Quentin managed to hang onto his composure, but barely. In the beginning of this whole debacle, Stedman had managed to turn two of Nash’s agents—two men named Bridge and Jinx. It was highly possible that those two turncoats had given Stedman the particulars of everyone that Nash had brought to Boston to work this case. Still, there was an element of truth in what Stedman said that Quentin did not mention to anyone. He could not imagine Nash telling these things to Bridge and Jinx, and Quentin knew he certainly hadn’t divulged it.
“I see you’ve done some homework,” Quentin said, his tone lethally quiet. If Stedman had known him better, he would have realized his danger. “Did your little fact-finding mission also tell you what I did in the marines? Did it show you what my specialty was when I was a soldier?”
Stedman snorted. “You were a paper-pusher. Information gathering. Pshaw!”
“Is that what you think information gathering is in the field?” Quentin advanced two steps. He reached out and placed two fingers on the carotid artery of Stedman’s neck. The man went to his knees faster than any one of Quentin’s other victims. He only laughed. “Information gathering means torture, you unmitigated bastard. My specialty was keeping victims alive until they could tell me every single piece of information that I wanted to know.”
“Quentin!”
He turned around and found himself face to face with Francesca. Her expression was one of horror. He reached out, but she cringed away from him. The other woman standing behind her did the same. She put one arm around Francesca and leveled a look of such disgust at Quentin that he could feel the burn of her derision from across the room.
“Come on, sweetheart.” The therapist escorted Francesca from the room. “The police are waiting downstairs to take you to the lawyer’s office.” Then the therapist glared at Quentin. “You need to go report back to your boss and tell him you’re through being anywhere near Francesca.”
Quentin ground his teeth together. Like hell. So, Stedman could be in here but Quentin was the problem? How typical. Violence was acceptable as long as it was accomplishing a common goal. The second someone’s sensibilities popped up, he was a monster who deserved to go back to the pits of hell. It figured. It all did.
The door slammed behind the therapist, and Stedman started laughing from his spot on the floor. Quentin gave him a kick in the belly. “What are you laughing at, little man?” Quentin’s voice oozed disgust. “Don’t kid yourself. When you think I have nothing to lose, that’s when I become the most dangerous. Don’t you think?”
Chapter Eleven
Fabian Holloway was an elegant man in his fifties with thick black hair streaked with silver and a carefully trimmed moustache. He looked a little bit like an old cartoon villain, but he had kind eyes. At the moment, Francesca could see no apparent expression in his eyes at all. They were blank as he apparently tried to process the story she had just told him.
“Stedman Hyde-Pierson,” Fabian mused. “It’s apparent he has a judge in his pocket if he believes that he has a court order stating that he can actually sit in on one of your therapy sessions. I’ve never heard of anything so preposterous before in my life!”
Francesca gestured to the court order she had been presented with less than a week ago. “It must be in addition to this one, because there is nothing in this particular document that comes anywhere near granting him that sort of request.”
Something in Fabian’s countenance suggested that he was surprised. “You’ve read this, then?”
“Of course.” She frowned. “Do people not read a court order like this?”
“All the time, actually.” He laughed. “Most people get lost in the legal jargon and never finish the document. They also rarely seem to grasp the details like you have. I respect your quick mind, Ms. Hyde-Pierson.”
“Ormonde,” she corrected. “That’s something Stedman has never quite accepted. I had my name legally changed to Ormonde—my maiden name—after Lyle’s death.”
“That’s an interesting little tidbit, then,” Fabian murmured. He began scribbling something on the blotter atop his desk. “In theory, this document will have to be reissued with your legal name in order for it to be in effect at all. At least one could make an argument to that effect.”
“I like the way you think,” Francesca mused. She wondered what else the wily attorney had up his sleeve. Settling more comfortably into the overstuffed chair in front of his desk, she sorted through the thoughts in her head before choosing a conversational path. “Do you think it would be possible to simply appear in court, speak to the judge, and have him ascertain from that interaction and perhaps a few witness testimonies, that I’m possessed of a perfectly sound mind?”
Fabian sighed. He tugged his lower lip with the fingers of his right hand. He had done this several times when he was in deep thought. It was somehow very reassuring to know that the lawyer was a real man with real things, like tells. She was so tired of people like Lyle and Stedman who were as fake as their dental work.
“Actually,” Fabian began slowly. “I say go ahead with their evaluation at both our own expense and by our own choice.”
“What?” Francesca sat forward suddenly and gripped the arms of the chair. “Why?”
“Is there some reason why you feel that you would not”—he used air quotes—“pass a mental evaluation such as what they are requesting? I must say that I cannot see anything in our interaction that would indicate that you are not one hundred percent capable of handling your own affairs in any capacity, mental, physical, financial, emotional, whatever else they would like to throw at you.”
Francesca swallowed the lump that had appeared in her throat and began wringing her hands together. “I have a diagnosis.”
“Most of us do,” Fabian said mildly. “I assure you. Almost anyone has a diagnosis of some kind, but that is not what this examination is designed to determine.”
“I have PTSD,” Francesca hazarded. “Sometimes the symptoms—they cause me to sort of disassociate from the stressor at that particular moment.”
Fabian’s gaze grew assessing. He leaned forward in his desk chair. “Do you feel that this assessment would trigger you unnecessarily?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we should go ahead and try it,” he suggested thoughtfully. Sitting back once again, he seemed to be thinking very seriously about their course of action. “If you come through and have no episodes or any other incidents that raise red flags to the assessor, then our position with the judge and the court will be a strong one.”
“And if I fail?” Francesca squeaked.
Fabian frowned. “There is no failing one of these, Francesca. I beg you to keep that in mind. It isn’t failure. Besides, if you already have the diagnosis of PTSD from a respected member of the mental health community and you are currently in treatment or therapy to manage symptoms and issues resulting from that diagnosis, then that hardly qualifies you as incompetent or mentally incapable of taking care of yourself.”
“Oh!” Francesca started to see where he was heading with this. “So, we could go to court and make a statement that Stedman is the one causing any mental anguish with his constant bullying and these ridiculous demands for assessments.”
“Exactly.” Fabian smiled. “You and I are going to get along wonderfully, Ms. Ormonde.”
Francesca could not have agreed more. “So, when do we start?”
“Today.” Fabian gestured to the court order. “We want to have this done and submitted into the record with any subsequent documentation long before the hearing date.”
“And how did he get a hearing date in a week?” Francesca burst out. “Can you imagine what that would cost?”
“Men like Stedman think nothing of expending hundreds or thousands of dollars to get what they want, Ms. Ormonde.” Fabian’s expression grew shrewd. “Especially when I suspect Stedman believes that by gaining control of you, he will gain full control over his company. Hyde-Pierson Financial is
certainly worth the trouble.”
“To say nothing of all this mafia nonsense he’s got going on the side,” Francesca said darkly.
“Excuse me?” Fabian’s brows shot skyward. “What mafia nonsense?”
“I thought everyone knew that Stedman Hyde-Pierson is in bed with the Russian mafia in Boston. He was laundering their money through Boston Bank & Trust. There was a falling out or something, and he came to all of us—his family members—and claimed we were all under death threats because the mafia was out to get him. We’ve hired a private security firm to dispel some of this nonsense, but I have a strong feeling that Stedman is just using this latest drama as an excuse to gain control of some things he has wanted for a very long time.”
Fabian was scribbling at a fantastic rate. “I’ll make notes on all of this. Can you give me the name of the security firm? I want to touch base with them and see if there is any information they can give me that might help our case.”
Francesca was already digging for Nash’s business card. “Certainly. Anything we can do to make Stedman’s life more difficult is fine by me!”
“Oh, we will,” Fabian told her firmly. “I promise you that. We’re about to give his tree a really good shake.”
*
“What are you doing?” Analise snarled as she stared out the front door of Stedman Hyde-Pierson’s Brookline estate. “Have you lost your damn mind?”
Quentin had to admit that his current course of action did not necessarily reflect the way he usually did things. He was generally very calm and collected. He was known for his long silences and refusal to give anything beyond a one-word answer. However, the current series of events had pushed him off the high road and right back into the pit of hell he had often occupied on overseas missions.
“This fucktarded bastard believes he has a court order that allows him to sit in on Francesca’s sessions with her personal therapist,” Quentin said flatly. He glared at Analise. “I caught him with his ear pressed to the door, trying to listen because the therapist refused to be party to that kind of intimidation tactic.”
Analise’s eyes nearly bugged out. Quentin figured it was probably better that Stedman was facedown on the ground and could not see her expression. Her disgust for Stedman was on display, and she was supposed to be in his corner because of her loyalty to his son, Ralston. Any slipup in that department was bound to leave her and Ralston in an awkward position with a man they were trying to manipulate into giving away his business secrets.
“Ralston!” Analise shouted over her shoulder into the depths of the house. “You need to come quickly!”
There were rapid footsteps on the marble floors, and moments later, Quentin saw Ralston Hyde-Pierson appear in the foyer. Quentin had to give the guy credit. He managed to be silent even though the expression on his face suggested he wanted to die laughing at the sight of his father hogtied and facedown on the floor.
Ralston cleared his throat and pointed at Quentin. “What is the meaning of this? You cannot treat Stedman Hyde-Pierson in this way!”
“Ralston!” Stedman’s voice was strangely muffled by both his position on the ground and the wad of Kleenex that Quentin had shoved into his mouth in an effort to make him shut up. “Get me out of here!”
“This is preposterous!” Ralston snarled. Of course, his tone was completely ruined by the fact that he actually winked at Quentin. “I’ll be reporting you to your boss for insubordination and assault!”
“Fuck. Off,” Quentin drawled. “If he comes near Francesca again, I’ll give him a permanent smile.”
Ralston’s eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing as he used his pocketknife to slit the ropes holding his father hostage. Ralston helped Stedman to his feet. The old man was snarling and mumbling insults as he stumbled inside on his son’s arm. Analise remained behind. She watched them go to make certain they were out of earshot before she whispered to Quentin.
“What is wrong with you?” Analise demanded hoarsely. “You’re acting like a lunatic.”
“I’m not kidding,” Quentin snarled right back. “If that man continues to harass Francesca, I’m going to rip him apart.”
“He harasses everyone,” Analise reminded Quentin. “It’s sort of his stock and trade, you know? We’re trying. Believe me. Ralston is so close. He’s met several of the business associates, and he’s getting a feel for the money train. We just need to know the path that the money takes, and that will give us the answers we need to put him away for good.”
“Is that the goal, then?” Quentin could not help the sharp jolt of hatred he felt at the mere thought of a man like Stedman going to some five-star hotel sort of jail where the inmates live better than enlisted soldiers in the military. “We send him off to Club Fed, and that’s it?”
“There’s nothing else,” Analise said urgently. “What do you want to do? Kill him?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t Afghanistan,” Analise said sharply. She put her hand on Quentin’s chest. “I suggest you get a grip on yourself before you wind up back in the box where Nash found you.”
“Fuck off, Analise,” Quentin said quietly. “We were all in our own version of that box. Just because yours looked like your mother’s kitchen means nothing.” Something occurred to him. “And just so you know, someone is feeding Stedman information about our pasts and our military records. You might want to look into that before he comes crawling up your ass too.”
Analise could not hide her look of alarm, but Quentin was done talking. He’d delivered the package and the warning. It was time to try and salvage what he could of his association with Francesca.
Chapter Twelve
Quentin banged on Francesca’s front door and waited. Nothing happened. There were no footsteps, no sound of someone peeking through the peephole, or any other noises to indicate that there was anyone in the house.
He stood on tiptoe and tried to peer through the scalloped windows near the top of the old wood door. The Beacon Hill brownstone was in a historic part of the district, and Quentin knew that Francesca took great pleasure in knowing that she lived in a house that had been sitting here on this street since the Colonial days of Boston’s history.
The interior appeared to be dark and deserted. Quentin couldn’t even detect a hint of Nona’s cooking smells inside the house. What could be happening that Francesca would give Nona and Emily the day off? It seemed very strange. Both women had been at work just that morning when Quentin had driven Francesca to her therapy appointment. Of course, she had left the car and taken a police escort to her next appointment—presumably with the lawyer. That meant she would have had to use a taxi to get to any subsequent destinations, and also that Francesca had called Nona and given orders that she and Emily were to leave for the day.
Why?
Quentin made a frustrated noise and pulled out his keys. He let himself into the house and quickly punched in the code to disarm the security system. Was Francesca not expecting him to come back? Did she think that she and the therapist could be rid of him with that little misunderstanding in the therapist’s office? Surely not!
He paced around the house like a caged animal. It was readily apparent that Nona hadn’t been gone long. He placed his hand on the oven and felt that it was still warm. The tote that Emily used to carry her cleaning supplies around the house was still sitting in the front hall. It looked as if the two women had just up and left only moments before Quentin got there. Coincidence? He didn’t believe in such things.
Quentin turned in a slow circle and tried to imagine what might have happened. Then he spotted the pad of paper by the house phone. There was a pen lying discarded on the empty pad of paper, but there was no note scribbled there. How odd. He paused thoughtfully and stared at the pad of paper. Selecting a pencil from the jar of writing utensils, Quentin used the tip of the pencil and a gentle scribbling motion to make a rubbing of the last thing written on the pad of paper.
101 BOWDOIN STREET.
The address was essentially around the corner. Quentin had no notion of what sort of business might be there, but he had a pretty good idea of what it might be. He hurried out of the house with the address burned into his mind and a determination to be there whether he was welcome or not.
FRANCESCA STARED UP at the large, old building on Bowdoin Street. The traffic behind her on the street was rushing by at a terrific rate of speed. She had heard someone once say that Boston was by far the worst city in the entire country to drive in. The critic had made the perfectly true and logical statement that most of Boston’s streets had actually been animal tracks or footpaths between the buildings when the city was first settled. That meant that when horse and buggy traffic and then eventually motorcar traffic had begun to increase, there had been no room to widen the narrow passageways. What was left was a twisting, curving, narrow warren of streets and thoroughfares that seemed to go in every direction but the one you wanted to travel.
Of course, it was, by far, time to stop distracting herself with the novelty of driving herself anywhere in town. It had been ages since she had done so. She usually walked or took a cab. Today, her little sports car was wedged between two much larger sedans along the curb of Bowdoin Street.
Francesca trudged up to the front doors of the building and let herself inside. She gazed at the directory and found the office that she needed. The next thing was to take the elevator up to the fourth floor. She chose the stairs instead. Somehow, the idea of putting this interview off even just a few more minutes was very appealing.
The narrow stairwell echoed as Francesca’s shoes clip-clopped up the cement steps. One flight, two flights, three flights, and finally, she pushed her way into the hallway of a very well-appointed building. The décor was light and airy. The place could have almost been considered welcoming.
“Hello, can I help you?” A friendly administrative assistant wearing a warm smile peered at Francesca from a window with the words CHECK IN HERE emblazoned on a sign above the desk.
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