Moon Fever

by Susan Sizemore, Maggie Shayne, Lori Handeland

Roger stood slowly, keeping his head low as he scanned the street for a second gunman. I didn’t bother to get up. I doubted I could.

  Several tenants came out of my building and gathered around the flames, staring into them as if they were at a bonfire. I half expected someone to break out the marshmallows.

  A slightly hysterical giggle bubbled up at the thought. What was the matter with me?

  A thud drew my attention to Roger, who’d keeled over at my feet. The new crisis brought me out of my lethargy as nothing else could. I was queen in a crisis. Give me a hundred members of the Women’s League at a Mother’s Day luncheon, serve Cabernet with the salmon, and watch me shine.

  I crawled across the pavement, ignoring the scrape along my palms and the pain in my knees.

  “Roger?” His eyelids fluttered open. “What happened?”

  I asked the question as much about him as about the barbecuing assassin.

  “I guess that first shot didn’t miss after all.” Roger touched his chest, and his hand came away covered in blood, which hadn’t been immediately visible in the dim light on his black shirt.

  “Crap,” I muttered.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said, though his eyes drifted shut.

  The wail of what sounded like a hundred sirens came closer. “What am I supposed to tell the police?”

  “Nothing.” His voice was fading.

  “People don’t explode when you shoot them, Roger.”

  “I know.”

  “What is going on?”

  “You’ll have to ask your father about that,” he said, and then he passed out.

  Daddy. Swell. Just the guy I wanted to avoid.

  The paramedics arrived, loaded Roger into the ambulance, and drove away. The police tried to take me in for questioning, but J.T.’s weasel-faced attorney showed up, and that was the end of that. I guess it paid to own the mayor.

  Josh Branson hustled me into his limo, leaving the one Roger had hired behind. Half the police were already swarming all over it, while the other half stared at the still-burning corpse on the sidewalk.

  “I need to go to the hospital,” I said.

  Alarm flared in Lawyer Boy’s pale gray eyes. “You’re hurt?”

  “Not a scratch,” I said, folding my fingers over my abraded palms and shifting so my dress did not reveal my skinned knees. “I’m worried about Roger.”

  “Who?”

  Branson rarely bothered to learn the names of underlings; he’d no doubt learned that from J.T.

  “My bodyguard.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “I’d like to find that out for myself.”

  “No,” he said simply.

  I narrowed my eyes, but Branson wasn’t scared of me. Despite his fresh face and youthful appearance, he had an ancient soul, forged in the fires of hell. Or maybe just Harvard Law.

  “You can call the hospital as soon as I get you to your father,” he continued.

  “You’re taking me to J.T.?”

  “Of course. He’s worried about you.”

  I gave an unladylike snort. “If he was that worried, he could have come himself.”

  “He had a meeting.”

  Why I found that funny, I’m not quite sure, but I started laughing, and then I couldn’t stop. Branson turned toward the window and ignored me.

  I’m sure he thought I was a waste of a good penthouse apartment, and he was probably right. If I really hated my father’s lifestyle, his choices, his filthy lucre, shouldn’t I be living in a rattrap somewhere and waiting tables?

  I’d tried it, and you know what? It sucks.

  I’d discovered I helped a lot more people by using my father’s money and his name to solicit donations for my charitable foundations. Rich people didn’t talk to waitresses unless it was to give their order; they did like to impress the eldest daughter of one of the richest men in Manhattan.

  And the penthouse apartment? I just liked it.

  We reached J.T.’s building on Broad Street, and I got out of the limo with nothing more than a nod for Branson. Before I’d even shut the door completely, the sleek black car pulled away. Guess I’d have to take a taxi home.

  A single security guard remained in the foyer. “Miss Carly,” Warner greeted as he unlocked the outer door. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good to hear. Your father said to send you right up.”

  “Thank you.” I headed for the hallway leading to J.T.’s suite.

  “You think it’s okay if I go?” Warner asked. “Mr. Kelly said I could as soon as you arrived. It’s my grand-daughter’s birthday.”

  Warner was retired NYPD. This job was a cupcake compared with that. Still, he took it very seriously, as evidenced by the worry in his eyes.

  J.T. always hired men for his security details who were grossly overqualified. Many of our bodyguards were former Special Forces; one had even been a colonel in the Israeli army. That guy had scared the crap out of me.

  “Go ahead,” I answered. “Place is locked up, no one here but us, right?”

  Warner nodded. “Mr. Kelly’s meeting ended half an hour ago.”

  “Have a nice time.”

  The reception area outside my father’s office was empty, which struck me as odd. If J.T. was working late, his executive assistant should be as well. Maybe she was inside taking notes, or whatever euphemism they used for it around here.

  I’d pegged Julie as the next Mrs. J. Thomas Kelly IV. She had that look, and J.T. hadn’t impregnated anyone for a few years. He was due.

  I knocked lightly on the door to his inner sanctum, and it swung open at my touch.

  “J.T.?”

  My foot slid on the ceramic tile, and when I glanced down, I saw a splash of bright red across the Italian marble. My skin prickled, and I wished for the first time in my life that my bodyguard was shadowing me.

  J.T.’s bodyguard was at his side, as was Julie. They didn’t look any more alive than he did. Then my father groaned; I ran forward and knelt next to him.

  A throat wound seemed to be the source of most of the blood. Tiny puncture wounds marred his hands, and the forearms of his usually pristine white dress shirt appeared russet.

  “J.T.?” I touched his wrist, which was far too cold. “I’ll call nine-one-one.”

  He grabbed my hand in a surprisingly strong grip, and his blue eyes bored into mine. “Wait.”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  If I’d expected any dying declarations of love, I was disappointed, but then I so often was when it came to J.T.

  “Go. Now.”

  “But—”

  “Get out.” The force of the words made him cough. Pink foam appeared on his lips. That couldn’t be good.

  “I’ll call for help.”

  “Too late.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I insisted.

  “Phoebe,” he whispered.

  My skin prickled again. “Mom’s dead, J.T.”

  “No.”

  Now I was as cold as the tile floor against my knees. “She isn’t dead?”

  He closed his eyes, shook his head.

  “You bastard,” I whispered. “Where is she?”

  His breathing became more labored. “Alaska.”

  That made sense. Phoebe had been adopted as an infant by a wealthy Boston couple. She knew she was Inuit, that she’d been born in Alaska. She’d always wanted to go there. When she’d started seeing and then believing things, J.T. must have granted her wish.

  “Where in Alaska?” I demanded.

  “Secret,” he muttered.

  “J.T.—”

  “Look in the safe. Two. Twenty-five. Eighty.”

  “The date you made your first million,” I murmured. Figures.

  His lips curved. “Always were smart…”

  Was that praise?

  “Smart ass,” he said more clearly.

  Nah.

  “Trust no one,” J.T. continued.

  “That shouldn’t b
e a problem.” I’d always had trust issues. “Who’s after us?”

  I could understand people trying to kill J.T.; half the time, I wanted to. But I wasn’t that big of a bitch.

  “Phoebe,” J.T. murmured. “You were right.”

  The silence in the room was so sudden it took me several seconds to register that he’d stopped breathing.

  I got to my feet, then stared down at J.T. for several seconds. Interesting that his last words were for a woman he’d abandoned twenty years ago.

  Slowly, I lifted my hands; they were covered in blood. The sight cut through the haze that had come over me. Since entering the room, I’d lost a father and gained a mother. I wasn’t sure what to think about that.

  Better think later. J.T. had been murdered; someone had tried to kill me. I had to get out of there, then get out of town. Convenient, since nothing on heaven and earth was going to stop me from seeing my mother. I just had to be careful. I didn’t need to bring whoever was after me down on her.

  Sure, I could have notified the police, been taken into protective custody, but hadn’t J.T. just said to trust no one?

  Not that I’d ever listened to him before. Unless what he’d said suited me, and this did.

  Quickly I called the hospital about Roger but no one would give me any information. I was on my own.

  I hurried to J.T.’s private bathroom, washed away every speck of blood, then stripped off my formal gown and strappy sandals. I stuffed them and my fur coat—warm but too attention-grabbing—into the linen closet and, familiar with J.T.’s penchant for romantic getaways, easily located a travel bag full of woman’s clothes beneath the sink. The name on the tag was Julie’s.

  “I guess she was in line for promotion,” I murmured.

  Luckily, Julie was almost my size. Her black V-neck top was a little tight, the black jeans a little short, but her boots fit and covered up the high-waters nicely.

  I hadn’t worn a bra with the evening gown, and there was no way I could shove my C-cups into Julie’s almost A’s, so the clingy shirt became a bit pornographic, but I’d live. I hoped I would.

  My tiny evening bag was pretty, not practical. I’d only had enough room for my ID, tip money, and lipstick.

  I was going to need lots more cash to hire a private plane, which was the best way to leave New York without drawing too much attention. Knowing J.T., there’d be rainy-day money in his safe.

  I grabbed Julie’s bag and headed into the office, averting my gaze from the bodies. In the bottom right-hand drawer of J.T.’s desk was a dial. I spun the numbers, and the top popped open.

  Beneath it lay twenty thousand dollars in cash and a brochure for Lake Delton Psychiatric Clinic in rustic Alaska. The place was located between Fairbanks and the Arctic Circle. Brrr.

  I stuffed every last dollar into the bag. Straightening, I was unable to keep my gaze from drifting one last time to the bodies.

  They were gone.

  Chapter 2

  “W hat the—?”

  I closed my eyes, squeezed hard, and opened them again. Still no J.T., no Julie, no bodyguard. I’d think I’d imagined everything, except the blood was still there. The blood was everywhere.

  I had to get out of there, because those bodies hadn’t moved on their own, which meant I wasn’t alone. And anyone who’d moved them but hadn’t mentioned it to me was someone I didn’t want to meet.

  I wished, not for the first time, that I hadn’t sent Warner home. I also wished that I’d thought to relieve the bodyguard of his gun.

  I snatched Julie’s coat—a nondescript black wool—from her office and headed out the door.

  The place was silent, eerily so, and Julie’s clunky-heeled boots thunked so loudly the sound bounced off the smooth marble walls, drowning out everything else.

  It wasn’t until I paused to button the coat that I heard the faint ticks, like a clock but too staccato—more like a horse, clip-clopping, faster and faster. Ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta.

  According to Warner, no one had been in the building but J.T., Julie, the bodyguard, and me. Since I was the only one left alive, who was hurrying down the corridor? Must be the murderer.

  I glanced back, but whoever it was hadn’t reached the corner yet. As I stared, wide-eyed, a shadow skated across the gray tile floor, too ghostly to make out, but something was there. I knew it, even before that something growled.

  Giving in to panic, I ran.

  Julie’s boots made a horrible racket, but bless her, she’d put some kind of traction patches on the soles, so I didn’t slip and fall.

  I raced into the foyer and slammed against the exit; the impact made my teeth rattle, but the door didn’t move.

  “Oh, God,” I whispered.

  The ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta got faster and louder. I lifted a hand to hammer on the glass, then I saw the latch.

  Locked. Duh.

  I exploded into the chilly December air. The lock clicked home behind me as I turned. Nothing was there but the darkness. I inched closer, then closer still, pressing first my palms, then my body, then my nose to the glass.

  A dark shape shot out of the gloom, smashing into the door right in front of my face. I jerked backward with a shriek, catching my heel on a crack and hitting the sidewalk hard. My ass was going to be one big bruise come tomorrow.

  I waited for a second strike, but none came.

  Getting to my feet, I tried to reconstruct what I’d seen. Big, black, furry. Ears, tail, teeth.

  When had J.T. gotten an attack dog?

  “Beast could have killed me,” I muttered, then paused.

  Had it killed J.T.?

  He’d had puncture marks on his hands, which could have been made by teeth, and didn’t dogs always go for the throat?

  Though the actual killer who’d been after me was ashes, I’d been thinking there was a mastermind to this plan. Why else would J.T. be so concerned that I trust no one and take care of Phoebe, if he wasn’t worried a mysterious “someone” was after us all?

  But why shoot at me, then sic a dog on everyone else? For that matter, how could a dog kill two grown men, one of them adept with a gun, as well as a grown woman?

  I headed toward the subway. I hadn’t ridden it in years, but I didn’t want to hail a cab and risk being traced to the airport too easily.

  I doubted anyone would discover the blood in J.T.’s office until the building opened, if then. No one would have any reason to go into his inner sanctum unless they had an appointment, and J.T. didn’t do appointments before ten a.m. By then, I’d be halfway across the country.

  Less than twenty-four hours later, I stood on a frozen lake as the bush pilot I’d hired headed back to civilization. The only way to reach this part of the state had been by private aircraft at an astronomical price. Since I’d pay anything to reach Phoebe, I’d forked over the cash and climbed onto the plane.

  I’d been a little creeped out when I’d learned that at this time of year, in the place I was headed, only a few hours of pale light appeared each day, and that was if the sky wasn’t cloudy. Any farther north, and the sun wouldn’t be visible at all until spring.

  A cozy log cabin sat on the shore of the lake. Both matched the photos in the brochure, so I strode to the front door and knocked.

  A few minutes later, I knocked again. When no one answered, I got uneasy. Shouldn’t they have heard the plane? If I lived out here in the great big nothing, I’d be excited about visitors, no matter who they were. You could be pretty certain you wouldn’t open the door to a salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness.

  I glanced around, which was just foolish, because no one was there to shout, “Stop! Thief!” if I walked right in, so I did. Then I stood staring at virtually the same scene I’d left behind in New York.

  Dead woman, dead man, lots of blood.

  I couldn’t breathe, terrified the woman was Phoebe. Then I realized she was too short, too young, too blond. The man was big, muscular, no neck to speak of—another bodyguard.

  Why ha
d Phoebe needed a bodyguard? Everyone thought she was dead.

  A better question would be: Where was Phoebe?

  “Mom?” I called. “It’s Carly. You okay?”

  My voice shook. I was getting pretty sick of stumbling into rooms full of dead people. I might be good in a crisis, but this was ridiculous.

  I searched every nook and cranny but came up empty. There was no help for it; I was going to have to call the authorities, regardless of my reluctance to give away my location. I had two more dead bodies and a missing mother. There was no way I could look for her out there.

  However, my tour of the premises had not netted a phone. Though I wasn’t wild about the idea, I searched the bodies.

  They’d been killed by massive throat trauma, same as the last set. The man had puncture wounds on his hands and arms as well.

  “No big black dog around here,” I muttered as I went through his pockets. Or at least, I hadn’t seen one yet.

  Neither one of them had a cell phone. I took the guard’s gun; he didn’t need it anymore.

  With no choice, I dug my phone out of my travel bag. The tiny icon for service blinked, cell phone code for “In your dreams.” Maybe stepping outside would help.

  I did. It didn’t. Now what?

  I was stranded at the edge of civilization with two dead bodies, and I had no idea if the killer remained nearby. I’d never felt more alone in my life.

  As if in answer to the thought, a mournful howl rose toward the full, white moon. What sounded like a hundred others joined the first; the serenade surrounded me, growing in volume until I wanted to wail, too.

  As suddenly as the howls had begun, they stopped. The resulting silence made me more nervous than all the noise had.

  They had big wolves in Alaska; I was sure of it, although any wolf would appear pretty damn big to me. The largest canine in Manhattan was a standard poodle. Not exactly a ferocious beast—unless you took away its sparkly jeweled collar.

  Standing on the back porch, with the moon all aglow, surrounded by trees so big they seemed prehistoric—hell, they probably were—I got the first sense that perhaps running off to find my mother hadn’t been one of my brighter ideas.

  My second hint came when twigs broke to the left, snow crunched to my right, and a thud directly in front made me reach for the gun in my coat.