by J. Kenner
“Weren’t we all?” Damien says. “And we may be wrong.”
“We’re not,” Ryan says, then grins at Damien. “And thanks to you, we’ll be able to prove it.”
“Prove what?” Jamie asks, walking into the room in a pair of pajamas that were obviously bought for Ryan. She rubs sleep out of her eyes as she looks at me. “What did I miss?”
“No idea, and I’ve been standing right here.”
“I started thinking more about Bree,” Damien tells me. “About the kidnapper knowing her schedule.” He points to the computer. “Take a look.”
Quincy waves us over, and Jamie and I get closer so we can both see his screen. “Know what this is?”
Jamie and I exchange a shrug. “A guy standing on a sidewalk.”
“Look closer.” He manipulates the mouse and zooms in. It’s Rory, no doubt about it. Then he pulls back, and the Moviehouse behind him comes into focus.
“That’s the theater on Fairfax,” I say. “The one where he was meeting Bree for Casablanca.”
“Oh, yes it is,” Quincy says. “And I’m quite fascinated by the extremely large number of wireless security cameras in that particular area. I believe I caught him from no less than eighteen different setups.”
“Is that bad?” I ask.
“Actually, it’s good. Here’s what’s truly interesting.” He taps more keys, the tape scrolls forward, and Rory’s walking away from the theater.
“Um, so?” Jamie sounds as confused as I feel.
“Check the time stamp. It’s two minutes until the show starts. You’re expecting a date. Worried. And you don’t give her two extra minutes?”
I’m not sure that’s a smoking gun, but I nod, urging him to continue.
“Got this from a traffic cam about three blocks from your daughter’s art class. See? We can make out the license plate. Jerrol and Elsbeth Colgate.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Not surprised as they live in Hawaii,” Ryan says. “But they visit their children in Big Bear, Santa Barbara, and Long Beach three or four times a year. So they keep a car garaged.”
“I made an inquiry based on Damien’s theory,” Quincy says, “and learned that they do significant business with Franklin & Youngman.”
I start to shake my head, then remember the name. “Financial advisors.”
“No way,” Jamie says. “Is that where Rory works?”
“It is,” Damien says.
“Oh, God.” I stumble into the chair next to Quincy, then look up at Damien. “And Bree?”
“I think he targeted her because she was our nanny.”
I remember what Ryan said at the Foundation brunch. That Rory looked like a guy who hadn’t grown up. A guy, I’m assuming, who expected a Stark grant to be his golden ticket. And when he didn’t make it big right off the bat, he decided to take a shortcut.
“That’s the theory,” Damien says, when I spell it all out for him.
“But that’s not proof. If we want to nail this guy, there has to be proof.”
All three men look at each other, and then Ryan speaks. “Yeah, well, that’s where some kickass Stark tech comes into play.”
“The tracker? But I thought the rain messed that up.”
“Just the exterior tracking,” Damien says. “With luck, he’ll have opened the cases.”
“With more luck, he hasn’t already skipped town,” Quincy says.
“He’s here.” Damien’s face is hard as stone. “Right now, I’m feeling very, very lucky.”
27
As soon as Damien finishes running down the Rory theory once again, Bree crosses her arms over her chest, then looks at me and Damien in turn, ignoring everyone else around the conference table. “So is this where you officially fire me or is it where you arrest me?”
“Neither,” he says. “This is where I apologize. And where I ask for your help.”
“Apologize?” Her brow furrows as she looks at me. “Is he serious?”
I nod, but say nothing.
“You passed the polygraph,” I tell her, glancing at Quincy, who administered it less than an hour ago.
“He set me up,” Bree says, her voice hard. “He made it so it looked like I could just as easily be his partner as his victim.”
Damien nods.
I see her throat move as tears form in her eyes. “I didn’t know it was Rory. He made me put that mask on whenever he was in the room. And the only time I saw him was when he grabbed us, and he was wearing that stocking.”
She hiccups, her chest shuddering from her tears. “I didn’t want to leave her. I never would have left Anne alone. I didn’t have a choice. I swear.”
“I know,” I assure her. “And Damien and I are both sorry. We should have had more faith.”
“No.” She takes a deep breath. “I get it. Those two sweet babies. You can’t take chances.” She rubs her eyes. “So what exactly are we doing here? Are you giving me my job back?”
“If you want it,” Damien says. “But right now, there’s another job we want to talk to you about.”
“Um. Okay.”
“Good,” Damien says, then takes the seat next to her. “Are you familiar with nano-technology?”
From the look on her face, she’s even less familiar with it than I was an hour ago. I’d at least heard of it. But Bree’s expression makes it clear that she’s certain that Damien is talking science fiction when he describes the crystalline quantum dots—dust, really—that can be seen only through a certain type of lenses.
“You’re serious,” she says, then adds, “Wow,” when Damien nods.
“It’s tech we’ve been developing for the military and the intelligence community, and it’s had limited, successful field testing.”
“So, what does this have to do with Rory?”
“The particles are suspended in a liquid—that way they can be sprayed on a suspected terrorist, for example, and then certain field glasses can be used to track the suspect back to his base.”
She nods, apparently watching an action movie in her head. “So you sprayed Rory?”
“We didn’t get close to Rory. We sprayed the money. And we sprayed the outside of the case.”
“Oh. Oh. I get it. So when he moves the case, some of the dust is left behind.”
“That was the idea,” Ryan said. “Had the weather been clear, we should have been able to track the particles back to him. And, we hoped, to Anne. But it rained. It diluted the particles, washed some away.”
“In other words, we were screwed,” Damien says.
“So what now?”
“Now we want you to reach out to him. Tell him we’ve finally let you out of your cell. That you miss him and can’t believe we kept you here like a prisoner when you’d been kidnapped, too. That you’re annoyed with us for not trusting you. Tell him you have to get out to clear your head. That you want to see him.”
I watch her face as she processes all of that. “You want me to get into his place. And when I do, I’m going to be looking for the quantum thingies.”
“Exactly,” Damien says. “If he opened the case and handled the money, there should be dust onsite. Even if he didn’t, we might get lucky. There might be some latent dust from when he handled the exterior of the cases. Some minute amount the rain didn’t wash away.”
She nods slowly, processing everything. “I wear glasses sometimes.”
Damien smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “We know.”
I hadn’t really believed he’d still be in town, but when Bree reached out to Rory with the concocted story, he told her how sorry he was that her boss was an asshole and invited her over to his place.
“The money won’t be there,” Damien says from where we sit in a nearby van, the team monitoring the situation with a variety of gadgets. “He’s smart enough not to raise suspicion by leaving town right away. That means he’s smart enough not to have the bulk of the money on his person. But I’m betting he couldn’t resist pocketing a lit
tle, and that means we should see the quantum residue.”
“So if Bree doesn’t see the dots, we’re out of luck.”
“Not out of luck,” Riley says. “Just on to plan B.”
Riley had gone back to his house last night, but Ryan called him back for this operation because of his hand-to-hand combat skills. We’re all hoping Riley’s going to be bored silly. But better to have him around just in case.
Charles Maynard is also in the van, along with a LAPD detective he’s worked with before.
“How much longer?” I ask, my nerves getting the better of me. “Why the hell didn’t we wire her? We need to know what’s going on in there.”
Beside me, Damien calmly twines his fingers with mine. “We couldn’t risk him finding a wire. They’re dating, remember. Whether it was real to him or a ruse, he’ll keep up pretenses. We can’t risk him pulling her close.”
“I know. I know. I just hate the waiting. I’m terrified for her.”
He squeezes my hand. “She’ll be fine,” he says, but I know he’s just placating me. He’s worried, too.
Minutes tick by, and my stomach twists into knots as I turn my phone over and over in my hand. “Isn’t it time yet?”
“One more minute,” Quincy says. “No point in calling too soon. She needs to look around.”
I know that, of course. I just want this over with. So I sit while the clock ticks down until finally—finally—Ryan signals for me to make the call.
I draw a breath, dial the number of her new phone, then close my eyes until she answers.
“What do you need, Nikki,” she says in the overly-polite voice we discussed. As far as Rory’s concerned, she’s still irritated as hell with me and Damien.
“I’m trying to find Lara’s pink party dress. Have you seen it?” It’s a pre-planned question in case he’s listening in.
“It’s hanging on the outside of her closet, as plain as the nose on your face.”
I almost sag with relief, as everyone in the van shifts to attention.
“Oh, hell,” I say. “I see it now. Sorry to bother you.”
“No problem.” As she ends the call, I hear her say, “Honestly!” to Rory, and decide that Bree deserves a bonus based solely on her acting abilities.
“That’s it,” the detective says, picking up his radio to call the uniformed backup he has waiting. “We’re going in.”
28
“Damien actually punched the guy?” Sylvia looks between me and Jamie and Bree. It’s Saturday, and days have passed since the arrest. Now we’re on the bungalow’s rooftop patio, sipping wine around the table, taking a little bit of girl time before the house is inundated with little kids, arriving to help celebrate my girls’ birthdays.
Jamie just shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I wasn’t there.”
“It was beautiful,” Bree says. “I said I needed to get something out of my car, and when I opened the door, the cops burst in, Damien with them. And he punched that bastard right in the mouth.”
“You were great,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
Her smile is a little tearful, but genuine, and she reaches for my hand. “We’re good,” she says, for what feels like the millionth time.
“You saw it?” Syl asks me, and I shake my head.
“But I heard it through Damien’s mike. Rory went down like a little baby. And I’m so jealous that I didn’t get to punch the guy myself I can’t even begin to tell you.”
“I’m never going on vacation again,” Sylvia says. “I can’t believe you didn’t call us. We would have come right back.”
I smile ruefully. “That’s why we didn’t call. What could you have done except worry, too?”
“I could have worried with you,” she says gently. “So everything’s over? Rory’s in jail? They found the money?”
“They found all of it,” I tell her. “Including five hundred of the ransom in his wallet. Damien’s people had recorded the serial numbers.”
“When’s the trial?”
“He confessed to everything,” Jamie says.
“He acted entirely on his own. Sought Bree out like we suspected.”
“Fucker,” Bree snarls.
“And the motive was what Ryan guessed,” Jamie adds. “That he’s a self-involved prick who believed he was entitled to a silver platter and blamed Damien when one didn’t come his way.”
“The sentencing hearing is in a week,” I say. “Meanwhile, he’s in custody. And he’ll stay locked up for a long time.”
“And the girls?”
“They’re great,” I say, once again feeling that wash of relief that overwhelms me every time I think about how bad it could have been. How we could have lost Anne or she could have been returned traumatized. As it is, she really doesn’t seem to remember much other than a constant stream of cartoons. Versed is a drug they use to chill kids out before surgery. I recall that when they gave it to Lara, she remembered as much about the pre-op time as she did about the operation. In other words, exactly nothing.
I could kill Rory Claymore for what he did to my little girl, but for that one small thing, I’m grateful.
Bree stands up. “I need to get back to the girls. They’re bubbling over about the party, and I should help Moira keep them occupied until the guests start to arrive.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning more than about today’s birthday party, which has turned in to a much bigger celebration. “I need to hit Jamie up about something, and then I’ll be out.” I check my watch. “Sally’s supposed to be here in an hour with all the cupcake stuff, so let’s meet in the first floor kitchen when she gets here.” The party will be by the pool, so the rarely-used first floor kitchen is the best staging area for today’s extravaganza.
She gives me a thumbs-up, and Sylvia stands. “I’ll walk back to the house with you. I want to find Jackson and compare notes.” She winks, and I know she’s purposefully trying to make me laugh. Because Damien is undoubtedly telling Jackson the entire story, too.
“Did you ever find out who vandalized your office?” Jamie asks me after they’ve both left.
“I wish. I’m guessing Marianna Kingsley, but I may never know for sure.”
She makes a face. “Sorry.”
I shrug. “All things considered, nasty words on my wall are no big thing.”
“No, but that was a factor. Not a big one, but a factor.”
I nod, not meeting her eyes. I told her that I’d cut, and other than Damien, she’s the only one who knows. Not even Ollie who, years ago, I might have told even before Jamie. But I can’t deny that things have changed between us. He has his secrets. And I have mine.
“Nik,” she says gently. “You should talk about it.”
“I know. And I will.” I’ve already called the counselor I saw before we adopted Lara. I wanted no secrets that might come out and prevent the agency or the Chinese government from approving our application. “Damien suggested it, too. But it won’t happen again.” I meet her eyes, mine hard. “Nothing like that will ever happen again.”
She nods, and I know she understands that I’m talking about the kidnapping as much as the cutting.
“You’re really okay?”
“I am,” I say. “A little rough around the edges, but I think that’s fair, don’t you?”
“I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
We’re silent for a bit, then she runs her finger over the rim of her glass. “How’s Damien?” she asks.
I sit back, because isn’t that a loaded question?
“He’s … hurting,” I say. “But he’s trying not to show it. Anne’s a lot of it, but we got her back, and in large part because of him. Who he is and what he does.”
“Magic dust,” Jamie says. “Gotta give the guy props.”
I know she’s trying to make me laugh, but all I can manage is a tiny smile.
“It’s you,” she says. “Because you cut.”
“I think he blames himself for the kidnapping. Like he�
�s supposed to sprinkle that magic dust all over our lives and keep us in a safe box or something. It’s stupid, because he can’t protect us like that. No one can. But it’s Damien.” I manage a smile, and Jamie nods. It’s Damien. And that pretty much says it all.
The press found out, too, which has made it doubly hard. Because every time we turn around, we’re reminded of what happened. So far, we’ve avoided interviews. But I know from Evelyn that they’ve been calling day and night. Damien’s repeatedly turned down their requests for even two or three minutes on the air, even though the press has treated him—and the entire team—like the brilliant heroes they are.
“And even though he gets a lot of the credit for getting her back, he knows that you cut because of the kidnapping.” She nods, considering. “Yeah, I can see that messing with him. Hell, it’s messing with me. I don’t have any good advice, though. I wish I did. If I had a brilliant idea, I’d totally tell you.”
“I know. And I’ve got an idea. Maybe not brilliant,” I admit. “But I think it’s a start. And to do it, I need your help.”
Two hours later, I find Damien in the second floor library, his favorite place in the house, but also the place he goes when he’s feeling the most melancholy. He’s standing over the display case that holds the first editions of the Ray Bradbury and other sci-fi books he loves. Recently, we added pictures of the girls to the case, and I have a feeling that in a few years, their favorite baby books will go in there as well.
“Hey,” I say, coming up behind him and putting my arms around him.
He turns, then pulls me close, and when I tilt my head back, he closes his mouth over mine, claiming me with one long, deep, heated kiss. The kind that makes me think of naughty uses for the wooden desk behind us, then makes me regret the fact that we’ll have guests arriving in under an hour.
“Hey, yourself,” he says when we finally break the kiss.
“Is that a tease? Or a promise for later?”
“Both,” he says, cupping my chin and brushing his thumb over my lips. He’s smiling at me, and that kiss just about melted me. Anyone looking at us would think that everything was perfect. But I know better. I know that things have shifted slightly off-kilter. There’s a hesitancy with me now. A gentleness that’s sweet and tender and that any other woman wouldn’t complain about. But I know Damien like I know myself, and I know when something is off.