by ML Gamble
“So what’s the point, Molly?”
“I think the killing of Paul Buntz was an accident.”
Alec made a noise of disbelief. “Yeah, he accidentally shot Buntz twice in the head and then accidentally dragged his body across ten yards of concrete and accidentally dumped him into the ocean in front of me.”
“Yes. I think that’s pretty much what happened,” Molly replied. “I just can’t understand why he resorted to a cover-up. With all his money, he knew he could hire the best and beat any kind of case about premeditated murder. Why not say, hey, I had a gun for protection, it went off when I dropped it? Why make up that whole story about never meeting Buntz before and Buntz trying to rob him and all?”
“Strewth, woman! Because he’s a psychopath with no conscience, that’s why,” Alec barked. The boat was set on autosteer, but Alec kept his hands on the wheel, wanting to be ready to correct their course if he heard any foghorns or spotted any running lights. “After all, his own damn kid was in the car with him when it happened. Anyone who would set an example like that for a thirteen-year-old kid isn’t real big on morals, if you ask me.”
“His son was in the car?” Molly repeated. She had forgotten that fact, or had never known it. “Did he confirm his dad’s story?”
“To the letter, no pun intended. The kid is deaf and doesn’t speak, but he wrote out a statement that the cops told me matched his dad’s deposition perfectly. Well coached, I think they called it. Protecting the old man’s butt, like any kid would.”
Molly began to shiver and realized that the fog and mist from the ocean had succeeded in drenching her. “I’m going to go below and change and get a little rest, Alec.” Standing next to him, she had the urge to hug him, but his stance implied he was back to not wanting anyone to touch him.
She knew about that kind of pain. It’s what she felt when her father had died last year—without warning—and also how she felt after she had watched Rafe being gunned down.
Knowing Alec needed to withdraw to deal privately with his sorrow, Molly left it at that and hurried down the narrow stairs.
The boat they had commandeered was luxurious and well stocked. She shook out a packet of soup into a cup, added water from the bottled stock on board and put it in the microwave. Throwing a glance above, she retrieved the steaming cup before the timer beeped. She changed out of her wet clothes and curled up on the bed in the vee-berth tucked into the boat’s bow.
As she sipped her soup, she emptied Alicia Chen’s valise. The laptop was fully operational and loaded with software that allowed for faxing and calling up a variety of functions. Molly set it aside and flipped open the cellular phone. There was no number strip inside.
Suddenly she thought of the blond man, his bony hand, the vacant, disengaged look in his eye that told her he could kill her and feel nothing.
Molly went cold and nearly choked on a mouthful of soup. At that moment she remembered watching Alicia Chen making her call to the phone number—202-555-6825—Molly knew she had heard before. Or rather, had read before. On the slip of paper inside the blond attacker’s black leather jacket.
Molly scrambled into the galley, grabbed the jacket and searched the pockets. The slip of paper was creased and a bit damp. But still legible was the number 202-555-6825.
She was right! Hurrying back to the cellular phone, she picked it up and dialed. On the fourth ring, a female voice answered. “Maryland Relay. What number may I dial for you, please?”
“Maryland Relay?” Molly echoed. What was Maryland Relay? “I’m sorry, Operator. This is Ms. Jakes with Pacific Communications Repair. We’ve got some AT&T long-line trunks crossed in the San Diego area and we’re getting your numbers on our RMATS feeds as fiber optic feed. Can you tell me what kind of circuit I’ve called into?”
“What’s your ID number, please?”
So much for intimidating the operator with repairspeak. Quickly Molly rattled off Rafe’s ID and waited. Finally the voice spoke.
“We’re TTY intercept, Ms. Jakes. Our clients are hearing impaired and we type in messages, then verbally pass on the typed responses from our clients. How can I assist you?”
“Oh, you already have, Operator. Thank you.” Molly flipped the phone closed, her heart racing, her stomach a cramped ball.
TTY intercept. For the deaf. My God, was Frederick Brooker a monster so corrupt he would have his own child not only lie for him but pass messages on to a hired assassin?
But, more importantly, what reason would Alicia Chen have for calling that boy?
Molly put the phone down slowly and took everything else out of the valise. There was a burgundy Gucci notebook, a newspaper folded inside. A leather case with a gold zipper, four keys on a ring inside. A small package of tissues. A gold tube of red, red lipstick. A thin wallet with the initials AAC emblazoned in gold.
Molly opened it, knowing a woman’s wallet usually offered a very intimate peek into her life. The clues were varied. Six hundred-dollar bills and four twenties, all crisp and new. An ATM receipt from Alicia’s bank. Two quarters. A California driver’s license, a gold credit card, a hospital ID for Summer Point General and a temporary visitor’s pass for the city jail stamped “3 Day” were, one to a slot, lined up like trophies on a shelf.
Exasperated, Molly stuffed the items inside. When she tried to close the wallet, she realized she hadn’t shoved the money in neatly enough, so she took it out and tried again. Then she noticed the secret compartment. Tucked under the lining of the currency fold was a flap, which flipped up.
Behind the flap was a picture, a small black-and-white photograph. It was of a handsome young man, intently operating a remote-control box while a toy car sat waiting at his feet. In the background, smiling down at him, stood Alicia Chen. With a shaking hand, Molly turned it over. Written in a smooth, lovely stroke were the words “Erik Chen Brooker—my son—age 8, Summer Vacation, Catalina Island.”
“Alec!” Molly called out, too stunned to move.
* * *
ALEC WAS AS FLABBERGASTED as Molly at the revelation that Alicia Chen was the mother of Frederick Brooker’s son.
“When my dad and her mom were married, I remember him telling me she and Alicia didn’t speak for two years. Her mom would never tell my old man what the beef was. But it must have been over the marriage.”
“Didn’t you say Alicia’s mother lived in the East?” Molly asked. “I think Erik Brooker goes to school there. Maybe she cares for him.” She stared at the youngster’s picture. “Such a handsome child. If Alicia knew what Brooker had done—getting Erik to lie for him—that might have been enough to make her want to do away with him. Maybe she was going to try to get you to do that for her.”
For a moment, Alec and Molly stared at one another. “You mean you think Alicia was trying to brainwash me to kill Brooker before the trial?”
Molly’s face mirrored her confusion. “I don’t know, Alec. I know she hated the man. What doesn’t make sense is how she could have expected you to pull that off. Brooker’s in jail. And in the courtroom, he’s going to have ten armed guards within striking distance at all times!”
“Someone did try to kill him in jail already,” Alec replied. “Maybe Alicia hired someone to do that deed. But nothing we’ve found out about her tonight can convince me she wanted me to kill someone, or that she would have gone along with Brooker’s plan to screw around with my head.”
“There has to be some connection, though,” Molly argued. “But I think you’re right. Brooker wants you to take someone else out, so he has you brainwashed. I just don’t know who.” As soon as she said the words, goose bumps skittered down her arms.
She met Alec’s eyes. They were bloodshot and bright. The dark circles under them looked as if they were drawn on with markers, they were so vivid.
Unable to keep from touching him, Molly reached out a hand to his face. He was cool, his beard stubbly. Alec turned his mouth to her fingers and kissed her. A moment later they were deep in an embrace as passi
onate as it was unexpected.
Breaking away gently from her mouth, he looked into her eyes. “You’re a brave girl, Molly Jakes. You got me back on my feet without a peep. I feel like an albatross around your neck.”
“Please don’t say that, Alec. We’re in this mess together, or haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ve noticed.” Alec allowed himself to drink in Molly’s warmth and softness for a minute more, before forcing himself to set her free from his embrace. “I best be getting up on deck. I don’t want to be surprised by a bump in the night out on this much ocean.” He nodded at the clock on the wall beside Molly. “It’ll be dawn soon enough. Why don’t you get some sleep? We’re going to be out in the open when we leave the boat and try to get to your friend’s place. You’re going to have to be quick on your feet.”
Molly smiled. “I found some black hair dye down below. I was thinking it was time to do something about disguising your down-under thatch of hair.”
“Whoa now, gal.” Alec held his hands palm down. “That’s what my hat is for. No one will recognize me.”
Molly handed Alec the folded copy of the newspaper she had found stuck in Alicia’s valise. “Yeah? Take a look.”
Alec stared at it for a long minute, then threw it down in disgust. “I see what you mean.” Suddenly all the strength seemed to leave his body and he sagged to the mattress beside her. “You know, love, it may be time to give this up. If we go to the coppers, tell the whole story, they’ll have to believe us. This is too damn weird for anyone to have made up.”
Molly’s pulse was pounding in her ears. While she had plans to do some sleuthing once they got to Sara’s, what Alec said made more sense. They just had to be sure they stayed out of the grip of one cop in particular—Lieutenant Cortez.
Molly felt certain that he was responsible for Alicia Chen’s death last night. His career was over, meaning he had nothing to lose. “I can call Sylvester Rojas from Sara’s in the morning. And an attorney. We’re going to need one.” She stopped and put her hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure, Alec?”
“I think I am, Molly girl.” He slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “Look, you nap for a bit. I’ll get us closer to the harbor, then let you steer her in while I put that—” he stopped and gripped “—that junk on my hair. Think you can take her in by yourself? We’ll dock her at one of the temporary tie-ups near the Excelsior Hotel and get to your mate’s house somehow.”
“Turns the same way as a car, right?”
“Right.” He pushed her gently and watched as she fell onto the mattress. “Now sleep,” he ordered, his voice gruff with a sudden aching to lie down beside her.
Molly watched Alec walk away. She wanted more than anything she could think of for Alec Steele to lie down beside her and hold her. But she knew they had no time for that, or for anything else but surviving.
Glancing up at the light, Molly thought about turning it off, but before her fatigued brain could give her hand the message, she was fast asleep.
* * *
FREDERICK BROOKER WAS quite alarmed to be summoned to interview room number one at 9:30 a.m. It was Sunday, and the interview rooms were generally closed to inmates on Sundays. The only thing that could warrant such a summons was an emergency.
The guard removed Brooker’s handcuffs, careful not to knock the gauze bandages off, and opened the door.
“What’s wrong, Mason? Is it Erik?” Brooker demanded.
Mason Weil raised his hand as if to calm Brooker, then dropped it to his side. “Your son is fine, Mr. Brooker. He arrived on the flight from Baltimore last night. He and his grandmother are at the Excelsior.” Mason put a piece of paper on the table for the guard’s inspection.
The burly redhead looked it over, then nodded for Brooker to pick it up. “Dear Father,” the note began in the perfect typing of Erik’s laptop printer.
I am looking forward very much to seeing you. I will be with Oona in the courthouse on Tuesday. I would like to come to visit you, but Mr. Weil said I should not do that. I received my new radio-controlled plane yesterday from Munich. Can we try it out at the Rose Bowl, like you promised, before we leave?
Love, Your son, Erik
Brooker blinked several times in rapid succession and averted his eyes from Mason. Once he regained his composure, he folded the letter and handed it back to the attorney. “Keep that with the others, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Brooker. Now, for the reason I’m here today.” Weil leaned closer and folded his aristocratic hands on the table. “I’m afraid I have some very shocking news, Mr. Brooker. Your ex-wife, Alicia Chen, was reportedly found dead this morning at the lodge you own on Catalina Island.”
“Alicia? Dead?” Brooker took an uncharacteristically ragged breath. “How?”
“Officially, I have no information. Unofficially, she was shot.” Weil pulled on his tie delicately. “Please let me extend my deepest condol—”
“How does this affect the trial?” Brooker interrupted.
Weil was shocked at Brooker’s complete lack of grief, but recovered quickly. “I—I don’t know. But since the judge denied our request for a mistrial yesterday, I think this may buy a couple more postponements, which, as you know, I’ve been pushing for—”
“I don’t want any postponements,” Brooker yelled, slamming his thick-fingered fist onto the wooden surface, forgetting about the blistered flesh. He made no sign admitting pain.
Behind him, the guard crossed his arms over his chest but made no move toward Brooker.
Weil flexed his chin. “Well, you may have to accept one. I’ve other news for you, as well. The FBI picked up a man named Gerald Trent yesterday, in Marina del Rey. An Irish national they’re claiming is a hired hit man. They’ve arrested him for the murder of the two FBI agents found on board the Geisha Empress. Word is they’re playing hardball with him to make him talk or face the death penalty.”
“Talk?” Brooker echoed quietly. “About what?”
“About who paid him to come to town to kidnap and/or kill Alec Steele, to begin with.” Weil leaned farther forward. “I can tell you one thing for sure, Mr. Brooker. The best, the very best deal this guy can hope to cut is to do life in prison with no chance of parole.”
“So why did the FBI call you, Mason? Do they want you to take on Mr. Trent’s case, pro bono?”
“They called me as a courtesy, Mr. Brooker. They’re coming to question you soon, and they wanted me to be available when they show up.”
“I have nothing to say to those men,” Brooker replied. He glanced over at the huge, gunmetal gray clock hanging on the wall.
“I need to try to call my son before noon, Mason. So I’d better get in line now. We prisoners make a lot of calls on Sunday, you know.” Brooker pushed his chair back, scraping the legs against the pitted linoleum floor. “I’ll see you in court Tuesday, then. And if I were you, I wouldn’t wear that tie. It makes you look effeminate.”
The guard pulled open the door, and Brooker walked out, leaving Mason Weil ashen-faced, gripping the letter from Erik.
Chapter Sixteen
Lt. Henry Cortez had nineteen years’ service on the police force, three commendations from three different mayors, and no chance of retiring with a twenty-year pension. A fact he could blame on his affair with Alicia Chen, the beautiful, manipulative psychiatrist who, because he thought it would win her love, he had agreed to help.
When Alicia, three weeks before, had told him of the preposterous plan she had learned her ex-husband was about to carry out and asked for his help, he should have gone to the captain.
But when she’d told him this, Alicia was lying in his arms, naked. Henry Cortez had never been happier—or more scared. Not of helping her “interfere” with Brooker’s plan, but of losing her if he didn’t.
So Cortez hadn’t gone to his captain. And he had watched helplessly as Alicia, riding beside him in the front seat of his van, had fired a gun into a Bronco and killed the man driving. He could
n’t have stopped her, he told himself many times.
But he could have refused to assault Alec Steele with a blackjack when he stood in front of room 19 at the Devil Fish Motel. And he could have refused to carry Steele to the rented sedan—technically, felonious kidnapping, just as he could have refused to let Alicia then inject Steele with some drug and mess with what looked like a vampire’s bite on his neck.
But he had not refused, because he loved Alicia, and he had not refused her request that he follow her when she drove off last night with Molly Jakes.
Cortez knew Alicia had a gun with her. What he didn’t know and couldn’t have known and didn’t want to face now as he stood outside Sara Gillem’s condominium and waited for Molly Jakes and Alec Steele to show, was that he was going to lose Alicia last night.
That in the mud and the fog and the black, starless night, he was going to lose everything.
He had finally found Brooker’s lodge at 3:00 a.m. Inside at 3:05, he saw Alicia lying on the couch, her pale skin glowing like an angel in stone. And just as cold.
Alicia was dead.
Molly Jakes and Alec Steele must have found out what she had done and killed her, then fled Catalina Island, Cortez told himself.
Probably by stealing another boat.
By flashing his badge, he had roused a helicopter pilot. By flashing his .38, he had convinced the guy that “police business” was important enough for him to fly in zero visibility and land on guts.
Operating on nineteen years of experience, deliberately deadening his heart to the unbearable pain inside, Cortez followed his hunch and now found himself in the shadows in front of Sara Gillem’s place. She was Molly Jakes’s most loyal supporter at her office. If the woman and Alec Steele were going to try to come ashore, this would be the place.
The Gillem woman had come down and bought five papers at 7:00 a.m. Cortez glanced at his watch. It was now 8:10. He would give them another hour to show, then he would visit Miss Gillem himself and wait upstairs.
As Cortez settled into the shadows of the parking garage, the sound of footsteps—rubber soles running on concrete—tipped him that someone was approaching. He took another step back and pulled out his gun but left the safety on. No use blowing away a jogger, though it wouldn’t alter his future much now.