“Ah. He never mentioned that part of the op.” Even still, it didn’t assuage her uneasy feeling. Something wasn’t right. While they rarely talked money because, frankly, the only thing she brought into their marriage was her love, he’d never said anything about liquidating, moving it around, hiding it for security reasons.
“Did your lawyer give you any information as to the banks in any of these places?”
“He couldn’t get any information out of the British, Swiss, or the Panamanians.”
“I’m not surprised. That’s why so many secretly hoard their money in Switzerland and Panama. Along with the Caymans, they’re known safe-havens for money laundering and tax cheats—not that Darcy was one, but in our line of work … well, you know, off-shore is safer.” He shrugged. “You’ll most likely have to go to Switzerland with the death certificate and the necessary inheritance paperwork to get real answers.”
“I don’t have a passport anymore; I lost it in Moscow.”
“Hmm. Well, was there much money left in Darcy’s Geneva account after all the transfers?”
She laughed wryly. “Uh, yeah. Apart from Georgiana’s massive inheritance, he’d moved the bulk of his father’s liquid assets into it. After all those transfers, there is still …” She could feel the blush rise to her cheeks. “One hundred and eighty-two million in the account.”
“Shit. I didn’t realize.”
“Neither did I, but there is something else. When I went to the safety deposit box at the bank to get my necklace and the cash Fitzwilliam had placed there in the event of an emergency—I found a bunch of passports. I’m assuming they’re from his days with Obsidian?”
She reached into her handbag and withdrew the satellite phone and a rubber-banded stack. “I wasn’t sure what to do with all these, and … here … I don’t need Obsidian’s phone any longer, I guess.”
Nodding he took everything from her. “Thank you. I’ll hand these off to Charlie, since he’s our cobbler. Fabricating and legitimizing our cover identities has been a fun hobby for him. Of course, they’ll have to be destroyed and removed from the various international government agencies who issue passports as well as custom and visa databases.”
“You have access to that?”
He just smiled.
“The top passport is female,” she added, tapping her knee. “A pretty brunette.”
“Some of these are Steele’s passports. She and Darcy coordinated on a lot of jobs, acting as husband and wife.”
“Oh.” He did the same with Caroline, too. She was glad she didn’t rummage through the stack. It only would have upset her further.
Rick stood and, as she surmised, he wanted to change the topic to something more lighthearted or end their visit, needing time alone. “Look, I don’t think you should leave the way you came. It’s too traumatic for you. So, I’ll take you out another way, but, I know I don’t need to say it … it’s classified.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll take you to Darcy’s Harley, and we can get something to eat. Although you got this sexy new haircut and look as gorgeous as ever, you can’t hide the fact that you haven’t been eating much.”
“I’m not in the mood to eat anymore, but I can sit with you.”
“Oh, you’ll change your mind when you see the Italian subs this place makes.”
10
Resurrections
Washington, DC
Removing her sunglasses to get a better look, Claudia bent over the wooden bench outside Bingley Dance School then rested one hand on the heavily tinted window attempting to peer inside. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see anything; the vertical blinds were still drawn before opening for business. She’d been following the Darcy widow from as soon as she magically reappeared in Washington after the husband’s funeral. The woman had one top-notch security team at the cemetery, and, following a memorial lunch at some hoity-toity mansion, vanished in the large crowd. Of course, she’d not told that to el jefe. As far as he knew, Mrs. Darcy has been under her radar for the last two weeks, not one.
Imagine her surprise when the woman’s phone GPS came back online, and she was able to track her to The St. Regis hotel. So far, nothing appeared unusual in her behavior or contacts. That brute always accompanied her though: to a lawyer, to some bike shop in Alexandria, dinners out. Mostly, though, the grieving widow didn’t leave her suite, and there was no sign of the supposed dead husband, but this Iceman had fooled Diablo once already by faking her death. If he were alive, he’d have shown at the hotel and she’d have seen it since she’d installed herself in the room next door only hours after Mrs. Darcy’s surprising arrival back in town.
Cash was king and so was a little flirting with the reception clerk. After all, what man could resist a supposed foreign dignitary from Peru, cleaned up and wearing a designer suit that clung to her curves and three crisp one-hundred dollar bills slipped in behind his pocket square?
But today, like the last six, she was back to wearing black shorts and a ball cap. Each day, behind dark aviator sunglasses, she’d kept her distance from the woman and her hired thug, but thankfully, he was nowhere to be found this morning.
“They’re closed, Miss,” someone said from behind her.
Startled, she looked up into the reflection of the glass at the bearded face of the “hired thug” and his sinister smirk. His beefy stature and towering height was no match for her unarmed five-foot-one frame, so she played innocent. Turning to face him, she definitely felt small and intimidated without a weapon other than her cute looks and disarming accent, and for the first time all her cocky confidence had disappeared.
“I hear that this establishment has good Salsa classes,” she lied.
“I heard the same. Did you also hear that the St. Regis has comfy pillows?”
“I do not know what you say.”
“Sure, you do. Did you also read about Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s funeral in the newspaper?”
“I do not know that person, señor?”
“Hmm, and how did you like them blue crabs at Joe’s?”
He stepped closer and she dropped her bottom onto the bench, her pulse racing, pounding in the artery at her neck. He bent closer to her ear, but she knew better than to touch or bite him. The cold, hard steel in his voice told her that he’d kill her even with busy traffic behind him. He was very much like Diablo.
“I’ve been watching you watching us for a week now,” he whispered, his muscular body blocking the view from the street of potential witnesses.
“That is not true. You have me confused with someone else. I just want dance lesson.”
“Don’t they teach you in spy school that tattoos’ll give you away? That’s a mighty fine looking Incan sun on your calf. You were at the funeral and, coincidentally, enjoy the luxury room beside our suite, and lookee, here you are once again.
“It is a coincidence.”
“I have a lesson for you—you’re no match for me or her. Leave. Go back to where you came from little girl.”
“I am on holiday.” Damn, her voice trembled.
“Sure you are. Now, you’re not gonna make me show my Mr. Hyde are you? I like Mr. Hyde, but he hasn’t come out to play in a very, very long time. Today might be the day.”
“I … I do not know this man either.”
“If you go, I won’t kill you. If you stay …”
Now her hand trembled and the fake smile left her face. “There is nothing you will do,” she finally admitted with absolute false bravado because her insides where trembling. “I … he will kill you both when I tell him.”
The man laughed mockingly. “He failed once already.”
As he slid the smartphone from her death grip, he spoke with a measured calmness that only diabolical confidence could convey, “And, he’ll have to find us first,” then shattered the phone under his boot in a hammering stomp. Laughing again, he took her off guard when, in one swift move, he shoved a large, strong hand onto the base of her throat
and squeezed—the other gripped both her flailing hands.
Impaled to the back of the bench, she was unable to move, and the tight choke made her gasp and inhale. The wood slats dug into her boney spinal column.
Those eyes. His evil gaze burned into hers, and his lips curled menacingly.
“What is his name?” he demanded.
She couldn’t speak.
“Is it Morales?”
She tried to nod but her neck couldn’t move—nor her lips, but the fear in her eyes must have given away the answer.
He smirked then bent again, pretending to kiss her for any curious onlookers and whispered. “Disappear, señorita, because if you don’t, I will torture you, killing you slowly if you mess with Mrs. D. Do you understand me?”
She nodded.
“Feel this hand …” he taunted, squeezing tighter. “It’s my weapon of choice. Hers are knives and she will cut you open without a conscience.”
Never—ever—had she felt such fear. He laughed and let go of her neck and fists, flashing open his hands with spread fingers.
She peed on the bench.
“I’ll be watching you; don’t be watching us,” he said before crossing the street through on-coming traffic.
Coughing wildly, she thought I won’t be here for you to do so!
***
Virginia
Thomas always enjoyed Lizzy’s greenhouse and today, as he sat within writing computer code on his first-generation laptop, his thoughts meandered to his daughter’s diamond and ruby snake necklace. It truly was a stunning piece and he could understand why it had so much meaning to both of them. The tattoo on his son-in-law’s forearm had attested to his interest in snakes and, as a little girl, his once-Tomboy had an attraction with reptiles of all kinds. But the necklace was so much more than a fascination for either of them and, truth told, he couldn’t help but to admire Darcy’s ingenuity—as mad as blazes as he was with him. Now back in her possession, it was a tangible piece of their commitment.
All around him, his little girl’s magical touch remained in this hothouse. As green a thumb as he had, he hadn’t been able to save all her orchids; she had possessed something special, a patient nurturing that filled this glass abode with life and love. It was a sanctuary. He sure did miss her, and not because she took care of him for all those years after Frances left, but because she was very special. His heart broke for her unnecessary pain.
He gazed up from the digit-covered computer screen and gazed out the small panes of glass. His right hand reached out to the well-loved cassette player beside him. The sentimental lamentations of the cello in Schubert’s Serenade (Ständchen) D. 957 lulled him and delighted the flowers, and he sighed … his mind drifting to the second of two near heart attacks in the last five weeks. This one shocked his ticker the day before the funeral.
What a meal! What a night! He thought to himself leaning back in the dining room chair. Why, he hadn’t eaten this good in the last year, not since before Jane was caring for him.
“If I didn’t tell you earlier, I just love what you did to the old place, Tommy,” she cooed.
“Lizzy’s husband arranged for everything. It’s because of him that the histories of seven generations of Longbourn can continue in these hallowed walls.”
“Oh! You didn’t say. Did he loan you money?”
“He gave us money by starting a trust fund for the plantation in the girls’ names. Quite generous of him. I know it’s a little too late to tell him, but for all our disagreements, he was a good man. He sure loved Lizzy, and that’s what’s important.”
“I wish … I could comfort her, or at least accompany you tomorrow to the gravesite service.”
Now was not the time. Some things required easing into. His eyes raked over her petite, rounded figure and his pulse increased slightly. He adored the way she looked, and the way she spoke, that hint of British accent she’d acquired after many years of living in England and those endearing colloquialisms. Her lovely rose scent wafted in the air. And above all, he loved the way she made him feel: alive again and filled with hope, wanting to do everything for her to make her happy and healthy.
Across the table, he took her soft hand. “How do you feel tonight?”
“Better than I’ve felt in months, thanks to you and Doctor Donaldson.”
“Will you let me go with you for your results next week?” She laughed. He loved that, too.
“And what of that ankle bracelet?”
“Ha! If tomorrow goes off without a hitch, then I’ll never leave your side as we go through treatment together.” Her eyes pooled with tears, and so did his.
He told a funny joke to distract her maudlin thought. Although, the memory of the joke was escaping him—but it had made her laugh, and together their laughter was the dessert to the Beef Wellington, professional chef that she was! The energy within the dining room was filled with happiness and promise now that the cloud of depression had lifted from this place. What a laugh she had! What a sassy, loving, handsome, talented—and forgiving—woman!
“Oh! I meant to tell you—this afternoon, I read a fascinating article about the Lady’s Slipper orchid,” he said.
“Such a tragedy that it’s lost now, but at least Lizzy was safe. That’s all that matters, but believe, you me, I had to beg, borrow and—according to the British government—steal to get the clipping. Did she ever figure it out?”
“No. I thought I’d let you tell her when the time was right. They call her Liz now, you know, but she’s still Lizzy to me.”
“She’s a grown married woman now, Tommy. ‘Lizzy’ is for little girls.”
“She’s still my little girl.”
“Are they not both your little girls?”
“You are right, but Lizzy is more like me—and sweet Janie, in many ways is more like her mother.”
“Based on what you’ve told me, she sounds to have all the shortcomings and none of the attributes, but a golden heart all of her own. Are you sure she can’t cook?”
“Ha! I was a skeleton under her care,” he laughed. “Ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were the extent of her proficiency in the kitchen!”
“Well, I’m here now, and you’ll be fed like a king.”
“And I promise to cook for you, when you can’t.”
Rising, he pushed the chair back then rubbed his bloated tummy. “I’ll get that magazine in my library and meet you out back on the verandah, so we can continue this conversation about Janie and her fella.”
“And I’ll bring the peach Schnapps, so we can get tipsy when talking over what to do about Lizzy and the late Mr. Darcy. I’m going to need a drink or two for that conversation.”
“Yes, you will,” he said as he walked from the room.
“How about we change things up with a little Jazz tonight?”
“Change is good.”
Her laughter rang out from down the hall. “You sure are a different man, Tommy!”
“I’m working on it.”
At the closed office door, he turned the knob, opening it into pitch black. With the heavy draperies drawn, the route to the desk would be un-navigable to most eyes, but each piece of furniture within his private refuge had been in the same exact spot for forty years. He walked the familiar path toward the lamp at the corner of his desk.
“Does Liz know that her mother has returned to Longbourn?”
That voice! Shocked, he abruptly halted, his hand flying to his head, and then a pull to the antique lamp cord clinked the light on.
Darcy.
Leaning back in the swivel chair, the dead-man’s feet rested on the corner of Great-grandfather’s desk.
“Oh, my. You’re alive. What have you done, Fitzwilliam?” Quickly, he ran to the door and closed it, turning on his heel to face his son-in-law. “What have you done?” he repeated in a condemning whisper.
“I’m doing what I should have done following Moscow.”
“Do you know what your so-call
ed death has done to her? She’s devastated.” His blood boiled, and he tightened his fists at his sides. Physically striking a man wasn’t his nature but, by God, he’d do so if Darcy stood directly before him and not seated in his favorite chair.
“I do, and I’m broken up by what she must be going through. You think I like causing her pain? You think I want her to feel as I did when I thought I lost her that day in Pemberley? But this decision was my only recourse.”
“I don’t know or care what you feel. My daughter is my only concern.”
“That would be a first. Look, Bennet, have some faith in Liz. She’s a brilliant woman and when her head clears, she’ll figure it out. When she does, she’ll understand what I had to do to keep her safe. Good God—I left her enough clues.”
“You hope she’ll understand?! And get your feet off my great-grandfather’s desk!”
His son-in-law stood; the man was a mess: overgrown hair, whiskered beard, clothing no better than a street vagrant. He was tired and pained, evident by the deep scowl and dark rings below his eyes. Further, by the tone in his voice, he was hoping—probably praying—that Lizzy would refuse to believe he was dead.
“Don’t think me selfish in all this,” Darcy thundered. “She—along with everyone else—needed to believe me dead. Do you honestly think that my enemy—the man who runs an international empire of drugs and weapons trafficking—wouldn’t consider my death a ruse? Pure emotions don’t lie, and Liz wouldn’t be able to pull off acting the part of a grieving widow.”
“Sit down, Fitzwilliam,” he said, walking to the chair nearest the bookshelves. “I have a good mind to punch you in the face.”
Darcy snorted a laugh.
“I’m serious. This decision you’ve made without consulting her will be the end of you both. She’s heartbroken. Janie tells me that she’s not eating; she cries non-stop, day in and day out. How could you want her to feel such despair? You’re supposed to love her! Not abuse her, and certainly not break her heart.”
In Good Conscience Page 15