For starters, there was absolutely no question that the men were one and the same. She’d needed only one photograph to confirm it, and had stopped counting at ten. Handsome, urbane, aging gracefully through the years, Henry Daniels, respected police official, was most definitely William Davis, drug dealer and murderer.
His grandfather had made a half-dozen fortunes in Oklahoma’s oil boom years and had built the house along the river to show it off. Henry was the older of two children; his younger sister was rarely mentioned in the articles. He had started his police career in Tulsa, had eventually moved on to Boston—where his mother’s family was from—then to Philadelphia and Savannah, each time moving up through the ranks.
A few years earlier, he’d come full circle, hired to head the department where he’d started his career. His years with each department had been stellar. No one had anything negative to say about Henry Daniels. He was tough on crime and tougher on criminals. He’d married in Boston and divorced in Philadelphia two years before Selena had met him in that Jamaican alley. They’d had no children. He had been best man at Joe and Anna Ceola’s wedding, and Joe had returned the favor at his own wedding. He’d cited the Ceolas as one big reason for taking the chief ’s job in Tulsa. They were family, he’d said on more than one occasion.
The son of a bitch didn’t know the meaning of the word.
Selena wasn’t sure which she was angrier about—that he had lied to her from the start, that he had lived this wonderful, respectable life while keeping her hidden away like a shameful secret, that he’d betrayed the faith and trust of countless people, that he’d made a mockery of the positions he’d held, or that he was committing the ultimate betrayal against Tony and his family. They loved him. They trusted him. They had been a part of his life for forty years . . . and this was how he intended to repay them.
By the time she quit, the sun had been up for a time and she’d read every highlight of Henry Daniels’s life. Of course, there wasn’t so much as a hint anywhere in there of her presence in that life.
She sat back in the chair, drawing her bare feet into the seat, and stared at the computer screen. She’d learned a lot about Henry, but nothing about William. Nothing to suggest that they were two sides of the same man. Nothing to tie the distinguished police chief to the consummate criminal.
Nothing to convince Tony to believe her when Henry was sure to tell a different story.
Her hands were clasped loosely around her ankles, her chin resting on her knees, as she tried to think. Give her a mugger on a dark street and she knew exactly what to do. Put a paintbrush in her hand and stand her in front of a blank canvas, and the next step came naturally. But gathering proof of a dark secret life that would stand up against the denials of a venerable man . . . she was totally at a loss.
She might not be able to prove the truth about him, but she could stop him. She could kill him.
Kill William. The thought robbed her of breath and left her unable even to tighten a muscle. After all he’d done for her, the life he’d given her, the advantages, the chances. The man who’d pretended to love her like a daughter, whom she had loved like a father.
Kill William. For everything he’d done to her, the life he threatened to take from her, the love he’d refused to give her, the perverse ways he’d manipulated her.
Kill him. To save Tony. To save herself.
If she had no other choice.
But she did have another choice right now—she could prove that Greg Marland was alive and well. That was a start.
A hiss from the fat black cat alerted her that Tony was awake an instant before the stairs creaked. She rose from the chair to meet him in the foyer. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and was moving gingerly after last night’s run-in with the vigilante. “What are you doing up?” she asked.
“I’m gonna check on Mom and Dad—make sure they didn’t have any damage from the storm. Want to go with me?”
She shook her head. “I might go for a run before it gets too hot. How about we meet back here for an early lunch?”
Drawing her close, he kissed her on the mouth. “It’s a date.”
Smiling faintly, she let herself out. Next door she took her time dressing—in shorts and a jogging bra, followed by workout pants and a sleeveless top that allowed for easy movement. If she needed to convince Tony that she had, indeed, gone for a run, she wanted to be prepared. And if she ran into Greg Marland . . .
She clipped the forty cal at the small of her back. The .22 went into an ankle holster, the double-edged dagger in a Velcro strap around her right ankle, and the switchblade in its usual place. Once she’d slid extra clips for both guns into her pants pockets, she was ready to go. Armed and dangerous, she thought with a grim smile. The only way to be.
As she retrieved her digital camera from the closet, the rumble of the Impala’s engine broke the quiet. She watched from the window as Tony drove out of sight, breathed deeply, and left the house.
Detouring around limbs and storm debris, she drove to William’s neighborhood and parked in the Thirty-first Street River Parks lot, out of sight of his estate. If she’d known when she bought the Thunderbird that she would be doing covert surveillance on William’s house, she would have opted for something nondescript.
If she’d known . . . Here she was, actually doing it, and it still sounded thoroughly ridiculous. She wasn’t the covert type. The stuff she knew about weapons, knives, and alarms was to protect herself, not harm others. All she wanted was to paint her pictures, run her gallery, and feel safe for the rest of her life. Was that so much to ask?
No. “So much to ask” would be to paint her pictures, run her gallery, and make a home with Tony for the rest of her life. Maybe, God forbid, get married. Maybe even, in her wildest, most sacred and secret dreams, have babies with him.
That was too much. She would expect disappointment if she ever entertained such fanciful desires. But her own three wishes were nothing. She’d worked hard to achieve them . . . and William wanted to take them away simply because he could. Such a pitiful reason for manipulating and destroying people’s lives.
Crossing Riverside Drive, she turned north on the trail, camera in hand, and walked past his house to the next street. She took a meandering route through the neighborhood until she finally reached the dead-end street one block east of his rear gate. Everything was still. No dogs barked. No birds sang. Other than the occasional sound of a car passing by on Riverside, there was no sign of life at all. Satisfied, she cut across the grass between two houses, then followed William’s fence to the service entrance.
Staying well out of view of the camera, she ducked into the bushes. Unlike the neatly manicured gardens inside the fence, the plantings outside were allowed to grow more naturally—luckily for her, since sprawling azaleas and rhododendrons provided much better cover than the formal gardens.
She settled in to wait, unmindful of the water dripping from the bushes and seeping into her pants. The pistol provided a welcome pressure on the small of her back, and she held the camera loosely in both hands. She couldn’t imagine William letting anyone, even his right-hand man, stay long at the estate. If Marland wasn’t already gone, she wanted proof that he was alive and well. Proof of William’s deception.
She’d learned during a second round of thunderstorms last night that Tony had been at the warehouse Marland had mentioned. She regretted she couldn’t tell him what she knew: that it had been Marland on the racing bike who had caused Tony’s latest injuries. That one wild shot had found its target. That the police chief had sent Marland there. That William had murdered one of his employees.
And the worst thing she knew: that Tony’s godfather wanted him dead.
But if she could get proof, starting with Marland . . . maybe this would be one time William didn’t get what he wanted, but instead got what he deserved.
Damon would have killed for a few more hours’ sleep—and he had just the person in mind—but he dragged himself out of bed way
too early Sunday morning. With some effort, he pulled on his boxers one-handed, then walked through the guesthouse to the front door. He knew who was ringing the damn bell. He’d been watching from the bedroom window as Henry crossed the patio.
He had expected a command via the intercom or Sonja to appear in Henry’s study—a command he’d intended to ignore. He had thought he would have to lure Henry to the guesthouse instead, but here he was, meticulously dressed, shaved, and ready to face the day.
And why shouldn’t he be? He hadn’t spent hours roasting in that fucking warehouse last night. He hadn’t had half the cops in Tulsa trying to take him out, and he for goddamn sure hadn’t gotten shot.
When Damon undid the chain lock and opened the door, Henry was looking annoyed. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d died in there,” he said, pushing past without an invitation and striding into the living room.
Wonder. Not worry. Not fear. Just fucking you-don’t-mean-a-damn-thing wonder.
“So you finally decided to check on me.” Damon’s tone was sour as he headed for the kitchen.
“I knew you were in good hands with Dr. Adams.”
The refrigerator had been empty when Damon had arrived the night before, but he’d remedied that with a second call to Lucia. Now he took one of the beers she’d brought, popped the top, and swigged a healthy swallow as he joined Henry in the living room. “ ‘Good hands’? With that old drunk?” He snorted. “He doesn’t even have a license to practice anymore.”
Henry gave him a narrow look, distaste appearing at the sight of the beer and intensifying as he took in Damon’s dress, or lack of. He didn’t ask about the beer, though, or order him to put on clothes. Instead, he stuck to the subject. “If you were unhappy with Dr. Adams’s care, you could have gone to any of Tulsa’s fine hospitals. Of course, they would have had a few questions for you, and would have been obligated to notify the authorities. And where would that have landed you?” Then he gestured toward the bandage. “It appears he did an adequate job.”
Adequate—and that was good enough for the hired help, Damon thought bitterly. Oh, but not for Henry. If he had a damn headache, he’d want the best neurologist in the state. Only the best for him.
He glanced at the dressing, too, and dismissed it. “That’s not his work.” Before Henry could ask the obvious question, Damon pointed with the bottle’s neck. “What’s that?”
The old man pulled a section of the Sunday World from under his arm and held it so Damon could see the headline: Man Killed in Police Custody. “We made the papers.”
What was with this we crap? Damon didn’t have anything to do with Potter’s murder. He didn’t like executing employees every time something went wrong, especially when the problem was no fault of theirs. It wasn’t good for morale.
If the boss needed a scapegoat for last night’s fuckup, he need look no further than himself. He was the one who’d decided to bring Tranh’s family into it, who’d pushed Tranh so hard that Tranh had no choice but to push back.
Henry tossed the paper on the coffee table, steepled his fingers together, and studied him. “While you were waiting for me last night, did you come inside the house?” His expression was one of friendly curiosity, echoed in his voice, but it didn’t fool Damon for a moment.
“No.” He’d been soaking wet and bleeding, and had known Henry wouldn’t appreciate either water or blood soiling his precious antiques. “Why do you ask?”
“Someone did. When I left you last night, the rear door was unlocked, and someone had tried to gain access to the vault.”
“Maybe security came over to check the alarm. Sonja says it malfunctions during storms.”
Henry considered the possibility that his security experts had forgotten to lock the door behind them, then nodded. “Perhaps. But they wouldn’t have attempted to access the vault, and certainly neither Sonja nor Leonard would have, either.”
Damon shrugged carelessly. “Hey, dust it for prints. You won’t find mine.”
Henry gave no response but gazed at the bronze-and-marble statue that had once cracked open Damon’s skull. It pissed him off that the old man had not only kept it, but kept it on display like some damn trophy. “I wonder what Selena did last night while the good detective was trying to catch the vigilante.”
The idea that Selena might have broken in amused Damon, especially since Henry considered her some sort of wild animal tamed only by him. With the right incentive, though, even the tamest of wild beasts would turn on its handler.
“Maybe she was here. The fence isn’t electrified, the alarm malfunctions, and the guards don’t patrol the grounds during storms. Could she have found anything of interest?”
“Of course not,” Henry said scornfully. “The problem is that she would even try.”
“She showed some initiative. So what?”
“I don’t pay her to show initiative. I pay her to follow orders.”
“You don’t pay her at all,” Damon pointed out, keeping his tone mild.
Henry’s gaze turned cold and sharp. “She owes me her life.” And he would take it if it suited him. “Why are you defending her? I thought you didn’t like her.”
Damon started to shrug, but the pain shooting through his arm stopped him. “I’m not defending her. I just think she must have a hell of a set of balls to come waltzing in here, especially after waiting so many years for an invitation that never came.”
Taking a cigar and lighter from his jacket pocket, Henry lit up, then gestured, sending a plume of smoke swirling in the air. “Crudely put, but, yes, she must have. She spent yesterday with the Ceola family, in direct defiance of my orders.”
“Yeah, that defiance seems to be going around,” Damon murmured.
“What do you mean?”
The timing couldn’t have been better if Damon had choreographed it. Henry’s question had hardly faded when the soft slap of bare feet against wood sounded and Lucia came around the corner. She was wearing Damon’s T-shirt, her hair was tangled, and she looked ripe and lush and very well-fucked. Her gaze locked on him first, but as she crossed to him, she saw Henry, too. She ignored him, though, until she’d stretched onto her toes and given Damon a long hot kiss. Then she hooked her arm around his good arm, smiled at the bastard, and said, “Uncle Henry. You look wonderful this morning.”
Actually, he looked as if he was about to explode. His eyes had gone ice cold, and a vein throbbed in his temple. His mouth worked, but no words came out the first few tries. Finally, his muscles taut with the effort, he managed, “Lucia, princess. I—I never expected to see you here.”
She smiled again, coyly this time, and snuggled closer to Damon, rubbing her breasts against his arm. “I know the whole family thinks I can’t keep a secret, but they’re wrong. Now that you know, though, I guess we won’t have to worry about secrets anymore, will we, sweetie?”
“I need to talk to Damon alone,” Henry said, still sounding strained.
“No problem. I’ve got to get dressed. I told Mom I’d help her take Daddy to church this morning.” She kissed Damon again, wiggled her fingers in a wave to Henry, then disappeared back down the hall.
Damon had barely registered that Lucia was gone when Henry caught him around the throat and shoved him against the wall. “Don’t . . . you . . . touch . . . her . . . again. How dare you? You don’t deserve to breathe the same air she does!”
“She’s a whore.” Damon said the words with the deadly softness he’d learned from the master himself. “She puts on a good act, but, plain and simple, she’s a whore.”
His face turning purple, Henry squeezed tighter, cutting off Damon’s air, but even one-handed, Damon had no trouble freeing himself. He bent the old man’s arm back until it threatened to break, leaned close, and amended his last words. “She’s my whore. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it.”
“I’ll tell her what you are!”
“And I’ll tell her what you are. Who do you think she’ll believ
e? Her stuffy old uncle? Or the man who fucks her senseless every night?”
Henry’s breathing came faster, sharper, sounding as if he was about to have a damn heart attack. Damon wished he would, wished he would drop dead right here in the same room where he had almost died two years ago. Instead of becoming weaker, though, the old man suddenly regained control. His color returned to normal, his breathing slowed, and his voice became strong and threatening.
“I will kill you.”
It wasn’t an idle threat, or words spoken in anger soon to be forgotten. It was a promise, and Henry always carried out his promises. He would kill Damon . . . if Damon didn’t kill him first.
“Go ahead and try, old man.” He waited until Henry reached the door before he parodied a gun with his thumb and forefinger. “In the meantime . . . watch your back.”
Henry gave him a deadly look before walking out.
Damon leaned against the wall again, rubbing his throat gingerly. For months he’d entertained the idea of removing Henry from the business and running it himself, but thinking about it was all he’d done. Until now.
He should feel excited. Elated. Hyped. Instead, he just had a knot in his gut. He’d always known he had what it took to take charge, just as he’d always known the only way to accomplish that was to kill Henry. But thinking about it and doing it . . . those were two very different things. After all, he owed the man a lot.
At the same time, Henry owed him a lot.
And it was time he took it.
Selena wasn’t sure how long she’d been waiting before the gate slowly swung open and someone approached. It wasn’t Marland’s motorcycle, or one of William’s cars, but two people on foot, talking as they walked. Security guards making rounds? she wondered, rising to a crouch for a better view, lifting the camera, and sighting through a break in the bushes.
No guards. It was Greg Marland and a pretty young woman. Selena snapped off photos, getting several close-ups of the woman, but mostly focusing on Marland, then lowered the camera as they came even with her hiding place. Barely breathing, she watched as they kissed. The woman tried to pin him down for later plans; he refused, insisting instead that he would call her. Finally, after another kiss, she sashayed to the little red sports car parked nearby, gave him a pouty look, then got in and drove away. Marland watched her go.
The Assassin Page 27