by Tara Janzen
“Kat, why don’t you take a bar stool behind the kitchen counter. Alex, you and I are the forward guards.”
He walked over to the doors and threw open the bolt. Hell.
Then everything went suddenly quiet. It didn’t last long, but when the marching started up again, the Marines were heading back down the stairwell.
Thank you, Dylan . . . and thank you, General Grant.
Yet Hawkins knew they’d only dodged the bullet. There was every possibility the Marines would be back . . . just as soon as Kat’s mother figured out how to circumvent Grant’s hastily concocted—and timely—orders. And if not the Marines, Marilyn Dekker would find another band of merry men to get the job done. The woman was relentless—possibly insane. The Marines, for crying out loud.
“How many people does the senator have with her right now?”
“Five—her secretary and four sycophants,” Alex said.
That made him laugh.
“Any of them armed?”
“Two.”
“Well, suddenly, we have an even playing field.”
Alex just looked at him as if he were delusional. “You never have an even playing field with a senator. Never.”
“She can’t be feeling too confident.” Hawkins checked his watch. “Twenty-five minutes ago, she had an army, and now she’s down to the honor guard.”
“Tell yourself what you want, she already fired my ass and is considering charges, and she actually likes me. You, on the other hand, are the bane of her existence.”
“She told you that?”
Alex lowered his gaze for a second, before bringing it back up and casting a guilty glance in Katya’s direction. “I was fully briefed on all aspects of Katya’s life, including what the senator thought was your current situation. She never lost sight of you, although her information about you being a car salesman is obviously no more than a very good cover for whatever the hell it is you actually do.”
“So you don’t think she’s the one who got me assigned as Kat’s bodyguard at the Botanic Gardens two nights ago?”
“I don’t know. If she did, she didn’t tell me, which wouldn’t make sense, because she was very concerned about Katya returning to Denver. Your name came up in any number of conversations we had, and I was told to guard against any contact being made, doing whatever it took.”
“Like maybe setting up a murder that would inevitably include my name, or possibly frame me and get me tossed back into the state pen?”
“No.”
Alex didn’t elaborate any more beyond his one-word answer, which made Hawkins fairly inclined to believe him.
“Are you a shooter, Alex?”
“No,” the man said, paling slightly. “An ex-cop, yes, but not a shooter, not the way you mean.”
“Well, I am,” Hawkins told him, his meaning clear. “And if they take me out of here, I’m holding you personally responsible for Kat’s well-being.”
Alex paled even more. “I can’t imagine that Senator Dekker has gone to all this trouble without at least getting an arrest warrant and possibly the keys to Leavenworth.”
Despite the situation, he had to grin. “I can’t, either.” And that was the bitch of it, but he was starting to like Alex. Efficiency, intelligence, and that nifty speed-of-sound move he’d made this morning were easy to like, not to mention his blunt honesty.
When the knock sounded on the door, he checked his watch, then glanced at Skeeter. “Where’s Kid?”
She looked at the GPS on her PDA. “I-25 and I-70, the Mousetrap,” she said, referring to the elaborate intersection of the two main freeways running through Denver. It was a toss-up whether or not Kid would get to Steele Street before Hawkins got hauled downtown.
No one bothered to answer the door. Hell, Dekker’s entourage had already broken into the building. It was pretty obvious they were coming in whether they got an invitation or not.
Sure enough, there wasn’t a second knock before the cops and politicos breached the door.
Hawkins immediately realized that he had not sufficiently prepared himself for the sight of Marilyn Dekker up close and personal. He spent enough time keeping up with current affairs and going in and out of Washington, D.C., to know what she looked like, so it wasn’t the way she looked per se that twisted his gut. It was that she was on his turf with her pageboy helmet of brown hair, her squared-off shoulders, those damn skinny legs, and her sensible shoes. He hated her beige three-button suit, her nude hose, her pearl earrings. He was sure she smelled like mothballs but was damned if he was going to get close enough to confirm his suspicion. He hated the tight, pinched line of her mouth and her squinty pea green eyes. He hated the sanctimonious tilt of her chin and her righteous confidence.
He watched her march into his loft, and he tried, so help him God, he tried to find one single aspect of her outfit, or her face, or her personality, or spirit, or even her aural sheath that he didn’t loathe—because she was going to be the grandmother of his children.
It was enough to make a guy lose his lunch.
Lieutenant Loretta Bradley was keeping step with her, and when Marilyn stopped and took an imposing stance in the middle of his living room area, the lieutenant proceeded forward alone. She was a large woman, not overweight, just tall and big-boned, with a nice solid face, her nose a little too big, but with eyes to match of a beautiful, almost golden brown. She kept her hair short and colored anything in the red range. Over the years he’d seen it go from chestnut to carrot, to almost pink once.
No one had laughed.
“Cristo,” she said calmly.
“Loretta,” he acknowledged her greeting.
“I’ve got a warrant for your arrest, and your fingerprints all over a Remington .308 we found at the Botanic Gardens the other night.”
Well, that sucked.
“Read him his rights, Carl.”
While Carl read him his rights, Hawkins took a minute to breathe and think through this latest unfuckingbelievable turn of events.
“The only Remington .308 I ever shot was at Quantico, three months ago.”
Loretta met his eyes without flinching. “That’s what Dylan thought.”
Dylan. So the wheels were turning and the lieutenant, evidently, was open to slowing things down and letting Dylan catch up to the situation.
“So,” she continued. “Dylan called a friend of yours. Gunny Howzer? And this Gunny told him that the gun had been stolen shortly after your visit.”
“So why are you here?” Hawkins looked directly at Marilyn Dekker, before meeting Loretta’s eyes—and seeing true regret.
“You know the drill. We’re still gonna do the dance. So do you want the drama of the handcuffs, or would you like to come quietly?”
He wanted to scream something truly obscene, put his fist through the wall, and then grab Marilyn Dekker by the throat and shake her until she turned blue.
“No drama.”
“May I have your weapon, please?” she asked.
He gave her the Glock.
“Have you called Francesca?”
“She’s on her way here.”
“Well, you can call her again from the station. I’m sure she won’t mind the extra traveling time. What’s she billing now? By the millisecond?” the lieutenant said deadpan.
“That’s hilarious, Loretta.”
He looked down, and a corner of her mouth was twitching, which just torqued him. This wasn’t funny. It was god-awful.
“Okay, then, let’s go.”
He turned, met Katya’s eyes for a second, before turning a very meaningful gaze on Alex. His message, he hoped, was clear, and by the slightly wild-eyed look he got in response, he felt sure the message had been received: Anything happens to her, something definitely happens to you.
THERE was something bracing about being in Marilyn’s presence, Katya thought. For one, she never hyperventilated in her mother’s presence. Never. She didn’t dare. Falling apart emotionally was something far be
tter indulged in with friends and lovers, people who cared more about you than themselves—which left her mother out of the loop. Another nice thing about being in Marilyn’s presence was the playing rules. They were never ambiguous, and they were always adhered to by all parties. Politeness was a virtue above truth. Decorum the order of the day.
Kat was so glad she’d dressed in black.
“Katya, really, you’re far too old for this sort of goings-on.” After a moment of gloating while Hawkins had been marched out the door, Marilyn had turned her attention back to her daughter. “The man is a criminal at best, and a murderer at worst. I don’t care what they said at the pardon. I would have thought you would have learned your lesson last time. Why you insist on slumming with him every time you get within a hundred miles of our home state—the state, mind you, that has given us the privilege of serving it in our nation’s capital—is, well, it’s disgusting, is what it is.”
My God, her mother truly was amazing. She’d called out the Marines to give her a dressing-down.
“I actually thought you were in danger. The man is not what he seems.”
“He isn’t?” Kat played dumb. Marilyn expected so little of her, and she’d found over the years that it was best to meet those expectations. The huge success she’d had with her galleries had never really registered on her mother’s radar. It was a refined, sophisticated, cultured career that fit in well with Marilyn’s own image as a refined, sophisticated, cultured politician—and that was all that was required of it. Success would have almost been crass in Marilyn’s eyes, so Katya kept her success to herself.
Truly, her mother wasn’t interested.
“No, my darling. He isn’t. Oh, I’ve missed you.” Marilyn started across the loft, her arms outspread, and Kat actually did brace herself for the perfunctory embrace, the air kisses, one hovering above either cheek, that ensured no one lost any lipstick and no one gained any on their face. It was a set piece between them, known in Katya’s book as “The Greeting,” and it always followed, never preceded, “The Edifying Lecture.”
Marilyn always opened with a lecture. Lecturing created a comfort zone for her. She liked telling people what to do, and she was always right—in which she took boundless comfort.
Of course, she made everyone else feel like hell, but Marilyn didn’t put a lot of stock in other people’s feelings, especially when her own were so much more interesting.
Katya endured the near brush of lips to her cheeks. She endured the tight little squeeze her mother gave her arms, and then it was over and Marilyn was moving back around to the front of the counter.
“Don’t worry, dear. Obviously, the man holds some sort of fascination for you, but that can be taken care of,” her mother continued, and for a second, Katya thought she might hyperventilate no matter how well she’d braced herself. Her mother’s idea of having something “taken care of” was her worst nightmare.
Or rather it used to be her worst nightmare. Watching Hawkins being hauled off by the police was her actual worst nightmare as of about three minutes ago, and she was not going to sit idly by while he went to jail. The best thing she could do for him was to keep her mother occupied and away from him, let her feel like she had everything under control. Contrarily enough, that’s when Marilyn was the most manageable and the least dangerous.
And Kat needed to make a phone call—just one.
She had reached for her phone, when she noticed her mother getting agitated. A little warning skittered up her spine, and when she glanced over at her mother’s entourage, she noticed all of them, four men and one woman, watching her mother’s every move, as if they were anticipating disaster. Kat recognized two of the men as aides; the woman, Linda Goodrich, was her mother’s personal aide. The other two men looked like hired muscle, except of course they wouldn’t be for hire. They’d be government guys.
“You should know some evidence has come to light,” Marilyn said, pacing a small area in the middle of the loft, her voice very tight, very controlled.
The comment was obviously directed at Kat, and out of a keen sense of self-preservation, she responded.
“Evidence?”
“Yes.” The word was very short, very curt. “It’s what made all this so necessary this morning, so very, very necessary.”
As Kat recalled, her mother had used those same words recently on the news to condone a U.S. military invasion of a small Third World country in Central America: very necessary.
“I want you to know that I will not let these acts go unavenged.” Her mother’s voice actually trembled, and Kat began to understand why her aides were looking so uncomfortably nervous. Trembling senators were dangerous senators, and the word “unavenged” was nothing short of alarming. “You should have told me, Katya. You should have told me. I could have had him taken care of in prison.”
Oh, God. Her alarm spiked. There it was again, something her mother could have “taken care of,” and it apparently had something to do with Hawkins. Her nervous skitter of warning rose to a high crest and began taking the shape of a tidal wave.
“The same way he had that man taken care of in prison down in Canon City.” Her mother turned on a dime and marched to the other end of the coffee table. “Not the one he killed outright, but the other one.”
“Wh-what in the world are you talking about?” She barely got the words out, she was suddenly so breathless.
“Katya.” Alex started forward, a look of deep concern on his face, but her mother called him off.
“Stay out of this, Zheng. You have been dismissed, and it’s time she knew. I’ve protected her from the truth long enough.”
And if that wasn’t enough to make Kat’s blood run cold, she didn’t know what was. Marilyn’s idea of protection inevitably came down to some sort of emotional blackmail/mental torture/freaking manipulation scheme that involved anything but the truth. It was as if her mother had been born with a genetic predisposition to spin-doctoring. Everything she said had a spin to it. She actually considered it one of her greatest natural assets—this ability to skirt the truth in any situation.
“I know he got off for killing Jonathan.” Her mother was actually picking up her pace now. “And if there were any way possible, I would get the case reopened to see that justice was done. Big Jon has suffered the pangs of hell knowing his son’s murderer got off scot-free. The pangs of hell, I tell you. It’s why he left public life, and as he has agreed to become my new campaign manager, which includes him making a rather large donation, I feel I owe him justice.”
Oh, yes, Marilyn could be bought, and it truly didn’t take that much money to do it.
“And this thing with Ted Garraty,” her mother continued. “Well, I’m sure Christian Hawkins did that, too, and I hate to say it, but he probably did the world a favor. Now, Kat.” She held up her hand. “I know that sounds harsh, but the world is a harsh place, though God knows I’ve tried to protect you from those realities.”
Kat bit her tongue.
“Ted Garraty was a deviant,” Marilyn said. “A pervert, and the world is a better place without him.”
A deviant?
“Uh, how do you know about Ted?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine that her mother had been to The Painted Pony.
“Why, I’ve kept track of all the boys, Kat. Watched them over the years, waiting for them to step out of line in any way that could be prosecuted. Despite . . .” Her mother hesitated for a moment, an unusual enough occurrence to rivet Katya’s attention. “Well . . . despite the way things were handled at the time, the whole lot of them should have been thrown in prison for what they did to you, and honestly, only a couple of them have proven to be of any worth to society whatsoever.”
Katya didn’t know what to say. Her mother had just admitted to a mistake—a mistake that had weighed on Katya since Jonathan’s death. Her feelings had been so summarily dismissed at the time. Sleeping with Christian Hawkins had completely destroyed her credibility, as her mother had pointed ou
t at the top of her lungs over and over during those awful days. No one had listened to her. No one had wanted to hear how unhappy Jonathan had been. No one had wanted to believe Christian had been a hero on prom night, not a criminal, not a seducer.
All they’d wanted was quick justice and for everybody and everything about the case to simply disappear, whether it was to Canon City or the Bettencourt School for Girls—and her mother had just admitted that things had been mishandled. Katya couldn’t help but feel some long-awaited relief.
“And as far as deviants are concerned,” her mother continued, “there were worse in the lot than Ted Garraty.”
And that had to be Bobby “Bobba-Ramma” Hughes she was talking about, Kat thought. She wondered which two of the prom boys her mother thought had turned out useful, but didn’t ask. She wanted to know about “unavenged acts” and who her mother thought Hawkins had killed in prison.
“What man in Canon City are you talking about, Mother?” She never called her mother “mom.” It just wasn’t done.
Her mother gave her a pained look, as if she would have done anything to have protected her from this, but alas.
“Linda,” she said, “give her the photos.”
Linda Goodrich, a medium-sized brunette with a law degree from Harvard whom her mother was grooming for great things ahead—unlike herself—stepped forward without hesitation and handed Kat a file folder across the kitchen counter.
Kat noticed Skeeter rise out of her chair and start forward, a very grim expression on her face.
She turned back to the folder and flipped the top open—and blanched. There were photographs of dead men stapled to both sides inside. Her heart stopped for one shuddering second as she looked from one eight-by-ten photograph to another. One man appeared to have been beaten to death; the other’s cause of death was unclear. But he was dead, his mouth gaping in a rictus of pain, his legs drawn up, his head thrown back.
“Christian Hawkins freely admitted to the beating that killed Clive Lennox. Unfortunately, the death was ruled self-defense, and there were witnesses who attested to the fact. Of course, they were all convicts, so who’s to say what really happened?” Marilyn asked, her voice full of doubt.