Now You See It

by Cáit Donnelly

  Brady paused, trying to integrate the new information. “Okay. That doesn’t change the theory. In fact, it fits pretty well.”

  “What theory?”

  “The one we’re building here.”

  “If it’s not revenge, what is it?”

  “Let’s go back over everything. Start with the day the cops came.”

  Instead she said, “Brady, we never looked into whether this guy tore up Ned’s apartment. Maybe he did, but no one said anything about it.”

  “Not likely. I’m pretty sure the cops would have mentioned it. They were pretty thorough laying it out today. They never tell us everything, you know that. But I can’t see why this piece of information would have mattered.”

  “He knew who Ned’s attorney was. He had to have known Ned.”

  “So that’s an anomaly. We never did get around to checking it out, either. Let’s put that on the list for tomorrow.”

  Brady looked at his watch. “Time for the Big Campaign Speech.” He flicked on the TV. “And there’s our man.”

  They watched as the cameras pulled closer, showing Doug’s smiling face in close-up. Gemma wished she could make up her mind about Doug, get some clear guidance on it all. One minute he seemed like the perfect suspect, and the next, he was the kind, slightly stuffy friend who loved her.

  “Who’s that little guy beside him?” Brady asked.

  “His new campaign manager. Jonathan, something.”

  “Lots of energy.”

  “I think Doug’s his heart’s True Love.”

  “That’s a shame. Bad news ahead, dude.”

  On the screen, Wheeler was finishing up with thanks and promises. As the crowd broke into cheers, Doug raised both arms with two fingers spread in the sign of victory.

  “Hey! Did you see that?” Gemma said.

  “Yeah, I did. But do you see his eyes?” He ran the DVR back a few seconds to a close-up of Doug as he took center stage. “That fuzzy look?”

  Gemma was sure Brady felt as grim as he sounded. He paused the picture, backed up and took it through the cheering sequence again on mega-slow speed.

  “He’s just excited,” Gemma said. “All that adulation. He lives for it.”

  Bullshit, Brady thought, he’s doped to the gills. Gotcha, you son of a bitch. Now I just have to prove it.

  “How could he have waved like that if he’d been shot in the shoulder?” she asked.

  “Watch carefully, Gemma. Watch his face. Watch his arm. Maybe we’ll see something.”

  “You think it’s Doug,” she said.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  They watched the sequence three times. There was nothing. Not even the barest flinching to indicate he might be injured. Shit! Every instinct was screaming at him that Doug was the one they were looking for.

  Gemma took her lower lip between her teeth for a second. “Okay. I need to ask this, and I don’t know how, without sounding totally egotistical, but—”

  “Am I sure I’m not just jealous?” He laughed at her. “Yeah. I’m sure. The guy’s wrong. I just have to prove it.”

  “We have to prove it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I’m working on it.” He looked off into space. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he said. “We’ve been working on this, worrying it to death until we’ve lost our focus.”

  “A nap sounds nice.” Gemma cut her eyes around at him and he watched the color rise in her face.

  He grinned at her. “Well, I was thinking something more relaxing, like a couple of rounds of HALO. You don’t play, though.”

  “HALO? No.”

  “You said you don’t play computer games.” He stared off into space. “That’s got to be it.” He went quickly to the table and popped open his laptop. Rapidly he scanned the directory. He exhaled sharply and began typing.

  A spreadsheet opened. “Son of a bitch! There it is. It’s been here all the time.”

  “What has?”

  Brady sat back. “What Ned was hiding. What the Bad Guys were trying to find—probably what they killed him for. Look at this. Names, dates, amounts.”

  Gemma watched as he scrolled down the columns.

  Brady gave a low whistle. “There are some really heavy players on this list. CEOs, political movers, a couple of philanthropists. Jesus! A bishop. Most of the names I don’t recognize, but they were able to pay heavy chunks of—I’m guessing cash—for sex games.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Best guess, this file was for insurance. I could be wrong, but that would make a lot of sense, with everything that’s happened. I doubt anything here would stand up in court. He calls it a ‘catering service,’ but I’m betting it’s prostitution. From the size of some of these amounts, maybe he was wholesaling.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “In MYST. It was pretty clever, really. He just changed the extension on some of the files from .txt to .wks and put his own stuff in there.” He opened another file. “Oops!”

  “What’s that?”

  “More pictures.”

  Gemma made a face. “Can we just skip those?”

  “No problem. Here’s another text file.” Brady scanned the lines quickly. “We’ve got everything here except his partner’s name. It’s clear there was someone else on his level, and he talks about somebody named ‘Dave.” He looked over at Gemma, but she shook her head. “Gotta be an alias.”

  “‘On his level?’ You think there were more people involved?” she said and moved closer.

  “Oh, yeah. Somebody higher up, maybe several somebodies, in the shadows, pulling strings and fronting the money—collecting a good chunk of it, too, I’ll bet. Ned and this ‘Dave’ guy were more or less middlemen. My guess is they found the clients, delivered the merchandise, accepted payment. They were the only ones the customers saw, so the big boys were safe.”

  “So, who killed Ned?”

  “Could be it really was a relative of one of the women. They weren’t all sold into prostitution or sex slavery or whatever. Obviously some were just used by the ‘catering service’ and then either bought their way out, or escaped, or something.”

  “But in the pictures—turn back to that, will you?”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah. It’s just—Ned looks like he’s really enjoying himself.”

  Brady raised his eyebrows and cut his eyes toward her. “Sorry, Gemma, but what’s not to enjoy?”

  “But—help me with this. He’s supposed to be a supplier, right? Not a customer?”

  “Probably. Yeah.”

  “So what if somebody who’s supposed to be a supplier gets too involved with the women, the merchandise? What if it starts to cut into productivity?”

  “I don’t see how it could. But an addict in the organization does make the whole operation a lot riskier.”

  “I wish I couldn’t believe it. Any of this. I keep wondering how I could have not known.”

  “That’s the point. Sex networks are usually self-contained. They may link with other groups now and then. Maybe somebody in an S and M cluster needs a lawyer or, hell, I don’t know, a carpenter. Lots of times spouses don’t even know about it, if they don’t ‘play.’ That’s the way they phrase it. So, if your wife finds out and freaks, and there’s nobody in your group, maybe there’s a bunch of swingers in another part of town with a shrink or counselor you know will be on your side.”

  “That’s scary. Sick, and scary, but there’s nothing illegal about it.”

  “Nope, not a thing, as long as it’s consenting adults. But you start charging money, or using kids, or bringing in illegal aliens for sex slaves, and that kicks it up to a whole new level.”

 
“What are you doing?”

  “Sending all these files to an off-site archiving service I use sometimes.” He touched her hair. “Then if somebody decides to torch this place, the evidence is still intact.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Brady lifted Gemma’s hair off her face and kissed her. “Coffee’s made.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Eight a.m.”

  “You should have woken me up.”

  “I just did. Look, I’ve got a couple of things to tie up this morning. I’ll meet you at Ned’s apartment at—what—noon? So try for a couple more hours.” He kissed her again.

  Her eyelids squinted open and quickly closed again. “Ten minutes,” she mumbled, and fell back into oblivion.

  Smiling, he took a minute to watch her sleep. It still amazed him she could be so perfect. Intelligent, passionate, honest. A little hot-tempered, maybe, but with a generous spirit under all the prickle. He guessed maybe in fifty years or so, they’d run out of things to laugh about.

  He took the steps down to the first level two at a time, and went quickly to the small inner room where he kept his weapons locked away. From a safe hidden behind one of several glass-fronted display cases of knives and instruments of mayhem, he took a handful of cash, tucked the Glock into the middle of his back under his waistband. He slipped a snub-nosed .38 into his ankle holster, winced when the Velcro strapping rubbed against the healing burn from the fire. He spent the next few minutes selecting an assortment of knives, a length of cord, and a set of lock picks.

  Finally, he reached deep into the back of the safe and removed a small square box covered in cobalt velvet. He held it in his hand for a few seconds, breathing deeply. Then he smiled and opened the lid to reveal a pear-shaped emerald set in antique gold filigree. It had belonged to his grandmother, and to hers before her. Echoes of their personalities still resonated from the stone, and always surprised him with their warmth and power. He pictured the ring on Gemma’s hand, and it felt right, there. He closed the lid and fisted his hand tightly around the box again before slipping it into the front pocket of his chinos.

  * * *

  The clock read half-past nine when Gemma finally woke up. Guilt washed through her, and she barely paused to smooth out the bed on her way to the coffee pot.

  A visit to her brother was first on her list of things to do this morning.

  With her fingers firmly gripped around a pint of Brady’s delicious coffee, she stumbled into the bathroom. Taped to the mirror, a note in his strong, sure handwriting warmed her as she read: “Called the hospital. Mike’s okay. He woke up this morning fuzzy but conscious. See you at noon. L.B.”

  As stressed and busy as he was, Brady had taken time to check on Mike and to reassure her, and to say he loved her. ‘L.B.—Love, Brady.’

  She was still smiling when she headed to the hospital twenty minutes later.

  Mike looked a little better. He was still so pale the freckles that usually were almost invisible stood out startlingly across this face, and his hair looked fire bright against his pallor. But the tubes were mostly gone this morning. He was breathing on his own, and watching TV. Gemma felt tears rise, but forced them back. “Hey.”

  He turned his head to look at her, but didn’t smile. “Hey, Brat.” His eyes were smudged with dark bruising, and drooped at the corners, the way they always did when he was sick or unhappy.

  “You had us so scared,” she said.

  “Yeah. Me, too.” He unfolded his unbandaged arm and reached out to her.

  She came up to the bed and took his hand, careful of the IV in his forearm. “What did the doctor say this morning?”

  “Not much. I’m healing well. I’ll start physical therapy tomorrow. God, Gemma. Cinda’s funeral is Saturday. Clarissa was here to see me, see if I was all right. I can’t even imagine what she must be going through right now, but she still came here to comfort me.”

  “She’s a great lady.”

  “Yeah. Why’d the bastard have to shoot Cinda, of all people?”

  “I don’t know. He shot you, too. Brady’s best guess is he thought he’d killed you both.”

  “Yeah. I figured that.”

  “But you’re a lawyer, so...”

  “...so it’s understandable someone would want to kill me.” Mike gave a brief snort. “I feel like shit.”

  “Want me to call someone?”

  “Nah. Not pain, just, like shit. Generally.

  She decided it was time to change the subject. “M-K on a break?”

  “Yeah. I asked her to bring me some serious food. Think she will?”

  “Did you see the size of the cop on your door?”

  His expression brightened. “You should have seen him frisk Brady this morning. Jesus, that guy was loaded for bear. Damn SEAL. I think he had everything in his pockets but exploding dental floss.”

  Gemma laughed.

  “Cop’s a Marine, so he took it as a personal challenge to find everything.”

  “Did he?”

  Mike grinned. “Nope.”

  “Did Brady tell you about the files?”

  “Yeah. You’ve had some tough blows, kiddo.”

  “I was an idiot. And I brought it on myself. Not like Clarissa. What courage she has.”

  “There’s all kinds of courage, Gemma.”

  The door opened to admit a nurse and a lab tech with a container of test tubes.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse said brightly, “but we need a few minutes with Mr. Cavanagh.”

  “I’ll be back later this afternoon,” Gemma told him.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I’m treating myself to a spa day. I think I deserve it.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she spoke, and he gave her a slight smile in return. Only a faint tightening of the muscles in his eyelids told her he understood it wasn’t safe for him to talk too freely.

  “Brady said something like that.”

  Seeing Mary Kate sitting in the small ICU waiting area was a wonderful surprise. When Gemma stepped in, M-K stood up and opened her arms and they hugged for a long moment.

  “I’m so sorry,” they both said at the same time, and smiled with tears of relief and remorse.

  “Mike’s getting stuff done,” Gemma said. “We’ve got a few minutes.”

  Mary Kate looked rueful. “Why does it take something like this to clear my head?”

  “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself. We’re back, and Mike’s going to be all right. That’s all that matters.”

  Another quick hug, and they sat down at opposite ends of the small couch. “How’s Timmy?”

  “Getting spoiled to death. He’s got his grampa hooked on playing Winnie the Pooh on the Playstation.” She paused. “I’m trying to decide how much to tell Mike.”

  “About Tim’s Link to him?”

  Mary Kate nodded. “You know, all these years, I’ve seen what you and Mike do, but I never let myself really believe in it. I mean, I’m Irish, too. I know all the legends about the Sight, and being fey, and all that. But it just couldn’t affect my family. My husband. We were rational, reasonable, normal people. Do you know how much I hated that he knows when you’re in trouble?”

  “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “I felt so left out, Gemma. And I couldn’t even let myself admit that. So ridiculous. I finally just snapped when that lunatic came to Tim’s window, and Mike didn’t even know until I called him.”

  “Oh, M-K.” Gemma reached for her hand.

  “I didn’t get it, until Mike was shot, and Timmy knew. He felt it all, and he was absolutely terrified. I never understood until then it wasn’t all bright lights and butterflies. I had no idea there was so much pain involved. Is it always like that?”

 
“It is for us. It only works when one of us is hurt, or in trouble. Then we can see it, sense it, but we’re totally helpless to do anything about it. Maybe with other people, it’s different. But not in our family. Mom knew every time Mike or I skinned a knee, but not when Dad’s plane went in the drink and he nearly died.”

  Mary Kate looked up. “Did he understand?”

  Gemma shook her head. “Not really. I think it hurt him. I know it did. But it’s not something we can control. I’d change it if I could. And Mike probably would, too.”

  Mary Kate looked away.

  “You know, though,” Gemma said, “we always thought it made us special. I think Mike would probably like to know Tim shares it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gemma let herself into Ned’s apartment with the keys the management company had generously provided. They had been so sympathetic to the new widow, and so eager to convince her to continue Ned’s lease. She’d been politely noncommittal. The building soared through the city skyline, and the upper floors must have given spectacular views, but Ned’s fourth floor apartment faced two other buildings across a busy street. Extra-high ceilings and oyster-white walls let in a lot of light, but she couldn’t imagine spending much time there, especially during Seattle’s eight-month-long “gray season.”

  Brady didn’t seem to have been there, yet. But then, she was still early. She gazed around, curious to see what choices Ned had made on his own. At one time the spacious apartment must have had the semblance of stylishness. Now, after several days of being deserted, it felt more than empty. Abandoned, she thought. That was the word she was looking for. She wondered if it was just her imagination, but the rooms had no sense of life in them. The air smelled stale, though maybe not as stale as it should have. She thought she could still smell a vaguely familiar trace of something masculine and expensive.

  Nothing seemed out of place. She didn’t remember Ned being that good a housekeeper. Some junk mail lay piled on a small table near the front door, alongside a small wooden bowl for keys and spare change. She looked briefly into each room as she wandered down the hall, oppressed by the feeling she was invading Ned’s privacy. She tried to shrug it off and had to keep actively remembering this place belonged to her, now, legally, if nothing else, and she had every right to be here. It didn’t help.