintage Levi blue jeans from 1937 over in the caretaker’s house?” Noah asked.
“That’s ridiculous. Where would I get—?”
Onyx suddenly remembered.
Ulrich.
“Yes,” Onyx said. “We were on our way up the coast, my husband, Ulrich, and I—and Ulrich bought a pair of denim jeans in San Francisco. He liked them so much, he ordered three more cases of them. I seem to remember they cost three dollars a pair. I also remember telling Ulrich what a wasteful fool he was. And now you’re saying those same pants are worth $40,000?”
“Yeah, I just went to town and checked,” Noah said. “God only knows what else you’ve got packed away in there.”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” Onyx said.
“It is. And it means you don’t need to sell your land, Onyx—not any of it,” Noah said. “You need to have a garage sale.”
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
AUGUST 31, 2007
Bruce leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his scotch. He’d been saving the twenty-one-year-old single malt-bottle of Macallan whisky for a special occasion.
Today was anything but.
He opened it anyway.
Ten days earlier, Bruce thought he’d finally won his twenty-year battle to get his hands on the lighthouse property in Crimson Cove, Oregon—only to have the place ripped from his grasp yet again. By Alistar Ashley’s grandson, no less. What was it with the Ashleys and their apparent obsession with helping Onyx Webb? Speaking of which: How old was the old bitty now anyway? Bruce seemed to remember she was in her mid-eighties back in the mid-1980s.
Bruce took another sip of the Macallan, wishing the $500 whisky could wash the taste of failure from his mouth.
It didn’t.
Now Bruce had an even bigger problem on his hands.
Against his father’s objections—including Declan’s ridiculous story about receiving a phone call from Frank Sinatra the day after the famous performer died—Bruce decided to move forward with his plans to run for the United States Senate.
There was no reason to think it was going to be easy. But there was no reason to think it was going to be difficult either. Bruce had done his homework. He knew the amount of money it would take to win. He knew the number of months he’d have to spend campaigning. He knew the impact his absence would have on the business.
The only thing Bruce hadn’t planned on was being blackmailed.
The threat came in the form of a manila envelope sent to the house with the word “personal” handwritten on the outside. Inside were a half-dozen black-and-white photographs of his thirteen-year-old daughter, Krissy, who lived in Napa with her mother, Chloe.
Krissy was not only Bruce’s daughter, she was also the evidence and physical reminder of Bruce’s infidelity—a mistake in judgment Bruce thought no one knew anything about.
Not his father, Declan.
Not his son, Koda.
But someone had found out. And it was obvious what they wanted.
The note that accompanied the photographs was a mere seven letters:
DON’T RUN.
Seven letters were enough.
Bruce took another sip of the scotch and set the glass on the desk. Then he picked up the phone.
“Don’t forget your coin,” Dane said from the door of Koda’s bedroom. “Coach won’t let you in the locker room without it.”
“I know,” Koda said as he shoved several more items into his already over-stuffed duffle bag. “Grab it from the top drawer, will you?”
The embossed bronze coin, given to every returning senior on the Syracuse lacrosse team, read:
Wake up. Go to school. Go to practice.
Play. Win. Celebrate.
Repeat.
Dane snickered and went to the dresser and opened the drawer. He knew damn well Koda would have forgotten it if he hadn’t reminded him.
Koda knew it, too.
Koda and Dane had bonded during a lacrosse match their sophomore year when a Dartmouth player slashed Koda across the face with his stick, leaving a two-inch gash that required eleven stitches. Dane pounded the guy into the ground and received an automatic three-game suspension from the NCAA for fighting.
Koda’s scar was barely noticeable now.
The friendship was stronger than ever.
“Okay,” Koda said. “I’m ready.”
“Cool,” Dane said. “You’re going to say goodbye to your dad and gramps, right?”
Koda glanced at his watch. “No, it’s okay. Tank’s probably pissed that we’re as late as it is.”
Dane shook his head. “Man, if I left the house without hugging and kissing my mom and dad, I’d never hear the end of it. Go and say goodbye. I’ll keep Tank occupied.”
Koda said goodbye to his grandfather, who he found on the rear deck looking at some kind of bird through a pair of binoculars. Now, despite not wanting to, he was on his way to say goodbye to his father.
As Koda approached the door to the office, he could hear his father on the phone.
“They’re threatening to go public, Chloe.”
Koda stopped a few feet shy of the office door.
“They’re sending me a message that if I throw my hat in the ring, they’ll go public that I have a thirteen-year-old daughter in California. It’s blackmail, pure and simple.”
Koda’s heart began to pound as he processed the words and realized what they meant.
Fourteen years ago would have been 1993.
The year his mother went missing.
<
br /> “You got everything?” Tank asked as Koda came out the front door of the mansion.
“Yeah, Mom made sure I packed everything,” Koda said, handing Tank his duffle bag and climbing into the back of the limo.
“I think he means me,” Dane said.
“Well, thank God someone’s watching out for him,” Tank said, giving Dane a whack on the arm and climbing into the front seat of the limo.
Dane climbed into the back with Koda and closed the door. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Koda said.
Tank adjusted the rearview mirror. “Koda, you say goodbye to your gramps and your old man?”
“Great, now I have two mothers,” Koda said.
If Dane or Tank said anything to him on the way to the airport, Koda had no idea what it was. All he could hear was his father’s voice echoing in his head.
Thirteen-year-old daughter.
Thirteen-year-old daughter.
Thirteen-year-old daughter.
BENTLEY SPRINGS, MARYLAND
OCTOBER 9, 2007
Loiza glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the headlights of the fourth and final van in the caravan pulling off to the side of the road behind them. He glanced down at the gas gauge to see there was still half a tank. All four vans were identical Chevy Express passenger vans with the same thirty-one-gallon gas tanks. They’d all filled up together. That couldn’t be the reason for stopping.
Loiza also knew:
No one in the band was hungry.
No one needed to go to the bathroom.
No one was tired and needed to take a nap.
What was Magnus up to?
Loiza turned off his headlights, pulled to the shoulder of the road, and watched as the two vans behind him followed his lead.
“Why are we stopping?” a woman asked from the row of seats behind Loiza.
“Stay here,” Loiza said. “Do not get out.”
Loiza climbed out, shut the door, and began walking down the road toward the fourth van.
The driver of the fourth van was Magnus Miller, who was new to the band. Magnus had been brought into the fold after Loiza spotted him skillfully picking the pockets of unsuspecting marks at the Illinois State Fair three months earlier.
Magnus was not only a hard worker but also knew every scam there was—fortune telling, driveway blacktopping, roof repair, burglary, false insurance claims—and a few Loiza had never even thought of.
Magnus was smart. He ran a good crew. And—like every other member of Loiza’s band of gypsy travelers—he was also dead. All of which Loiza now realized had blinded him into letting him join the band.
It had been a mistake.
Loiza was forty feet away when he heard the rear door of the van slam shut. A moment later, Magnus appeared from behind the van. Magnus saw Loiza and stopped dead in his tracks.
“What are you doing, Magnus?” Loiza asked.
“Nothing,” Magnus said.
“Nothing? Why did you stop?”
“I heard a noise,” Magnus said nervously. “A thumping sound coming from the back of the vehicle. I thought maybe it was a tire going flat.”
“Stop lying,” Loiza said. “You can’t con a con.”
“I’m not, Loiza. I swear,” Magnus said, backing away, his eyes darting briefly toward of a clump of Dogwoods. It was a millisecond, but it was long enough.
Loiza scanned the darkness and saw a pair of feet sticking out of the bushes.
Children’s feet.
“I needed him!” Magnus shrieked.
“You needed him?” Loiza repeated, as if asking for an explanation. But no explanation was necessary. Magnus was saying the child was not his first. And, like a heroin addict, Magnus had become addicted to the intoxicating energy that could only be found in the boundless spirit of an innocent child.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many?!” Loiza screamed, stepping forward.
“Five, six maybe,” Magnus said.
“Six? Are you sure it’s only six?” Loiza said, taking another step forward.
“Ten!” Magnus screamed. “No more than ten, I swear!”
“You took ten children? Do you know what you’ve done?”
“I’m sorry, Loiza,” Magnus said. “Please.”
“The first one,” Loiza spat. “When did you take the first?”
“Portland.”
Loiza closed his eyes and exhaled.
“We need to send him to the Kris,” a man said from behind Loiza. Loiza turned to see a group of band members gathered behind him.
“I told you to stay in the van.”
“He’s right,” a woman said. “There must be a trial.”
“Fine,” Loiza said. “You want a trial? Let’s have a trial. Magnus Miller, is it true that you have taken—”
As Loiza suspected he would, Magnus turned and raced off into the woods.
“There’s your trial,” Loiza said. “Only the guilty run—and the guilty must perish.”
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
NOVEMBER 5, 2010
9:03 A.M.
Per Bruce Mulvaney’s instructions, Mika Flagler was picked up a few minutes after nine in the morning by one of Bruce’s lawyers and driven to the Savannah courthouse, where she was met by the assistant district attorney.
She was arrested, read her Miranda rights, and had all her personal property taken away—which consisted of her house keys, cell phone, a tube of flesh-colored MAC lip gloss, and her wallet.
She was booked, fingerprinted, photographed, and—for reasons unknown—asked to provide a handwriting sample.
Minutes later, Mika was arraigned, which was basically a reading of the charges against her—first-degree felony assault—and that was immediately reduced by the judge to a misdemeanor. Per the lawyer’s advice, Mika pled not guilty. Bail was set at $2,500, which Bruce had arranged to pay, and she was released on her own recognizance.
The entire process, from arrest to release, took three hours and forty-three minutes. Mika had spa treatments that took longer.
12:46 P.M.
The lawyer led Mika out through the front doors of the courthouse and handed her a check for $16,243.57.
“What’s this?” Mika asked.
“The anticipated profit from the sale of your house,” the lawyer said, “less the amount you owe the Restoring Savannah Foundation, of course. As of this minute, Mika, you and the foundation are no longer connected. A press release announcing your resignation and thanking you for your service is being prepared as we speak.”
“I don’t get it,” Mika said.
“What don’t you get? You stole money and the foundation wants nothing to do with you. Be grateful and walk away.”
“No. I mean, how does the sale on a house close in one day?”
“It doesn’t,” the lawyer said. “Bruce felt it was best to get the foundation situation handled immediately. Against my advice, he’s fronting you the money. The rest is paperwork.”
Mika nodded. She thought she could talk her way back into the foundation’s good graces, but it was clear that was not going to happen.
“Bruce also instructed me to give you this,” the lawyer said. It was another check. This one for $50,000.
“What’s this for?”
“Living expenses until you get on your feet,” the lawyer said. “I told Bruce he was out of his mind, and he told me I should mind my own business and give you the check. So...”
“Can you drive me to the bank?” Mika asked.
The lawyer shook his head. “I get paid $800 an hour, Mika. Catch a cab.”
1:47 P.M.
Mika called a limo service and was extremely pleased when it arrived and an attractive twenty-something male climbed out and opened the rear door for her. He had dark hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and an athletic build. He looked a lot like Koda in a driver’s uniform. If the man had a billion dollars, Mika would have asked him to marry he
r on the spot.
“Where to, Miss?”
“What’s your name?” Mika asked.
“Clint,” the driver said.
“Huh,” Mika grunted. “Take me to Wells Fargo at Bull and West York. Then I’ve got a few more stops to make. I hope you don’t have plans.”
* * *
1:59 P.M.
Mika signed the check for $16,243.57 and handed it to the teller. “I’ll take this in cash.”
It pissed Mika off a bit the way Bruce had taken over her finances in such a heavy-handed way. But having the foundation off her back was the important thing, wasn’t it?
The teller counted out the cash. “Will there be anything else?” she asked.
There was. She’d almost forgotten.
Mika signed the second check and deposited the entire $50,000 in her checking account to cover her immediate expenses. With any luck, she’d get three months out it. Then she’d have to come up with something else. Of course, there was still Koda—providing she could find a clever way to deal with that God-damn, boyfriend-stealing bartender.
2:06 P.M.
Clint watched the bitchy blonde push through the front doors of the bank and glanced at the clock on the limousine dashboard. Damn, that was quick. When she said five minutes, she meant it.
Clint tried to jump out and get the door, but the blonde was moving like a freight train on a mission and climbed in the back unassisted.
“I’m starving,” Mika said. “What about you, Eastwood? Have you had lunch?”
Did she just call him Eastwood? “No, ma’am. I usually don’t eat until—”
“I love your little cap,” Mika said, cutting him off. “Does the limo company provide that, or did you go out and buy it on your own?”
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