Triumph

by Janet Dailey

  The drive-by still didn’t seem real to Kelly. She barely remembered it, in fact.

  But the armored car Deke had requested did make her feel safer. Despite his protectiveness, he hadn’t moved in with her, but he appeared at the right times to escort her to work and back.

  And he always called . . . right around now. Kelly looked at the clock just before the phone rang.

  “Updates,” he said briskly. “Want to get them over with?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Our fingerprint wizard struck out on the card you got and the photos. But the paper expert at the FBI said the card and envelope stock was unusual and made by hand. He doesn’t have a sample that’s anything like it, and they have about a million samples on file.”

  “Okay,” she said tiredly. “I can’t believe getting that card ever scared me. Nothing does at this point.”

  “That’s not good.” He paused. “Mind if I come over?”

  “No. I’d like to see you,” she said. He’d been on her mind all day, at work and everywhere else. She felt herself flush slightly and pressed her lips together.

  He was at her door in less than half an hour. His dark gaze sparked with a touch of fire when she looked up at him. Kelly stepped backward, not quite ready for what he might be thinking about.

  “Come on in.”

  Deke surveyed the hotel apartment, as if she hadn’t been home for two hours and someone needed to do that. Protective to a fault—but by this point in the investigation, she couldn’t complain.

  There was a laptop tucked under his arm. “Did you download a movie?” she asked teasingly. “I don’t know if I can stay awake that long.”

  “You could call it a movie. It’s a short one.” He went to the couch, shucking his jacket along the way and tossing it over a chair. “Give me five minutes.”

  His tone was businesslike. She would have given him more time than that.

  The laptop was set down on the coffee table as he eased himself onto the couch and opened it, touching a few keys to pull up a surveillance camera video.

  “That looks familiar,” she said, looking over his shoulder. “That’s where Gordon and I were shooting the day we got sideswiped.”

  “It’s Gunther’s building,” he confirmed.

  “They have to have good security with all those rich tenants.”

  “Yes and no. Their system was down that night.”

  Kelly arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Don’t get started. Hux is on it,” Deke said.

  “I hope so.”

  “This footage is from the building next door, which has even more cameras. Their security personnel reviewed the night’s footage at our request and passed it along to us.”

  Kelly was immediately interested. “Is it something that we could broadcast?”

  “Maybe. It’s not that clear. And there’s no sound.”

  She sat down next to him on the couch and peered into the screen. Deke touched the red arrow for Play.

  “This particular camera is programmed to scan an area slowly. So it caught the commotion afterward but not the actual suicide.”

  “Good. Not something I want to see.”

  “The EMTs got there fast. There was a witness, so it was called in right away.” Deke pointed to the screen. “There’s the police, they talk to the EMTs—business as usual. Now look on the street in back of them.”

  Kelly saw a long, dark vehicle in the background drive slowly past the first responders gathered around the crumpled figure on the sidewalk. “Looks like a limo.”

  “Watch.”

  The rear window rolled down and a face appeared for a moment, indistinct and pale.

  “Would you say that was a man or a woman?” Deke asked.

  “Hard to tell. Play it again.” Kelly studied the grainy tape. “A woman,” she said at last. “But I wouldn’t swear to it in court if I had to.”

  “Why is she there?”

  “Deke, what she’s doing is morbid, but that’s human nature.”

  “She came back for a second look.”

  Deke replayed the tape once more and stopped on a frame where the face appeared, a white oval with shadows for eyes. Then he advanced the footage farther ahead.

  “Look again. Everyone’s in a different position. And here comes the same limo again. Just couldn’t get enough, I guess.”

  “I know what you’re getting at,” Kelly said. “But you can’t prove it, and there’s no chance of identifying whoever that was.”

  Deke blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t think I’m the only one who noticed the second go-around. After that the cops cordoned off the street.”

  “Are the limo’s plates ever visible?”

  “No.” He let the tape keep running. It wasn’t high quality and the people on it moved in a herky-jerky way, in and out of focus.

  “Rental limos look alike,” Kelly said. “I’m no expert on the subject, though. Anything distinctive about that one?”

  “Good question. And you’re right about rental limos. I would say this one was privately owned. But without identifying the plates, we don’t have anything.”

  The surveillance camera had swung around to a service area on the side of the building where it was mounted, where there was nothing of interest. Deke paused the video.

  “That’s it.”

  “Interesting. But not conclusive. I don’t think we could use it,” Kelly said. “What’s your next move?”

  Concentrating on the investigation was only semi-effective. Being so close to Deke again was getting to her. They’d had to sit side by side to look into the laptop, their thighs nearly touching. Every time he shifted position, she moved fractionally sideways. It didn’t matter. His body heat reached her. He would have to be across the room for her not to notice it.

  “We didn’t talk to every building manager in the neighborhood. There may be other footage of the limo. A neighborhood like that has plenty of surveillance.”

  “That’s true. And WBRX is going to do more on Gunther Bach’s suicide. Viewers are hooked.”

  Deke looked up at her. “Did any tips ever come in?”

  “No. We didn’t start a hotline. Maybe we should.”

  “I’m for it,” Deke said, raising a hand.

  “It’s getting a tremendous amount of buzz. I think Vanity Fair is looking to do a cover story on the case. Ordinary murders don’t get that much reaction. We run them for a day, maybe two.”

  “Bach was a big deal,” Deke said.

  “We’re still circling around the story.”

  Which was a polite way of saying that Bach’s death was a chance to spin conspiracy theories that didn’t even have to be factual. Or so Monroe Capp had said. Kelly didn’t share everything about her job with Deke, any more than he did with her.

  “I noticed that when I watched your broadcast. A little bit of truth and a lot of speculation.”

  “That’s what keeps them coming back for more,” Kelly said.

  Deke shut down the laptop and closed it. He clasped his hands in front of him, looking up at Kelly standing on the other side of the table.

  “So you still think it’s a good idea to stay with the story? Does it have to be yours?”

  The blunt questions took her aback. “I’m not handing it over to Dave.”

  “Someone wants to kill you. You survived shootouts one and two. Going for three?”

  “Deke—”

  “We need new evidence. It’s not out there or we’re not finding it.”

  Kelly shrugged. “Coral found out something interesting, but I don’t know if it would help,” she said. “She just called from the station. She’s tracked down definitive information that links Gunther Bach to the abandoned building. He owned it outright for a while.”

  Deke was caught off guard for a moment. He didn’t say anything.

  “Now that he’s dead, it may not matter,” Kelly said. “And when he was alive—well, I don’t think that was him in d
rag and a red wig in the car at the shootout. The first shootout,” she corrected herself, her voice brittle. “But I guess he could have ordered someone to stalk me.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “Wait. I haven’t finished. I’m not going to back down or hide.”

  “I’m not saying you have to do either. But you’re putting too much on the line,” Deke insisted. He stood up, as if he was taking command.

  “Such as?”

  “Your life.”

  “Oh right. You told me once that you were my goddamn guardian angel. And I do appreciate everything you’ve done, more than you’ll ever know. But I am sticking with this, Deke. Believe it or not, it keeps me sane. I feel like I’m fighting back.”

  Deke got up, but he didn’t move far from the couch. He stood near it, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans. Stay there, Kelly willed him. It was easier for her to be tough when no one got close.

  “The body count is too high,” he said stubbornly. “We’re getting nowhere and we’ve followed up on every single lead ten times over.”

  “Have you?” She took a deep breath and composed herself. “What about the woman who escaped? Maybe the redhead should be on the list of possible suspects. Why limit it to men?”

  “As far as the woman who disappeared, the search for her is ongoing,” he replied tersely.

  “Hope she doesn’t turn up dead.” She hated the sarcasm in her voice, but the words were out. Deke would just have to deal with it.

  He hesitated before saying more. “I’m not going to speculate. Are you going to air the new information about Bach?”

  “Yes, when we know it’s solid. I haven’t read Coral’s report. She’s still typing up her notes.”

  “I hope she has a bodyguard,” Deke muttered.

  “Apparently she does,” Kelly tossed back. “My guess is that he’s not in your league, though.”

  “You’re missing the point, Kelly. Maybe these guys won’t stop with you.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. The gesture was more self-protective than stubborn. “I wouldn’t put anyone in harm’s way.”

  “Then don’t put yourself there either.”

  “I’m not giving up on the story!”

  She knew her face was flushed with anger. She could barely control it.

  “It doesn’t take much to detonate you, does it? Okay. Have it your way.” Deke turned around and slammed out.

  CHAPTER 17

  Kelly closed the cover on the report. “We’re getting somewhere, Coral. This could have been enough to indict Gunther Bach for financial fraud.”

  The younger woman laughed a little ruefully. “Too bad he’s dead, huh?”

  “From what I know, plenty of people would have loved to make that happen.”

  Coral took a heavy folder from Kelly’s desk. “I got that impression. This holds about a million articles on Atlanta society, including all the scandals.” She put the folder on top of a stack, with her copy of the report on the top and her laptop on the bottom.

  “Monroe wants to continue the series on Bach. Your research is exactly what we need,” Kelly told Coral. “The complete autopsy results haven’t been released. In the meantime, we’ll use a lot of this.”

  “And Fred Chiswick will boil my contribution down to one sentence. If I’m lucky,” Coral complained.

  “You get your name on the credits,” Kelly assured her. “That’s what matters most.”

  The material in the overstuffed folder hadn’t been digitized—the station’s budget shortfall had temporarily halted the switchover. Clippings and photos and press releases bulged out. Inevitably, the folder began to slide and an avalanche of stuff scattered to the floor.

  “Oops!” Coral bent down to collect it all.

  “Let me help.” Kelly gathered handfuls of press releases and put the yellowed newspaper clippings on top, picking out a photo. “Hello. There’s a familiar face.”

  It was a black-and-white snapshot of Natalie and her late husband Harry standing next to Gunther Bach at some charity extravaganza.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Natalie Conrad. Widow of a billionaire, patroness of the arts, and all-around pain in the neck. Possibly a former flame of Gunther Bach.”

  “Oh. Can we work her in to the story?”

  Kelly set aside the photo and put the other collected items back into the folder, then looked under her desk for a box to put it in. “Please don’t. If I never talk to her again, that would suit me just fine.”

  She took two pairs of high heels out of the cardboard box and handed it to Coral. “This should hold everything.”

  The junior reporter got the folder back into some semblance of order and looked at the photo. “She’s very glamorous. When was it taken?”

  “Years ago,” Kelly said. “She still looks good. I’m not sure if she’s had plastic surgery, but it’s safe to say she’s into Botox and collagen. Maybe I can find a more recent picture of her.”

  Kelly looked through the folder again. “Here we go. Holy cow. I was at this party.”

  “Are you in the photo?”

  “Unfortunately.” She handed it over quickly. “Look at what I was wearing. I had to borrow a jacket with monster shoulder pads from June Fletcher. And here it is. It came back to haunt me.”

  Coral laughed and studied Natalie’s face. “I see what you mean about the lip collagen. Too pouty. And too much Botox. Her face looks like a mask.”

  “I guess we all get to that stage eventually,” Kelly said, putting her work space to rights. “You know, wondering if you need a tuck or a full lift, and obsessing over wrinkles. I confess to both. I haven’t had anything done, though.”

  “Don’t. You look great,” Coral insisted.

  Kelly gave her a wry smile. “Required maintenance comes with this job. Sorry if I sounded catty, but you get in the habit of studying other women to figure out how they deal with getting older.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Coral said. “What is that saying? Don’t mess with Texas.”

  “How’d you know I was from Texas?”

  “Word gets around. Listen, thanks again for the chance to research this. If you need anything else, let me know.”

  Kelly nodded.

  Deke walked into the diner where they had agreed to meet. Kelly was waiting for him in a back booth. That resolute attitude he was beginning to know so well showed in her straight posture and squared shoulders.

  Their eyes met, green versus brown. Even from near the door, he saw the faint flicker of uncertainty in hers. Deke smiled. He wasn’t going to revisit the argument and had said as much when she’d finally called him. Other things were more important.

  He still had to protect her, and he was man enough to swallow his pride, along with a decent hamburger.

  Deke slid into the booth across the table from her, setting his laptop on the red vinyl seat.

  “I’m hungry. How about you?” Briskly, she handed him one of the two menus the waitress had left on the table. They exchanged small talk, then ordered and ate.

  When there was nothing left on the table but their coffee cups, Deke opened the laptop. He positioned it with the back to the main area of the diner so that only they could see it.

  “What do you have?” she asked.

  “A lot of new stuff,” Deke replied. “The forensic accountants are dismantling Gunther Bach’s companies and picking through a mountain of spreadsheets and cooked books.”

  “Where did all the money go?”

  “He spent a lot of it. But there should be about a hundred million left when all is said and done.”

  “In cash? Stocks and bonds?”

  “Bach liked to be liquid. He got out of real estate before the market collapse, including unloading the building where the shootout was. Cash instruments and cash are a big chunk of what’s left.”

  “Cash as in real money?”

  “Exactly. It takes up a fair amount of physical space. He had to rent a private vault
to store it all. Anyway, we’re going to use some of it to set up a sting in Dallas.”

  “Oh?”

  Deke grinned. “Hux is handling it. He loves to do things like that. We still have orders to sweep up everyone we can. Our sector chief is angling for a multiple indictment.”

  “I still think you should go after the biggest guy first, but I’m not in charge,” Kelly said.

  “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  Kelly ignored the comment. “So how does the sting work?”

  “The team chemically tagged fifty thousand in bundled bills from Gunther’s stash and hid it inside shiny new washing machines in the back of a truck. We’ll let word leak about the transport. We want the truck to get hijacked and driven to the border. It won’t go across.”

  “How big is the truck?”

  The question seemed to amuse him. “It’s a semi. Won’t fit in a smuggler’s tunnel.”

  “Good visual.”

  “It’s a great trap. The tagged money is the bait, and we can lock the doors of the truck’s cab by remote. Our driver will get out at a truck stop and leave it unguarded.”

  “Let’s assume the hijackers have guns. What’s to keep them from shooting innocent bystanders if they think they have to blast their way out of the truck stop?”

  “We replaced the windshield and side windows with the bulletproof stuff. They won’t want to draw attention to themselves, though.”

  Kelly shook her head, impressed. “Sounds like you thought of everything. But you can’t make anyone steal it.”

  “It’s not that hard, Kelly. Our informants get the word out that a cash shipment is heading southwest. The bad guys take it from there. Greed never made anyone smart.”

  “I don’t know about that. Gunther Bach was.”

  Deke stopped talking when the waitress approached with a coffeepot for refills. They both thanked her and the conversation resumed.

  “I was about to get back to him,” Deke continued. “As of now, all his personal and corporate bank accounts are frozen.”

  “Did the IRS do that?”

  He nodded. “After the fact. Believe it or not, he died without a will.”