by Dee Davis
"Obviously I think she's less of a menace than you do. Why don't we leave it at that." Payton was openly smiling now.
"Leave what at what?" Nigel walked up, slid into the chair next to Gabe and handed Payton a new beer.
"Nothing," Gabe barked, his anger receding but not vanished. "How'd the game come out?"
"We always lose in the clutch." Nigel shrugged cheerfully. "But I never give up hope. Any chance you solved the case while I went missing?"
"No." Payton met Gabe's gaze, ignoring the message there. "We've been talking about Madison Harper."
"Quite a girl, our Madison." Nigel's grin grew wolfish.
"She's off-limits." Gabe glared at his friend. "We're working with her. Period."
"Ah, so that's the way the wind blows, is it?" Nigel pursed his lips and swallowed a laugh. "I should have known."
"There's no wind." Gabe wished suddenly that he'd stayed in his room. His bottle of whiskey would have tasted just as good there, and he wouldn't have had to endure his so-called friends' abuse. "I just want everyone's mind on business. Madison is a part of the team. Deal with it. And keep your goddamn hands to yourself. Got it?"
"Sir, yes, sir." Nigel saluted smartly, still laughing.
"Have you heard anything else from Lin Yao?" Gabe asked, determined to change the subject.
Payton put his glass down, his expression turning serious. "Still nothing substantiated. But there's definitely something going on. Two antigovernment groups in particular have popped onto the radar. One is based in Northern China and keeps a notoriously high profile."
"Meaning they're not our boys," Nigel said, leaning in to keep his voice low. "If they were, the murders would have been splashed across the headlines."
"Exactly." Payton leaned back against the wall, his eyes traveling around the room, automatically checking for listeners. "But it doesn't completely rule them out. The second group is more likely. They're headquartered in the high Himalayas. Sort of the Chinese equivalent to the Hole in the Wall Gang."
"Stealth is their main mode of operation, and Yao's sources confirm they're not happy about the accord. He has one source who believes there's been activity in the U.S., but he wants to confirm it independently, so I'm waiting for word. In the meantime, Harrison is checking for movement and also for anyone who is associated with them that might use W. Smith as an alias."
"I've been over the potential target list," Gabe said, "and I think the clear winners are Cullen, Kingston Sinclair and Jeremy Bosner. Cullen is aware of what's going on of course, as is Sinclair, and I asked Madison to talk to Bosner." Gabe twirled the whiskey in his glass.
"You realize there could be others," Nigel said to no one in particular.
"Yes. Unfortunately there's no way to watch over everyone. In fact, I'm not sure it does us any good to watch anyone. It's far more important that we work toward finding the bastards behind this."
"Preferably before anyone else dies." Payton blew out a breath. "Anything come in from the lab?"
"Nothing substantial. They lifted three prints and a partial. Two of Madison's and one of mine." Gabe couldn't keep the chagrin from his voice.
"And the partial?" Nigel asked.
"No identity so far. But they're still working on it. I'm not expecting much. The rest of the apartment was clean. If our man was there at all, he's hardly likely to have wiped down everything but the windowsill. I expect it will turn out to be one of ours or someone in the apartment building."
"How about interviews—anyone in the building see Smith?" Payton's frown mirrored Gabe's. It seemed every step forward resulted in another two or three back.
"I can answer that one," Nigel said. "I talked to everyone on Smith's floor. There were three other apartments. And typical of New York, everyone claims not to have seen him."
"You think someone's lying?"
"Unfortunately, no." Nigel shook his head. "In places like that people work to mind their own business. If you don't, you wind up dead. A couple of Tracy Braxton's techs did the lower floors. And again there was nothing. Someone on the second floor thought maybe they'd seen him, but when pressed couldn't come up with anything except that he was white."
"It's something, I guess." Payton didn't sound hopeful. "But I'd say the odds are against it. Unless he wanted to be seen."
"If this is meant as a wild-goose chase then it's possible, I suppose." Nigel leaned back in his chair, his brows drawn together in thought. "But I'm thinking that more likely he knows we're on to him and simply cleared out."
"So how do you explain the ghost act?" Gabe asked.
"The vagrant idea actually has merit," Payton said, draining the last of his beer. "That particular neighborhood is full of them So it isn't too much of a stretch. Maybe the partial will confirm it."
"Even if it was a vagrant, that doesn't explain where the hell he went."
"He must have jumped the gap between the buildings. It's the only logical explanation," Nigel said.
"But it was at least twelve feet." Payton looked to Gabe for confirmation, and then back to Nigel. "That's one hell of an agile tramp."
"Takes all kinds." Nigel laughed.
Gabe realized suddenly that he was tired and it was late. He wondered where Madison was, then quashed the thought. Fatigue did strange things to a man. Lowered his defenses. Opened doors he'd thought firmly closed.
What he needed was a good night's sleep. Everything would look clearer in the morning And in the meantime, he'd simply banish all thoughts of her from his mind.
It was too cold to be walking, but Madison didn't care. She needed to clear her head. She'd taken a taxi to Fifty-seventh and Second, and then on impulse made him stop and let her out. Jeremy Bosner lived at Sutton Place, so she really hadn't far to go, and the crisp October night was just the tonic she needed.
The wind blew sharply off the East River, cutting through the leather of her coat as if it were cotton or chintz. She pulled the collar closer and tipped her face to the breeze, letting it wash away the frustrations of the day.
They'd found nothing, just chased then: tails around while the murderer yanked their chain. Of that she was certain. Whoever had hacked into the computer had wanted them to find him, or at least the trail he'd left. He was toying with them.
Just as Gabriel Roarke was toying with her.
Madison stuffed her hands into her pockets, picking up the pace. There were people on the street, but not as many as she'd have expected this time of night. Light spilled across the pavement as she passed storefronts and apartment buildings Above her, wildly gyrating leaves were lit by the adjacent apartments. People safe and warm.
Home.
A rush of longing swept over her, the need to belong swamping all other emotion. It was a stupid thought, of course. The wistful dreams of a foolish girl. And she was no longer that girl. She had a home. Just blocks from here. And her father and her mother, and friends, and a job she loved.
She needed nothing else. It was only the past reaching out to pull at her. Like the wind. She pulled her arms into her sides, attempting to lock in the meager warmth her jacket provided. She should have stayed m the taxi.
She stopped, half thinking that she'd flag another one, when something, a movement or a noise dragged at her subconscious. Slowly she turned around, her gaze sweeping the street, looking for the source of the worry blossoming in her gut.
The last of the evening's stragglers seemed to have disappeared. She was nearing York and the river, Fifty-seventh Street shifting from retail to residential seemingly in an instant. Behind her, about a half a block away, a man walked his dog. Or more precisely, his dog walked him.
A couple across the street stood in the shadows, making out, their arms locked around each other, oblivious to everything else. Jealousy tickled her mind, but was dismissed easily in her need to find the source of her concern.
She waited in the lamplight, watching the street for signs of something amiss. Nothing moved except the man and the dog, the
lust-filled couple, and an elderly man and woman who emerged from a building just up the way. Everything was as it should be. Her imagination was simply getting the best of her.
With a shiver she hurried forward. Jeremy lived just past York, his brownstone part of a cul-de-sac that had held court for a couple hundred years, the graceful buildings harking back to a more elegant time.
She passed the police booth at the corner, noted it was unmanned, and made a mental note to see that the NYPD were alerted to the situation. No sense in not taking advantage of what would seem normal observation.
The light changed and she pushed on across York, the wind stronger now that she was so close to the river. It stung her cheeks, dancing in her hair, whipping the strands into her eyes, only to die down to nothing once she reached the shelter of the row of brownstones.
She was relieved to see light coming from across the street—Jeremy's parlor window. She'd been to the brown-stone many times over the years, usually at Christmas. It was beautiful in a Dickensian kind of way, complete with gabled windows, wrought-iron fencing and a Scroogelike lion head that served as a door knocker.
She was also delighted to note that the twenty-first century prevailed in the form of a security camera mounted above the door. After opening the gate, she climbed the steps to Jeremy's red-painted doorway, thinking that the only thing missing from the picture was a planter with a bay tree.
The wind whistled behind her, and again the hairs on her neck prickled. She spun around, eyes straining into the dark for something out of place. She could hear the quiet whoosh of the traffic on the FDR, and see the white caps of the waves in the river.
Everything in its place. She was just jumpy.
The brownstone immediately across the way was covered with scaffolding, home improvement New York-style. The flanking buildings were also dark but obviously occupied, their residents most likely already in bed for the night. Which was no doubt exactly where she should be. Shaking her head at her own folly, she started back down the steps, only to turn again when she heard the door behind her opening.
Jeremy stood in the warm light that spilled out across the stoop, his gaunt face creased with worry. "Has something happened?"
"No." Madison shook her head, embarrassment coloring her words. "I came by to talk to you about security, but I hadn't realized how late it was."
"Thank God." The older man's face relaxed into a smile. "I was afraid there'd been another murder."
"No, nothing like that."
"Good. I'm glad to hear it. I just poured myself a brandy. Why don't you come in and keep me company? It's a dreadful night to be out." He shot a look into the shadows almost as if he, too, feared something was out there. But then again, he would be worried, Madison thought.
"Come on. I've been meaning to talk with you anyway." He moved to the side, gesturing her to enter.
"All right." She walked past him into the lovely marble foyer. "If you're certain I'm not intruding." Just at the moment a brandy seemed the perfect way to abolish the uneasy jitters that had followed her down Fifty-seventh. And she did need to talk to him.
Jeremy closed the door and led her into the parlor, a beautiful walnut-paneled room with a fire blazing cozily at one end. There was an open bottle of brandy sitting on a drinks table beside a velvet sofa, and across from it, next to the fire, a half-empty glass balanced on the arm of a wing chair. An open book sat next to it. Madison could just make out the title—Nine Coaches Waiting. A great story, but an odd choice for Jeremy, surely?
It was only then that she noticed he was wearing a velvet smoking jacket, faded gray flannels adding to the sense of timelessness. An era long gone, yet still preserved here as if it had only been yesterday. Madison smiled and held her hands out to the fire. "It's wonderfully warm in here. I really do feel as if I've interrupted your evening."
"Nonsense, my dear. You're just the tonic this old man needed."
She turned to face him, accepting the glass he held out. "I'm afraid I haven't come with any answers. If you talked to Cullen, you'll know that today wasn't much of a success."
Jeremy nodded, and settled back into the wing chair, brandy in hand. "He mentioned that the killer managed to slip through your fingers. But that isn't what I wanted to talk about. The truth is, I owe you an apology."
"For what?" Madison sank down onto the sofa, trying to follow the turn of the conversation.
"I was out of line yelling at you. I know that the task force is working as quickly as possible. It's just that my conversation with Chiao Chien was frustrating to say the least. We've worked so hard to lay the groundwork, and to think that some dissident could undo the whole thing by randomly killing the principal players..." He stared morosely into his brandy glass.
"It's certainly not random." Her response came out sharper than she'd intended, and Jeremy's head popped up, his gaze meeting hers.
"I didn't mean to sound so condemning. And I certainly didn't mean to make light of my colleagues' deaths. It's just so...so inconceivable. I mean, how does something like this disintegrate into something so squalid?"
"You know as well as I do that politics isn't a by-the-rules game. When the stakes are this high, sometimes it can seem like there's no other way."
"And so people die." Again he stared down into his glass, and Madison wondered if he'd had more than a little nip. She shot a glance at the decanter and saw that it was more than three-quarters empty.
He noticed her scrutiny and smiled. "It's not as bad as all that. It was already half-empty. And if I'm flushed, it's only because it was stuffy in here. See, I even opened a window." He waved a hand toward the large casement windows flanking the street, one of them cracked to let in the breeze.
"It's just that between the tensions of the accord, and everything you've uncovered, I've been a little tense. And this—" he held up his glass, the brandy flickering in the firelight "—helps take the edge off, if you know what I mean." He sat back, as if waiting for a verdict.
Madison sighed. "I wasn't being judgmental, honestly. Just feeling all over again as if I'm intruding." She leaned forward to put her brandy on the coffee table. "Why don't I just call you in the morning?"
"You'll do nothing of the sort. Drinking alone is a dangerous proposition. Besides, you look like you could use a break." His eyes darkened with concern, and Madison realized with a start that he really did care about her.
She smiled, and reclaimed her drink, settling back against the sofa again. "I'm fine, really. Just feeling the same frustration you are."
"Well two's company." There was a trace of melancholy in his voice and Madison realized with a start that he was lonely.
Despite his wealth and success, he was all alone.
A kindred spirit.
She fingered her glass, considering her next question. She hated to ruin the solidarity of the moment, but something he'd said yesterday had bothered her. "Are you really angry that Cullen assumed control of the consortium when Bingham died?"
Jeremy's eyes widened in surprise, then crinkled with his smile. "Good heavens, no. I was just posturing. Partially because I was angry and partially because it's good to shake Cullen up now and then. I have absolutely no desire to be chairman."
"But you're the vice-chair...." She trailed off, waiting for his answer, watching his body language for signs that he was lying.
"I like being second in command. All the glory, none of the headaches." He paused, studying her face. "But you don't want a flip answer do you? So I'll tell you. I was concerned that something exactly like what has transpired would occur." Madison frowned, opening her mouth to respond, but Jeremy waved her off. "Not the deaths. God knows I couldn't have dreamed up something like that, but the idea that something might happen to queer the deal wasn't that big of a leap. And quite frankly, I didn't want to be the one to take the fall."
"So you let Cullen assume the risk."
"No one lets Cullen do anything, Madison. I just didn't stand in his way. And the
fact remains that regardless of who is at the helm, the stakes are the same. That's why your team has got to find answers as quickly as possible."
"We're trying." Madison sighed, and stood up to walk over to the window. The wind was still blowing, ginkgo trees bending in protest, the cool draft brushing against her hair. "The current idea is that the killer may be using an alias. If we can tie the name he's been using to something tangible, we might be able to work out his real identity."
"Sounds a bit like finding a diamond at the bottom of a waterfall."
"Unfortunately that's an apt analogy." Madison smiled into the dark, her gaze held by a sense of movement in the brownstone across the way.
"Can I freshen your drink?"
She held up a hand to silence him, something out there setting off alarms in her head. She stepped closer to the window, eyes scanning the darkened building across the way. There was a flash, and instinctively Madison pivoted and dived toward him, her eyes recognizing what her ears soon confirmed.
Someone was trying to kill Jeremy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gabe signaled for the cabdriver to pull over and got out near the corner of York and Fifty-Seventh, wondering what in hell he was doing. He'd called the operations room looking for her, only to have Harrison tell him she'd already left. Heading for Jeremy Bosner's. She probably wasn't even there anymore—if she'd even come at all.
He glanced down at his watch realizing just how late it was. Still, he couldn't seem to stop himself, some insane compulsion to see her, to talk with her, driving him onward. Clutching the piece of paper containing Bosner's address, he crossed the street and headed for the little cluster of brownstones fronting the river.
The street was unusually dark, two of the three street lamps burned out or broken. Not something he'd have expected at this address. Usually when something happened around here, there were four or five city employees waiting in the wings to immediately right all wrongs.
Still, there was enough light to find his way, and he started up the street, then froze as a sharp hiss separated itself from the whining wind. His heart rate ratcheted up as his mind sought a logical explanation, but he'd heard the sound too many times to mistake it.