by Dee Holmes
Hunt read what it said and followed with, “The BOS probably means Boston, so the mystery is the 827.”
“Okay. Numbers and number sequences. We got phone numbers, locker numbers, combination numbers, house numbers, flight numbers, dates, clock time and that’s just for starters. Given who Wallace was, plus the cash and the piece, what’s your guess?”
“A down payment for a hit could account for the large amount of cash.”
“Okay. Probably doesn’t trust banks. Too much info required, not to mention federal regulations on banking and cash deposit limits.”
“Or if he picked up the down payment on the way to Molly’s, that would account for him having it and the gun.”
“Hmm. Let’s go with that for a minute. If the note’s tied in…” A few seconds of silence filled the line.
Then Hunt said, “Oh, hell. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this.”
“What?”
“It could be August 27th.”
“You’re right,” Sean said eagerly. “That’s next week.” Sean paused, then asked, “Why would he be carrying that kind of cash for a week?”
“Wallace liked to bet the greyhounds. Could be he planned a trip to the track after he left Molly’s.”
“Possible, but still pretty risky, exposing himself with that kind of evidence. Doesn’t sound like Wallace’s MO.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Anyway, a guy whose job is to kill people wouldn’t need to write down the date.”
“Let me get on this and run those numbers. Locker sounds logical, and a flight number, too. If we come up with a flight 827 out of Logan in the next few days, we could have something. And I wanna check the street stoolies for info on any planned hits going down. Might get word of one planned for the twenty-seventh. I’ll look for you tomorrow afternoon. Say around four? That should give you enough time to get back into Molly’s good graces.”
Enough time, Hunt thought as he hung up the phone. There probably wasn’t enough time in the next century. Nevertheless, he closed the briefcase and looked around for someplace to hide it. Finally he settled it under the books and papers he’d spread out for his lecture series. With that done, he took a shower, changed his clothes and within an hour, he Was on his way back to Molly’s.
IN HER APARTMENT and once again on the telephone, Molly checked with her auto club and got the name of the best-rated motel near Fernwood. After making a reservation, she opened her desk drawer and took out the manila envelope that had been her mainstay while trying to locate her brother. It contained all the disconnected bits she’d gathered during her search. Pieces of Vern’s history while they were separated, and yet nothing had indicated what kind of work he did. If Hunt had been correct, something she found would have been suspicious, but obviously Hunt was mistaken.
Pushing Hunt from her mind, she sorted through the papers, reports and scribbled notes to find Vern’s Fernwood phone number.
She knew he lived in an apartment, and Vern had told her he had an aquarium. A neighbor could be picking up his mail or feeding his fish. Someone Vern had known well could confirm what Molly wanted to think about the cash and the gun—at this point anything but what she feared might be the truth.
Questions scurried through her mind despite her determination to believe the best about her brother. If she dwelled on Hunt’s words, she’d have questions that scared her, questions without answers she could live with.
Molly wrestled with the empty realization she would never really know her brother. Years of separation, of searching, of wanting to make her family whole again, and now…And, as if that pain weren’t enough to deal with, she’d been such a fool with Hunt. Wincing even now at how she’d trusted him, she made herself admit that she’d been used.
Since their collision in the courtyard, he’d been virtually invisible, then suddenly, as of yesterday, when Vern arrived, he was glued to her. He’d even admitted knowing who her brother was from the beginning. Obviously, his attentions hadn’t been out of friendly concern, but to get to Vern. She clenched her teeth in annoyance. He’d stuck to her, played out the nice-guy routine, intent on his goal to get to her brother’s personal things. He’d even gone to the point of sleeping in the same room with her!
Heat flared in her cheeks at the memory; she’d believed he really cared. She’d believed he meant the things he’d said, probably because her life had been so bereft of relationships. God, what a stupid fool she’d been!
Tears threatened once again, and she impatiently swiped them away. If only she could get relief from the ache in her heart that refused to subside.
She found Vern’s home number. “I’ll show you, Hunt Gresham,” she said as she punched the buttons. “I’m going to prove you’re wrong about Vern.”
Feeling better, she sat up straight when the third ring was answered. “Uh, yes, hello?”
“Who’s this?” growled a man who sounded like he had sandpaper in his throat.
“Oh, uh, this is Molly McCulloch…”
“It’s a broad,” the man said to someone else. Then to Molly he said, “He ain’t here.”
“Vern? Yes, I know.”
“So why you callin’?”
Not wanting to sound totally dumb, she said, “I’m trying to locate his wife.”
“He ain’t got no wife.”
“Ex-wife. You see, Vern died last night and I wanted to notify her. Are you one of Vern’s friends?”
He snorted. “Sure, baby. I’m his best pal.”
Molly scowled.
“Better find yourself a new stud.”
“I’m not his girlfriend, I’m his—”
“See ya.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up!”
But he did, and Molly listened to the dial tone for a full ten seconds before putting the receiver down. Just what she needed, some jerk with a smart mouth. She was debating whether to call back or phone the Fernwood police and ask them to check her brother’s apartment, when her own doorbell rang.
She didn’t need any more casseroles, she thought as she pulled open the door, but instead of a neighbor with a covered dish and a sympathetic smile, she faced Hunt.
She tried to close the door, but he stopped her.
“I have nothing to say you,” she said coolly.
He nodded. “I know. You wish I’d rot in hell.”
Actually she hadn’t been that extreme. And why did he have to look so gorgeous and sexy when it was obvious he wasn’t trying to? His clothes were casual and rain-splattered and his hair was charmingly mussed. It fell over his forehead in an almost boyish way. Molly clenched her hands in an effort not to reach up and brush it back.
“What do you want?” she asked, not allowing herself to meet his eyes.
“To be straight with you. To apologize for the inept way I told you about your brother. I am sorry, Molly. Believe me, I didn’t set out to destroy your image of Vern.”
She drew herself up straighter. “You couldn’t do that no matter what you said or what you found in his briefcase. Now, I have things to do, so if you’ll excuse me,”
“We have to talk.”
“I don’t want to listen to any more of your lies.”
“I wasn’t lying about your brother.”
She put her hands over her ears and shook her head.
“Molly…” He stepped inside, despite her protests, and closed the door. When she tried to back away, he reached out and took hold of her shoulders.
She squirmed to get loose. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
But he didn’t release her, moving her toward the couch, where he gently urged her to sit down.
He stood above her, appearing large and looming from her perspective. What struck Molly as strange was that his size felt more protective than threatening. Nevertheless, she wasn’t giving any ground. “Why did you come back here?”
“I need you to do me a favor.”
Suspicious, she frowned. “What kind of favor?”
“I want
you to let me take you to the funeral.”
She wondered what he was up to. “Why?”
“Because there could be people there who might assume you know things about Wallace.”
“I do know things. Lots of things.”
“I mean secret things. Stuff his associates wouldn’t want you to know or want you to tell anyone about.”
Molly immediately thought of the man she’d just spoken to. He had talked a little strangely, but having a smart mouth wasn’t a crime. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing the cloak-and-dagger business?”
Hunt’s face darkened and he gave her an intense look. “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. Let me take you to the funeral just to make sure nothing unexpected happens. Pretend you’re renting an ex-cop for a few days, an easy method of protection. Nothing personal or complicated between us. The cops will handle the stuff they’re supposed to do—”
“And you’ll handle me?” She knew she sounded snide and snippy, but she didn’t care.
“I couldn’t if I wanted to. You’ve already tied me up in knots, so I’ll be just as glad as you to have this all over with.”
Now, that she could believe. “If I agree to this, it will be admitting you’re right about Vern.”
“It will be admitting you don’t want to go to your brother’s funeral alone.”
She thought about that for a moment. He was right. She hadn’t been looking forward to going alone. She didn’t know anyone in Fernwood, nor did she know exactly how to contact her brother’s ex-wife, and then there was his apartment…That would have to be cleaned out, and what if there were things there that supported Hunt’s version of her brother’s life….
For a tiny moment she allowed herself to admit that Hunt could be right, but then she pushed the idea away and pulled her thoughts back to Hunt’s request.
Molly realized there was more to his plan than just escorting her to a funeral. Getting information wasn’t the issue. It sounded as if he already had information. So what was he up to? “And when did you decide to play the role of my protector?” she asked.
Hunt had no intention of not being straight and up front with her. The other way had been a disaster. “I talked to my old partner, and the likelihood that. Vern’s friends will be at the funeral—perhaps to get a look at you or make a move on you to see what you know—isn’t that far-fetched.”
“You’re obsessed with this hit-man theory, aren’t you?”
He looked at her as if she were gripped by denial rather than honest belief in her brother. “Molly, you spent nineteen years separated from your brother and a good part of that time trying to find him. You deserved a happy ending with him and you didn’t get it. You’re angry and you’re directing that at me. That’s okay, but underneath that anger and the disappointment and sorrow, I believe you know I’m telling you the truth.” When she didn’t say anything immediately, he added, “For God’s sake, why would I lie to you? What would be my motive?”
“I don’t know. I just know that I trusted you. I believed you were with me because you genuinely cared about what I was going through.”
“I did care.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me when you came over yesterday afternoon with that broken air conditioner excuse? Or better yet, when I brought you the fan?”
“Because I didn’t know how to tell you without hurting you.”
“And you thought it would hurt me less later? It hurt worse, Hunt.”
“I know.” He paced the width of the room, and from a few feet away, he turned and said, “I didn’t tell you for exactly the same reason your brother didn’t tell you he knew who I was.”
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened, then she vigorously shook her head. “No. If he’d known you, he would have said so.”
“And if he had, you would have wanted an explanation, and that he couldn’t give you. I think Wallace was very happy you found him, and if ever he regretted the life he chose, it was probably when he knew how hurt and disappointed you would be. I didn’t know Vern the older brother, so I haven’t a clue as to what his intentions were. But I think I’m fairly safe in guessing that he wanted to protect you. That was probably why he was so vague about what he did for a living. No one could get information out of you if you didn’t know anything.”
She wrapped her arms around herself like a shield to keep away words she didn’t want to hear. But there were other words; words she hadn’t thought about because they hadn’t made sense to her. Now…
Molly swallowed, her voice reedy. “At the hospital when I spoke to him, he thought you were my boyfriend.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “He called me Muffin—that was a nickname from when we were kids.” Her fingers stilled. “Oh my God…”
Hunt sat down beside her. “What?”
“He knew you were a cop. How could he have known? I never told him that.”
“Because he knew who I was,” Hunt murmured. “Now do you believe me?”
But Molly didn’t really hear him. Her thoughts swirled around her brother’s last words to her. Her cheeks felt chilled, her throat icy. “He also said something just before the nurse told me to leave. He said you wouldn’t let me get hurt.”
What at the time had meant little to her now took on herculean meaning. Had her brother known Hunt was trustworthy or were his words some balm he’d used to assure himself she’d be safe? But he’d known Hunt was a cop. If Vern and Hunt knew each other, then they must have had contact at some time or another.
“We never met, Molly,” Hunt said as if reading her thoughts. “I’d seen photos of him, and he probably heard my name through his underworld contacts. I worked both vice and homicide, so there could have been lots of opportunities.”
The evidence was mounting, and Molly feared its meaning. She knew she was too close to the situation, too determined to believe the best about Vern to be objective. But a hit man! A hired killer! She shuddered at the mere thought.
Hunt put his arm around her and she didn’t object; she was grateful for the warmth and comfort she suddenly realized she needed.
“Hunt?”
“What, sweetheart?”
“It’s almost as if Vern kn-knew…” She swallowed, the icy lump in her throat growing bigger and’ bigger. “As if he knew he was going to d-die.”
“Maybe he did,” Hunt said softly. “Maybe he waited to make sure you would be safe.”
She buried her face in her hands, unable to stop the fresh tears of confusion and pain.
Hunt let her cry, holding her, rubbing his chin across the top of her head. Tears could cleanse the mind as well as release the grief. As he suspected, Molly had believed him about Wallace; she’d just needed some time for the facts to lose their sting.
The afternoon had darkened with the gray, rainy skies. Silence cloaked the apartment, and Hunt leaned back into the couch cushions and pulled Molly deeper into his arms. She curled into him, much as she’d done the previous night, and Hunt didn’t discourage her. She needed solace and holding; he knew that need, for he’d craved it himself once. Offering it to Molly now seemed the least he could do. Neither spoke, the only motion the tandem beating of hearts.
Minutes passed before she raised her head, her lips moist, her cheeks flushed, her eyes luminous. “Please don’t say I told you so,” she whispered so softly Hunt could barely hear her.
He brushed his thumb across her mouth. “Ah, sweetheart, the only thing I want to tell you is that you are an incredibly strong and determined woman.”
She managed a smile before once again curling up against him.
Hunt badly wanted to kiss her. He couldn’t deny a desire that came and went with varying degrees of intensity.
He was merely caught up in the moment, he decided, attempting to regain control of his feelings. Loss of control meant complications, and he didn’t want those. But there was no denying that Molly was warm and pretty and wholly tempting.
Then there was an even more ominous fact: h
e’d allowed himself to know more about her than he had about any woman since Kristin. Those seemed to be the operative two words when it came to Molly.
Since Kristin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON Hunt found what had to be the only on-street parking place in all of downtown Boston. He locked his car, fed the meter and took Molly’s arm.
“Hope you don’t mind the walk. It’s a few blocks to the precinct.”
“No, I don’t mind.”
In his other hand was the attaché case and Hunt couldn’t recall when he’d been so jumpy. He’d never carried a briefcase in the city, never mind one with a .357 Magnum and more than ten grand cash. The weight felt awkward and foreign in his hand. But then again, having Molly with him added to his tension.
They’d come to a truce of sorts; Hunt still doubted she’d completely accepted who her brother was. He’d decided to say no more unless she asked questions. Truth was truth, and it wasn’t changed by a sister’s acceptance or attempt at revisionist history. Besides, if he suddenly learned Denise was running a whorehouse while the boys were in school, he’d be as incredulous as Molly had been about Vern.
Accepting new but painful facts about a loved one took time. And Molly had no history to speak of with Vern, so he was unblemished, a rediscovered hero from her past that she’d fully intended to turn into an even bigger hero in her future. Until he died.
Now, as they started down the sidewalk, Molly pulled him back when a homeless man shouted expletives at them. She drew closer and whispered, “You’re not just going to carry that as if it were papers and a ham sandwich, are you?”
Hunt had deliberately not done anything to call suspicion to the case. “Best disguise is no disguise.”
“But if someone just grabbed it, you’d have no chance.”
“You sure have a lot of confidence in me,” he said grimly.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. I mean people shoot people these days for jackets and sneakers. All that cash plus the gun…” She shuddered.
“Except no one knows that.”