“Get all the background you can on Bertrand St. Cyr. Including medicals and possible psych history.” He paused and gave Theresa his most intense stare. “Anything else we should be looking for, Theresa?” He didn’t respond to Sam’s surprised expletive on the other end, but continued to stare at the silent woman. It looked like the gears were spinning inside, but they were probably rusty from disuse, so he’d give her some time.
Time? Forget that. He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed—not in a friendly way. “Theresa. Talk.” It worked. Fear and what he would have sworn was excitement returned to her face—and her mouth started working.
“Okay, okay. There was the thing with that prize…” She made a face like she was squeezing her brain for drops of information.
“The Pulitzer Prize?” he prompted.
“Yeah, that’s it.” She gave him a light-bulb look. Then she stopped. Peter tried very hard to keep his pulse from increasing and not because he was excited. These amateurs were tough on the nerves.
“What about it, Theresa? Did St. Cyr want to win it?”
“Yeah. He was up for it at the same time as Madeline Grace. Of course she won—no contest. Even I said, ‘Bertie, you—’”
“Theresa! Focus!”
She whimpered and he immediately felt like a heel. Peter closed his eyes. He heard Bill’s “coughing.” He took another deep breath.
“What does the prize have to do with St. Cyr blackmailing you?”
“I’m not sure. All I know is he hates Mad Madeline—that’s what he calls her—and at first he said he’d do flattering stories about Daddy for any inside tidbits I could come up with about her. The nastier the better, of course. There wasn’t much at first, and then…” She stopped and for the first time looked truly disturbed and upset.
Peter looked at Bill, his face back to a mask. They were close to something meaningful and they needed a place to bring her.
“Drive home. Yours, not mine.” He watched the surprise register on Bill’s face before he turned to the road in earnest. Peter supposed he should have asked where Bill lived first, but he didn’t want Theresa to know. She’d be easy enough to distract along the way. His alarm was only minor when the car turned onto the ramp to head west on the Mass Pike. How far could it be?
“Are you taking me to some secret hideaway?” Her voice definitely sounded excited, without a smidgen of fear now. In an enormous effort of self-control, Peter held his face neutral and stopped his hands from shaking her senseless. After all, she was already pretty much senseless. The only thing he could do apparently, was play along.
“Yes. And you better not tell anyone where we’re going, got it?” He gave her a pretend menacing look. That was tough because he really felt like laughing—at himself. This was definitely not special ops. “Now, tell me, what was this nasty inside info you gave St. Cyr, where did you get it and what did he do with it?” He felt more like her kindergarten teacher than her inquisitor. Deepening his scowl for effect, he stared intently at her and leaned closer.
She smiled. His exasperation returned.
“Theresa! Talk!” he shouted at her. His heartbeat was too fast and his hands were fisted. He grabbed her by the arms, and this time he did shake her.
“Okay, okay, don’t get violent.” She had the nerve to sound impatient. That took the cake. He covered his disbelieving eyes with one hand.
“That did it. Bill, where is my gun?” He was only half joking.
“I said I’d tell you, PJD. Take a chill. I know you’re not going to shoot me.” There was slight uncertainty in her voice. That was a good thing. He went back to his menacing stare.
“First, I found out about your romance with Madeline Grace. I was given those pictures of you two. It was St. Cyr’s idea to let out your secret at the Lion’s Club. When that backfired—I mean the romance angle ended up working so well for you guys—I mean Jay Leno for Christmas sake! Who would have thought?”
“Theresa…”
“Oh yeah, well, then he decided to set you up. That’s when he had me meet you and he sent that goofy photographer,” she said.
“Where did you get the info? Who gave you those pictures?” he asked, but he already knew the answer. To give her credit, she was reluctant to say.
“I really shouldn’t tell you that, I—”
“Was it Sarah?” He resigned himself to the truth.
“How did you know?” She looked shocked. “Oh, you’re really smart. Sarah said you were. But not smart enough for her precious Madeline Grace.” Theresa shook her head. It looked like now that she started talking, she had no intentions of stopping any time soon. Which wouldn’t be so bad if she would stay on subject.
“Then what, Theresa?”
“I didn’t mind giving him info—you know—real stories, but he started getting a little reckless if you ask me, with the photo thing. And I wasn’t going to give him any more info and I told him so. That’s when he threatened to expose my father.” She looked down. Her silence was disturbing. Peter patted her arm. She was such a child—a wild child to be sure—but a child all the same.
“Then what?” he said in a gentle voice.
“I needed to come up with something juicy or else. I didn’t want to make anything up, but I suppose I would have if I had to. But I didn’t have to, as it turned out. Sarah told me about the miscarriage in the Berkshires. She was desperate to break you and Madeline apart. Nothing was working. We both figured if Bertie exposed the fact that Madeline had a miscarriage after you split up—and she didn’t tell you about it—you’d feel betrayed enough to ditch her.”
Nausea erupted in his gut and he felt the beads of sweat pop out, even as he turned his face to stone to stop the churning emotions from showing. He couldn’t allow himself to become overwhelmed. Theresa studied his face as if she knew what was inside, no matter that there was no trace of it in his expression.
“You have to believe me, Peter. I had no idea he was going to lie and make up stuff and turn the story into what he did. I don’t know how he got that nurse to lie. Sarah and I were very upset that he used us to ruin Madeline like that—especially Sarah. I was afraid St. Cyr was going to turn on my father too. He can’t be trusted. We wanted to stop him, but we didn’t know what to do. We knew we’d get in trouble too.” Now she was crying. She slumped forward, shedding her tears on his shoulder. He patted her back and tried to think past all that to where they were now. Madeline’s words telling him how wrong she had been flashed into his mind, and he held on.
The car came to a stop and Bill coughed.
“That’s all there is to it? Don’t worry. He can’t get you into trouble. It would be your word against his if he tried to involve you.”
“What about the tapes?”
“Tapes?”
“Bertie taped our conversation about my father’s affair—for insurance to keep me loyal, he said.” She snorted her bitterness. “He was right. If he didn’t have that tape I would have gone to the authorities by now.”
Peter enjoyed watching the scowl on her face turn to realization when he said, “You just told the authorities after all, Theresa. It was the right thing to do.” He gave her a smile. He figured she needed it. Catching Bill’s face in the mirror, he arched his brow at the questioning look and said, “Home, James.”
Incredulous from Bill. “You mean Cambridge, don’t you?” Bill banged the car back into gear and Peter laughed. Theresa looked around for the first time.
“Where the heck are we?”
“It’s a secret. Relax and enjoy the ride.” That was wishful thinking. By the time they drove into town, Peter was happy to jump out of the car at the Star Market parking lot. Marcus Thompson was waiting for him. The smile he gave the man was genuine for a change.
The Next Morning
“I don’t think electric blue is the right color for the occasion. You should be more subdued,” Sarah said. She stood in the doorway with her arms folded as Madeline buttoned the jacket to her
bright suit. It was an excellent color for her. But then she figured Sarah would have been unhappy about any wardrobe choice that day.
“Why did you bother to come back?” Madeline looked at Sarah’s scowling face and noticed she was flushed. She should be more tolerant, but her friend had really hurt her.
“To talk some sense into you. To talk you out of seeing that man,” Sarah said. She stood still but appeared to be almost vibrating. Madeline was alarmed, torn between her need to get to the Chili Fest and her growing concern that there was something going on with Sarah. Something not good. Maybe there was a good reason for Sarah to walk out the other day. She needed to believe that. They needed to have a long talk. She was about to suggest a talk that night when someone banged on the door. It was time to go.
“I’m warning you, Madeline. This is bad. Don’t talk to him and don’t go doing any other foolish thing with him. Bad things will happen,” Sarah ground out the words and stopped abruptly. Madeline was alarmed at the nature of her friend’s words but she had to go.
“Don’t worry, Sarah. I’ll be careful. No one’s going to hurt me.” She smiled and patted her friend’s arm on her way out the door. She hoped Sarah was being paranoid—or did she know something?
Sarah stood in her new stone-like stance and said nothing, but it was the odd sad look on her face that stuck with Madeline as she closed the door behind her.
Valerie thought it would be a good way to defeat the betrayal theme if they could promote the “still good friends after all these years and a water under the bridge” theme. They decided Mad should do a public hug with PJD. She only hoped it was okay with him. She had major butterfly stomach. Her people were all scattered around the hotel suite’s living room-slash-makeshift campaign HQ. They’d decided to meet there because they didn’t want the media circus to start too soon, which it would if they started out at the down town office. Everyone avoided looking at the electronic scoreboard. Madeline thought about pulling the plug, but she couldn’t do it because it felt too much like pulling the plug on Clever Dennis. She’d started getting these fanciful thoughts a lot more this past week. What was worse was that she was not banishing them. Instead, she let them rule her decisions.
Liberating her emotions this way felt great and it was the right thing to do—up to a point, she reminded herself.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t give a damn what the media thinks today. I don’t care about the spin. I don’t even care who wins the race,” Madeline said. At Jonathan’s raised eyebrows she amended herself. “As long as it’s not the other party.”
Valerie, Jonathan and even Morty had the good humor to chuckle in understanding. Only Sarah frowned.
“Because she wants to make a statement as an independent more than to win the race, of course,” said Dennis McBain.
They all turned at once and looked at the grinning man who stood in the doorway. Clever Dennis. Madeline sighed big.
“Who let you in? I’m going to have to talk to hotel security about this.” She said it with a broad smile and a hint of tears at the corner of her eyes as she walked up to him and gave him a hug. She needed all the friends she could get right now, and it looked like he was one of them after all.
At the Chili Fest
Tension gripped Peter and tossed his guts around like they were inside a Maytag washer. Approaching her, he felt as if he were plunging from the crest of a roller coaster—Maytag washer and all.
They weren’t alone, but if he didn’t school himself, he would have behaved as if they were. That would mean he would kiss those lips he stared at right now as they formed that familiar smile. Her smile always got to him. It wasn’t a smile she reserved for him alone, but it always felt that way.
He was being a fool. He shouldn’t be seen talking with her; it would only stir up all the more media interest—in the wrong topic. Rick thought he was acting like a fool. Rick didn’t think Madeline was any different than all women—at least on some levels. And he didn’t see Rick going around mooning over women. Come to think of it, Peter had never seen Rick head over heels for any woman—ever.
He reminded himself to focus on his mission. If Madeline felt disappointment or betrayal that he was backing Marcus Thompson as his lieutenant governor now, she wasn’t saying. She probably expected it of him. That thought was not comforting.
He’d made his decision and it was a good one. It was the right one. She had never wanted to be part of his team anyway he reminded himself.
She stepped up to him, gave him one of her gracious smiles and hugged him. Then she pulled away before he did more than touch her back.
“Thank you for talking to me in public.” She said it like she was sincere. That bothered him.
“Okay. So what do you want?” He knew the answer. He knew it was mean of him to ask the question to make her answer.
“I need your help to expose the fraud. The nurse is lying and the abortion record was faked, but I don’t know by whom or how. And I think it’s not only aimed at me—I have a hunch it was partly aimed at you too.” She stopped speaking abruptly as if keeping her emotions under wrap was too taxing for her. He thought fleetingly that she’d always been pretty damn good at hunches.
“I need to expose the lies about me. I need to uncover the fraud. We have Morty uncovering some interesting information. About the mayor’s daughter. Seems she’s on someone’s payroll.” When she said it, he did his damn best to cover his surprise, but the tiniest lift at the corners of her mouth told him he wasn’t entirely successful.
“That’s why the mayor looked like he was doing everything for free. Because it was his daughter taking the payoff—and maybe running the whole damn operation,” she said. He knew all about Theresa, and even if Madeline was way off base about her, he wondered how she knew Theresa was involved. That Morty was damn good. Peter was glad Morty decided to help him out too and share his information. Clearly Madeline was unaware that Morty was helping him, and he decided to keep it that way for now.
“I’m counting on you to save the day, Mr. Rock Man. I need your super-spy persona to come to the rescue.” She said the words with that smile on her lips but a wary tension that made the words difficult and a pleading look in her eyes as if she expected him to say no.
She obviously did not think very highly of him since she was very unsure whether or not he would help. But who could blame her? He’d been unsure himself until this moment if he would actually do it.
“Do I get the girl in the end?” he asked. She laughed, but the tightness was still there. Too much was unresolved for this to be easy or real. It definitely did not feel real. He was in role-playing mode and wondered if she even knew—or more importantly whether she cared.
“I’d have to run the operation. You would have to do as you are told.” He arched his brow for emphasis, because this was not one of her strong suits.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want you at your best.” She arched her brow back at him, and he struggled to feel genuine amusement.
She didn’t seem relieved or pleased. Did she think he owed her this somehow? He clamped down mentally on the resentment. That would have to be kept for later. He reminded himself he was as much a target as she was and it wasn’t about doing her any favors. He could damn well do it for himself.
Even if Rick thought he was fucking out-of-his-mind wrong.
“We’ll have to get a little creative about getting out of town without a trail of media following.”
“That’s your specialty, isn’t it? Thinking up devious plots and playing cloak and dagger games. I can’t wait to hear your plan.”
“And here you’ve been accusing me all along about being uncreative and not taking risks.” He couldn’t help the dig—even if it was a bit unfair.
“I guess I owe you an apology.” She lifted her chin when she said it, like she was being damn noble, and somehow she was still right anyway and he was wrong. If he stood there talking any longer he might be tempted to lose his c
ontrol—purposely of course. He might be tempted to take her in her prissy little suit with her icy air and coiled-up emotions and spring it all open with a melt-down kiss and crushing embrace. He looked her over with molten eyes to make sure she knew what he was thinking, even if it was a typical asshole male thing to do. What the heck? He was a man, wasn’t he?
He could no longer afford the luxury of contemplating the possibilities. There was already too much media interest as he saw his people struggle to keep the hounds at bay. They were starting to lose ground. He felt like a quarterback in a football game dropping back for a pass with the line trying to protect him. They could only hold the line so long. It was time for him to throw the ball.
“Clear your schedule for tomorrow night—all night. We’ll take a trip out to the Berkshires.”
“Just like that?”
“If you didn’t expect me to help, then why did you ask?” It was a rhetorical question, but he decided to relent. Another one of those impulsive decisions he hoped not to regret. What the hell was he afraid of anyway? “Don’t worry, Mad. We’ll catch the bad guys.” She laughed at that and he hadn’t felt more pleased with himself since he—well, since he last went to bed with her, if he wanted to be honest. That pulled him back.
“We’ll go in tomorrow night—one night only. I’ll be in touch. Follow instructions carefully when they’re given. See you later.”
“I’ll be wearing black,” she said. There was still tension in her voice, and in him—and it wasn’t all sexual. He shoved that acknowledgment aside and knew he could still do the job he had to do and work with her.
He saluted her and turned without smiling. She gave him a fleeting look drenched in mixed emotions, like she was leaving too much unsaid. Of course they both were, but that couldn’t be helped right now. They were in public.
The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Page 28