Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  She allowed a small smile. “Then it appears Mrs. Hamilton will have to come here.”

  “She knows the house is being used for this operation— we got her permission to avoid having to get a court order. But she doesn’t know that you’re part of it. You’d be willing to risk compromising your safety just to get some answers about your past?” he asked scornfully, studying her with his cold blue gaze.

  She laughed, truly amused for the first time in days. “Mr. Robinette, everything I’ve done with you people has been just to get some answers about my past.” She paused, and the mirth disappeared. “I want to meet with Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Fine. Have your boyfriend bring her here. Risk everything.” He made an impatient gesture as he started for the stairs. “You know, you’re not the most cooperative cooperating witness I’ve ever worked with.”

  “I’m not the least, either,” she said with a faint smile as she fished her cell phone from her pocket.

  Tony answered on the first ring. Just the sound of his simple hello went a long way toward easing the tension humming through her. “My guest is gone,” she said in place of a greeting. “You can deliver Mrs. Hamilton whenever you’re ready.”

  “You sound anxious to see her.”

  “Nah.” Her voice softened as she smiled. “I’m anxious to see you.”

  “Me, too, babe. Where are we going to meet?”

  “Here at the estate.”

  There was a long silence. “The FBI agreed to that?”

  “Not happily, but yes.”

  “Okay. We’ll be there soon, babe. Love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she murmured.

  After returning the phone to her pocket, she went to her room to touch up her makeup, then refresh her cologne. She was anxious, she realized as she studied herself in the mirror. Mrs. Hamilton was William’s closest relative. She could have been as much an aunt to Selena as he’d been an uncle; she could have been family . . . if he’d given them the chance. If he hadn’t kept Selena secret.

  Now, because of that secrecy, the woman probably resented Selena for being a part of her brother’s life that he’d kept from her. She probably blamed Selena.

  Her smile was faint, her eyes too shadowed and wide for it to be convincing. If Kathryn Hamilton resented and blamed her, she wouldn’t be the first. If she wanted nothing further to do with her, that wouldn’t be anything new, either. She was used to that.

  Sick of it, but used to it.

  15

  The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed four times, quiet bongs that reverberated through the cavernous space. Jamieson, still in the ballroom, paused in his work to listen to its faint echoes, remembering an ugly old clock his mother had once had. Shaped like a birdhouse, it had chimed the hours, too, as a tiny bluebird popped out of its hole. It had sounded tinny and cheap, because it was tinny and cheap, but it had been one of her treasures.

  How far he’d come from that shabby house and that shabby life . . . and how far he had to fall. That was one of the advantages of being dirt-poor. You didn’t know anything better, and if things got worse, hell, you couldn’t get much poorer. But now he had so much to lose—his wife, his kids, his house, his pride, his dignity.

  He couldn’t lose.

  But he was so damn close to total defeat. Damon Long knew what he’d done. All he had to do was tell Selena, and Robinette would have the Bureau’s top financial crimes people going through Davis’s and Yates’s records with a finetooth comb. A damned murderer was walking around free, and Jamieson, who’d done nothing more than try to take care of his family, would be locked away for years.

  His hand trembled, making the cursor move jerkily across the computer screen. He was having trouble breathing. His chest hurt and his gut knotted. If he was a lucky man, he would have a heart attack and die. Jen would still find out what a failure he was, what a disappointment, but she would get over it. And the kids—

  He tried to take a breath, but wheezed instead. When a hand thumped him on the back, he jerked away, first startled, then sickened to see Long.

  “You ought to see a doctor about that,” Long said as he pulled a chair closer and sat down. “It doesn’t sound good.”

  “What do you want?” Jamieson’s voice came out soft, quavery, even though there was no one around to hear. Robinette intended to stay downstairs until Selena’s meeting with Mrs. Hamilton and Detective Ceola was over, and Gentry was fiddling with her surveillance equipment in a second-floor bedroom. That left him to watch over Long.

  “Oh . . . a million would be a good start.”

  Jamieson stared at him, uncomprehending. “A million . . . dollars?” Now his voice was squeaky. “You want a million dollars? Where am I supposed to get that?”

  “The magic world of online banking.” Long tapped the computer with one knuckle. “Take half of it from William’s accounts and half from Sonny’s. Might as well screw ’em both.”

  “But—you’ve got to be—I can’t—”

  “Afford to piss me off.” All humor was gone from Long’s voice, and the look in his eyes . . . This was the real Damon Long, the one who had committed so many murders that even he couldn’t put a number to them. The psychopath who didn’t give a damn about any life but his own. “You’ve got the computer. You’ve got the access. Transfer a million dollars into this account.” Picking up a pen, he scrawled the information on the legal pad next to the computer, then sat back, one ankle crossed over the other knee, looking relaxed and normal.

  Jamieson sat there. He was scared spitless. He couldn’t even move. Dear God, if he stole a million dollars for this killer, he’d be no better than a common criminal.

  He risked a look at Long. And if he didn’t, he’d be better off dead.

  “You got a wife? Kids?”

  He couldn’t answer.

  “Women like expensive things, don’t they? And kids . . . gotta wear the right clothes, hang out at the right places, own all the latest technology. Costly little fuckers.”

  Jen and the kids weren’t the problem. He was. He wasn’t smart enough, successful enough, savvy enough. All he needed was a hand, a little help to get out of this hole he’d found himself in, then he could make it on his own.

  Could he trust Damon Long to offer that hand? Maybe. Maybe not. But he could trust Long to destroy him if he refused.

  “Come on, man. Get moving before one of your bosses comes back and you have to explain what you’re doing.” Long’s voice turned steely. “Transfer the money. While you’re at it, take a hundred grand for yourself.”

  A hundred thousand dollars. That would be enough to get him out of that hole. He’d planned to take that, plus another fifty thousand for a safety net, and not one penny more. And all he had to do to get it was fulfill Long’s request. A onetime transfer.

  It would save his life.

  He took a breath, curled his fingers around the mouse, and began clicking.

  Long opened one of those damned motorcycle magazines he was never without and began flipping through the pages. “By the way,” he said idly, “while you’re at it . . . leave a trail that leads back to Selena.”

  Confused, Kathryn parked near the end of the steps, then joined Tony. “I don’t understand . . . why are we here?” Here was home, the family mansion where she’d grown up, where apparently Henry had grown away.

  She’d told Jefferson that there weren’t any bad memories for her there, but as she gazed at Tony, all she could see was the I-love-me wall in Henry’s bedroom, with that photograph of his “niece.” All she could think was how he’d betrayed her. Lied to her. How he continued to threaten her.

  Tony took her arm and politely urged her to climb the steps with him. “Selena is staying here temporarily.”

  “But . . . how can that be? I knew nothing about this. I didn’t give permission to her, only to the FBI—” Her breath caught. “She’s part of Henry’s drug business. She’s the associate who’s working with the FBI to destroy it.” />
  “Not in the way you think.”

  She shook her head, dismissing him. Obviously, the girl had influenced Henry, had brought him to his terrible end. Hadn’t he predicted that she would be nothing but trouble before she was even born? How ironic—how fitting—that the girl had brought the trouble Henry had predicted to him instead of Kathryn.

  Though Kathryn was getting her share of it—along with her share of reassurance. She wasn’t responsible for what had happened to Henry. She bore no blame. It was all his fault, and the girl’s. Selena’s.

  Tony stopped at the door and reached for the bell, but hesitated. “Selena is helping the FBI, but she’s not involved in the way you think. She was never a part of the business, though Henry had always intended for her to be. He’d made no secret of the fact that he wanted her to take over when he retired. That’s why she’s been able to step in now and work with the FBI. But she’s not a drug dealer. She’s not a criminal at all.”

  She had wormed her way into Henry’s life, then she’d helped destroy him. In Kathryn’s opinion, that was as criminal as behavior could get.

  “Are you ready?”

  She looked at Tony, then the door. Would she ever be truly ready to come face-to-face with the girl who’d haunted her for twenty-eight years? The answer was a swift and vehement no. But she had to know what Selena knew. Her future, her peace of mind, her very life, depended on it.

  Not trusting her voice to work, she nodded, and he rang the bell. She concentrated on breathing, forcing thick, damp air into her lungs, letting it out slowly. She was a Daniels by birth, a Hamilton by marriage. She could stand up to Selena McCaffrey.

  She expected a servant to answer the bell—servants had always answered the bell in this house—so she wasn’t prepared to see the girl standing there when the door opened. Wasn’t prepared for the renewed shock of seeing her familiar features. For the rush of panic and fear and loathing. Pure, icy loathing for this bastard black girl who dared to take up residence in the Daniels family home, to destroy Henry’s life. Who dared even to exist.

  “Kathryn Hamilton, Selena McCaffrey,” Tony said, then stepped aside so Kathryn could enter her own family home the way a mere guest would.

  “Mrs. Hamilton,” Selena said, her voice quiet, her accent faint and exotic. She’d been raised in Puerto Rico and Jamaica, according to Tony, though how she’d gotten there was anybody’s guess. No, not a guess, Kathryn amended. Henry knew. She really was very lovely, naturally. She was elegant and poised, qualities paid for by Daniels family money. She was exquisite. And Kathryn loathed her.

  Selena didn’t offer her hand. Bad manners? Or instinctive understanding that Kathryn didn’t want to touch her? “Come in, please, and we’ll talk.”

  Nudged by Tony, Kathryn forced her feet to move, to cross the threshold and follow Selena through the double doorway across from the library. The room was a deliberate choice; the girl was well aware that white-on-white wasn’t the best backdrop for Kathryn’s pale blond hair, fair skin, or ice-blue suit. With her own black hair, café-au-lait skin, and vividly colored clothing, though, it was the perfect stage for her.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Playing hostess in Kathryn’s own home, as if she belonged there. As if she could ever belong there. But Kathryn tamped down her outrage and fixed a polite smile on her face. “No, thank you.” She took a seat on a white sofa, then smoothed her hand over a gold brocade pillow.

  Tony chose a position near the fireplace, while Selena sat on the opposite sofa, a tropical creature in full Technicolor glory. It was so very easy to see what had attracted Henry to her—such beauty, such potential, such familiarity. Had he given even one thought to his sister before he’d taken the girl in? Had he cared one bit what Kathryn would think, how she would feel, if she found out? Of course, he’d never intended her to find out . . . but the answer was still no. Henry had cared for Henry, and the hell with everyone else.

  Seconds ticked past, each one urging Kathryn to speak, say something, ask something, though the one thing that came immediately to mind— Why aren’t you dead?—was hardly appropriate. Remember who you are, she exhorted herself. Remember what she is.

  “I appreciate your seeing me.” Good. She sounded calm, rational, polite. “I confess to being totally surprised when I was told about you. I had no idea . . .”

  “Most people didn’t. William liked to keep his secrets.”

  “William—is that what you called him?”

  Selena nodded. “I didn’t know his real name until a few weeks ago.”

  His real name. According to the FBI, Selena McCaffrey was hardly her real name. Did she even know the name she’d been given at birth? Kathryn did—and she intended to take it to her grave with her.

  “You’re very lovely. I see why my brother was attracted to you.”

  “It was never like that,” Selena said stiffly. “He called me his niece, and he treated me as such.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean . . . You understand, this has all been such a shock. I apologize if I implied . . .” Kathryn clasped, then unclasped, her hands, causing the diamonds on three fingers to flash in the sunlight coming through the west windows. “I have to admit, I’m curious about why he chose to claim you as his niece. Why not simply say he was your guardian? Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

  “Perhaps. There was always the inevitable curiosity about how this very white man came to have a biracial niece. Of course, Willia—Henry being Henry, people rarely voiced that curiosity to him.” Selena smoothed the silk of her skirt over one thigh, the first movement she’d made since sitting down. She was very contained, very composed. “For whatever reason, claiming a familial connection suited him. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he was looking for an heir for what he called his family business.”

  He’d certainly had a thing about family, Kathryn thought. Blood was blood; heritage was important; legacies and fortunes stayed within the family. That was why he’d ignored Jefferson. But to take in Selena . . . “He had heirs,” she pointed out, working to keep her voice calm. “His real family. Me and my son, Jefferson.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t think either of you would be interested in inheriting certain portions of his estate.”

  Kathryn raised one hand to her chest and tilted her head to gaze at the painting above the fireplace, a cool, wintry scene of gray skies and snow. “You’re talking about his drug business. That would have broken Grandmama and Grandpapa’s hearts, and our parents . . . ! They would be so ashamed. God help me, I’m glad they’re dead so they can’t know what he’s done.”

  After a moment, she closed her eyes, drew a breath, then faced Selena again. “How did you happen to meet Henry? Tony tells me he saved your life.”

  Selena nodded. She folded her hands together in her lap, glanced at Tony, then squared her shoulders. “I lived in Ocho Rios at the time. One night a man assaulted me. He was attempting to rape me when Henry stopped him.”

  “What did he do?”

  Again she hesitated, again looking at Tony. “He killed the man.”

  Her brother had killed for this girl. That must have been when he’d developed a taste for murder, for criminal activity. The knowledge brought Kathryn relief beyond measure. That put the blame for everything he’d done since then squarely on Selena. Not Kathryn.

  “So he rescued you and you . . . went to live with him? Just like that? What about—” Dragging air into her lungs, Kathryn forced her hands to lie flat, commanded the queasiness in her belly to contain itself, and focused on keeping her voice steady. “What about your parents? What were they thinking, letting their daughter go off to live with a strange man?”

  Selena shrugged with a carelessness she couldn’t quite pull off. “My mother—or, at least, the woman I knew as my mother—was no longer a part of my life. As for my father, I never even knew his name. In fact, I was hoping to ask you a few questions about them.”

  “I don’t know what I could
possibly tell you, but go ahead and ask, please.”

  “Were you familiar with any of Henry’s friends?”

  “In high school and college, when they spent much of their free time here. After that . . . we lived different lives in different states.”

  “Were any of them black?”

  Kathryn’s answer came quickly. “Oh, no. Certainly not.” Then her eyes widened, and she made an apologetic little face. “Not that I—Henry did have black friends over the years, I’m sure—It’s just that . . .” She gave a helpless shrug, drew a breath, and made a show of regaining her composure. “Your father was black?”

  “I always thought so. The woman I thought was my mother was Puerto Rican. But Henry wrote something in his journal that suggests Luisa wasn’t my mother. If that’s the case, my mother could be black, and my father could be anyone. Someone Henry knew or worked with. I’m hoping to learn more from his journals.”

  Kathryn’s smile trembled despite her best efforts. “His journals? Dear heavens, he never gave up that silly habit of keeping a diary? We had more fusses over that when we were growing up. He loved to scribble out all his thoughts, and I loved to ferret out his hiding places and read them to my girl-friends. I thought he’d stopped that when he went away to college.”

  Selena merely shook her head.

  “Well . . . I won’t keep you any longer. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.” Kathryn stood, but raised one hand when Selena started to do the same. “Don’t bother seeing me out. I know the way.” With a nod for Tony, she walked from the room, out the door, and across the porch. She was in her car, seat belt buckled, and backing out of the parking space, before her fixed, tight smile started to quiver.

  Damn Henry’s soul. He’d always thought he was so damn superior, smarter and better than everyone else, and he’d been nothing but a damn fool. Betraying his sister hadn’t been enough. Taking in Selena McCaffrey hadn’t satisfied him. Turning to a life of crime and tarnishing the Daniels name forever hadn’t made him happy. No, he’d also had to put his deeds in writing. He was going to be the ruin of her yet.