“All right,” she agreed. “How do I pay you?”
“I take personal checks with the proper ID.” Stark laughed again at her stunned silence. “Just kiddin’. Cash. Half up front, half when the job’s done.”
“How do I get this cash to you?”
“You gotta meet with me. Don’t worry—it’ll be in public. The shopping mall or grocery store or something.”
“Why can’t I just mail it?”
“You wanna trust the US mail with twenty-five hundred dollars in cash?”
“I could courier it to your office.”
The amusement left his voice. “And leave a paper trail for the cops? Besides, I don’t do business with people I haven’t met. How do I know you aren’t a cop?”
She gave a haughty sniff as if insulted by the suggestion. Kathryn took the “servant” part of “public servant” very seriously, Henry had sometimes joked. “Very well. When and where do we meet?”
Tony scrawled on a piece of paper, then slid it over in front of Stark. “Promenade Mall, in the food court, at five this afternoon. That’s at Forty-first and—”
“I know where it is. How will I know you?”
“I’ll be wearing a yellow-and-green-striped shirt and an orange Cowboys ball cap. And I’ll know you by the twentyfive-hundred dollars you’ll be waving in my direction.”
“Very well,” she said tersely. “If that’s all—”
“Hey,” Stark interrupted. “What am I supposed to call you?”
The phone line damn near hummed with tension, then the response came in a tone so dark that it made the hairs on Tony’s neck stand on end. “You can call me Amelia.”
Simmons came back in as Stark hung up and Tony and Wesley removed the headphones. “The call was from a pay phone at Utica Square.”
Less than a mile from Tony’s and Selena’s houses on Princeton Court . . . and right across the street from Henry’s hospital room.
“Darnell Garry got there in time. He’s watching her now. Said it was an older woman, blond, pretty, rich. He got pictures. Won’t be any prints on the phone, though. She was holding the receiver with a Kleenex or something.”
Older, blond, pretty, rich—a fair description of Kathryn Hamilton. Not wanting to touch a pay phone receiver sounded like her, too. It seemed passions ran deeper in the Daniels family than anyone had given them credit for.
“Now what?” Stark asked.
“We’ll be back around four,” Tony said. “We’ll get you wired before you go to the meeting.” They would have officers set up in and around the food court, as well. Photographs and audiotape were good evidence, but money changing hands was better. Once that happened, they would arrest her and Selena would be just a little bit safer.
Too bad the rest of her enemies couldn’t be dealt with as easily.
16
Juggling Shopping bags and a Frappuccino, Kathryn claimed a small round table outside Starbucks, sat down, and gave a great sigh of relief. The hard part was over. She’d located the right man, made the request, and given him the information he needed. Now all that was left was paying the money and acting shocked by the news.
Thirty-four years married to Grant had made her quite an accomplished actress.
The best part was, for the first time in their lives, she would succeed at thwarting Henry. If he ever woke up, she would take great pleasure in telling him what she’d done. And if he died without regaining consciousness? She would know. That would be enough.
As she sipped her frozen drink, she pulled the cell phone from her bag and dialed Jefferson’s number. She hadn’t seen enough of him since he’d arrived in Tulsa—just that visit Tuesday morning at the hospital and dinner the night before. He’d apologized for holing up in his hotel room and working the whole time, but some things just wouldn’t wait for him to return to Florida.
He answered on the second ring. “Hey, baby, it’s your mama,” she said with the big smile that the sound of his voice always brought. He was the brightest light in her life—at that moment, the only light. “What are you doing?”
“Working,” she chimed in at the same time he replied, then went on. “All work and no play, remember.”
He chuckled. “I remember. What are you doing?”
“Enjoying an ice-cold vanilla bean creme before heading back to that dreary hospital.”
“You could head back to Greenhill. Ol’ Henry won’t know or care.”
“But I’d know. A Daniels does not treat family that way.”
This time Jefferson’s response was a snort. “That Daniels has ignored this one all his life.”
“That was his loss, and now he’s paying for it. For once, he’s getting exactly what he deserves.”
“Wow. I’ve never heard you talk like that. What happened?”
She fiddled with the straw, stirring through the whipped cream mounded on top of her drink. “I spoke with Charles Aylesworth yesterday. I don’t believe you’ve met him. He’s an old friend from my school days, and he’s Henry’s attorney. Naturally, I asked him about Henry’s will.”
“And naturally he wouldn’t tell you anything.”
“Not much. But he did suggest that I would be unpleasantly surprised by the bequests.” He had also told her—in strictest confidence, of course—that Henry had ignored Jefferson in death as he had in life. Not so much as one dime to his only close relative besides Kathryn.
No doubt it was Selena McCaffrey’s fault.
“He’s leaving it all to that girl,” she said, feeling her forehead wrinkle into a frown and doing her best to smooth it again. “The Daniels fortune, the Daniels treasures, the Daniels family home, and he’s giving it all to that illegitimate black trash that he called niece.”
All hint of amusement fled Jefferson’s voice. “It’s his money, Mama, and it’s been his home for forty years. He can leave it to whoever he wants. You don’t need the house— your home is in Alabama with Grant—and I certainly don’t want it.”
“It’s not a goddamn matter of needing or wanting!” she snapped, then clamped her hand over her mouth. She never swore in front of Jefferson, never snapped at him. Another thing to blame Henry for. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said immediately, but Jefferson cut her off.
“Don’t apologize. Under the circumstances, you’re entitled to be angry. All these shocks about Henry, and now finding out that he’s probably let the family property pass out of family hands . . .”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You intend to challenge the bastard’s will when he finally kicks off? You know Henry. It will be airtight.”
“You’re right. It will be.” Her fingers curled so tightly around the cup that slush spilled over the top. Scowling, she wiped her fingers with a napkin, then stuffed it inside the cup and sat back. “But she can’t inherit if she’s not . . . around.”
“But she is—” Jefferson’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper, and a note of urgency entered it. “Mama, what have you done?”
She pretended a carelessness she was far from feeling. “I just talked to a man who knows a man who . . .” When the private investigator had asked where she’d gotten his name, she’d told him a half-truth. It had come via her lawyer back home in Alabama, when she’d called him several weeks ago. She’d asked him to refer her to a lawyer in Tulsa—not for her, of course, she’d convincingly explained, but for one of Henry’s nurses who was having problems and was on a limited income. That lawyer had connected her with Mr. Stark, and the rest had been surprisingly easy.
In the beginning, all she’d wanted to know was what Henry’s mysterious “niece” knew. After their visit, she’d learned that Selena already suspected too much and, thanks to Henry’s goddamn journals, would soon know everything.
“You put out a contract on her?”
Jefferson’s shock made her shift uncomfortably in the chair. To shake it off, she stood, gathered her bags in one hand, and started toward the car, talking and walking
. “This isn’t the time or the place to discuss this, sweetie. Why don’t you come to the bed-and-breakfast tonight and—”
“No! And you can’t go back there, either! What if this private detective goes to the cops?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because you’re trying to get him to commit murder, for God’s sake! Did you just call him up and ask him to kill somebody and he agreed right off the bat?”
“No, of course not. He said he had to ask around. He told me to call him back today, and that’s when he agreed.”
“Probably because he went to the cops and was getting you on tape. You didn’t give him your name, did you?”
“Of course not! I didn’t identify myself, and I called from a pay phone. I’m not stupid.”
“Mama, you offered money to a complete stranger to kill someone! That’s not the brightest move you’ve ever made!”
She paused for a delivery van to pass, then crossed the street to her rental car in the Saks lot. “Well, pardon me for not knowing the best way to handle a matter like this,” she said huffily as she opened the trunk and tossed the bags inside.
“Listen, I want you to go to a hotel, check in under a fake name, and pay cash. Stay away from the bed-and-breakfast and the hospital, and for God’s sake, stay away from Selena. Do you understand?”
She got in the car, locked the doors, then pressed her free hand to the ache in her temple. “No, I don’t. This man doesn’t know who I am. Even if he did go to the police, how could they possibly connect it to me?”
Jefferson sighed impatiently. “If he called the cops, they would have recorded the call, and they would have sent someone to the pay phone as soon as they identified it. If you were still there, they took pictures of you, and if you weren’t, they dusted the phone for fingerprints. They’ll play the tape for Selena, who’ll recognize your voice after your visit with her, and they’ll arrest you.” He was silent for a moment, then sounded weary when he spoke again. “Go to a hotel, Mama. Use a fake name. Call me as soon as you get settled—but not on your cell phone. Turn that off and leave it off. Okay?”
“Okay.” The panic building inside Kathryn made her voice small. She had been so proud of herself for handling a difficult task all on her own that she hadn’t considered for a moment that Mr. Stark might betray her. Dear God, what if she was arrested? She would be humiliated, mortified. And Grant . . .
Unable to think about Grant’s reaction, she forced a sorry smile. “You’re a good son, Jefferson, always looking out for your mama.”
“If you watched as much television as I do, you would have known better,” he said, his own amusement as phony as hers.
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you, too. Do what I told you, all right?”
Barnard Taylor was kicked back in his den, a cigar between his fingers, his usual whiskey on the table beside him, and a rerun of Law & Order on the big-screen. When the cell phone rang just as the pretty blond assistant D.A. came on the screen, he swore and muted the sound. “Yeah, what?”
“And good evening to you, too.”
Mystery Man, Barnard thought, flicking the ash from the cigar. He didn’t want to talk to the asshole tonight, and he damn sure didn’t want to talk about Selena McCaffrey. He just wanted to smoke his cigar, drink his whiskey, and enjoy Law & Order. Was that too goddamned much to ask?
“What do you want?” he growled.
“She did it. Made Sonny Yates a partner.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Barnard swore silently.
“Maybe she’s planning to make the same offer to you, or maybe she’s not. Maybe she thinks Yates is more valuable to her than you are. What do you think?”
Goddamn smug punk, hiding behind anonymous phone calls and secret bank transfers. Holding out one hand for money from Selena, and the other for money to betray her. There was something about respect, honor, loyalty . . .
Loyalty. He’d been loyal to William Davis from day one. He’d had plenty of chances to fuck him over, but he hadn’t, because he’d respected the man. He’d owed him.
He didn’t owe Selena McCaffrey a goddamn thing.
The bitch-girl had snubbed him. Had gone and made Sonny fucking Yates a partner without taking care of business with Barnard first. What did he think?
He thought it was time to look out for number one.
“Your guys didn’t have any luck before,” Mystery Man said. “But this is your lucky day, Barney. For the low, low price of two hundred thousand dollars, I can get rid of the biggest headache in your life.”
“I already paid you two hundred fucking thousand.”
“That was for information. This time I’m offering action. Unlike those other men you paid, I’ll succeed.”
Barnard chomped down hard on his cigar. Part of him wanted to reach through the phone and choke the life out of the little weasel, while the business part was trying to stay calm. He was already out a hell of a lot of money, and what did he have to show for it? Nothing but a fucking bad case of heartburn. If he did nothing, that money was wasted, and he hated waste.
“Okay,” he agreed. “But I damn well want results.”
“Like I said, Mr. Taylor, I’ll get it done. I want half up front, then I’ll let you pay the other half when the job’s done.” There was a quiet determination in Mystery Man’s voice, and anticipation as well. He was looking forward to killing Selena, but it was all for the money. Nothing personal, no grudge, just pure old greed. “As always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Pleasure, my ass,” Barnard grumbled as he hung up. He’d sooner kill the bastard than hear his voice one more time.
But if the weasel’s word was good, he would have to talk to him only one more time. Any contact after that . . . he’d be paying someone else to take care of Mystery Man.
Unable to sleep, Selena slid out of bed with a glance at the clock. A few minutes to midnight—the witching hour, her third mother, Dorotea, had often said. In the years she’d lived with the woman, it had usually been prime work time. By midnight, tourists were tired and often drunk—easy marks for an accomplished little thief.
The phrase reminded her of William, and made her look at the night table drawer where the journal was stored. She could curl up and read some more, but frankly, she wasn’t up to learning anything else about herself at the moment. Her head ached, and her chest, her stomach. She felt as if all the tension inside her might coalesce and grow until she exploded into a million pieces.
Instead, she changed into a swimsuit, pulled on a robe, and grabbed a towel, then walked barefooted through the house and onto the patio. The night was hot, still, with lightning arcing across the sky in the distance, promising rain and relief that wouldn’t come, not yet. She dropped the robe at the edge of the pool, then dove in, slicing through the water, luxuriating in it. For as long as she could remember, water had been her refuge. As poor as Luisa and Rodrigo had been, they’d lived only yards from the kind of beautiful beach site that people paid fortunes to call their own. She’d spent countless hours on the sand or in the ocean, avoiding Rodrigo, swimming, shelling, dreaming.
She swam, fast and furious, from one end of the pool to the other and back again, until her muscles were warm and her lungs were tight. Flipping onto her back, she floated for a time, her hair drifting in tendrils about her, her attention drifting, too.
There was no doubt that Kathryn Hamilton was the latest person who wanted her dead. Tony had showed her and Robinette the photographs of the woman on the pay phone, had played the tape of the phone call. However, Kathryn hadn’t shown up for the meeting with Stark. Maybe she’d had second thoughts. Maybe she’d realized the danger of what she’d started and given it up.
Or maybe she’d hired someone else.
It was a disheartening thing, knowing that a virtual stranger wanted her dead. She wasn’t a bad person. She’d never hurt anyone, never taken advantage of anyone. The only thing she was guilty of was trying to
survive. It wasn’t fair that so damn many people had a problem with that.
She smiled thinly at the night-dark sky. Life wasn’t fair, and she’d never made the mistake of thinking it was. Not in all the times she’d gotten hit for merely existing, or all the nights she’d gone to bed hungry, or all the times fear had practically made her heart burst out of her chest. It was a lesson she’d learned young.
A lesson Kathryn Hamilton was now going to learn.
The Renaissance was one of Tulsa’s finest hotels—naturally; Kathryn didn’t settle for less than the best—but in her twenty-four-plus hours there, she’d hardly noticed her surroundings. Mostly she had worried . . . but not about Henry. He could die, for all she cared. He was responsible for this mess she was in; he damn well should pay for it.
She’d watched the television news, but there was nothing about her, Mr. Stark, or Selena McCaffrey. She had flipped through the pages of the World, and found no mention of her. For a moment, she’d felt a great sense of relief, but it had passed quickly. If the police were looking for her, it didn’t seem likely they would advertise that fact in the media.
Several times she had almost succeeded in convincing herself that that was a big if. Mr. Stark didn’t have her name, phone number, or any other identifying information. But then she remembered the previous day’s phone call with Jefferson. Though she still thought it unlikely that the police would be able to connect her to the anonymous phone calls, he adamantly believed otherwise, and he’d fed her doubts.
And so she was in hiding, wearing the same clothes she’d worn the day before, having to make do with the small makeup kit she kept in her purse, feeling unclean and cranky and trapped.
Tired of pacing the room, she sat down at the table where she’d spilled the contents of her purse looking for lip gloss and tweezers. Her cell phone sat in the midst of the pile, turned off as Jefferson had directed. She gazed at it awhile, picking it up, then laying it down again, before finally taking it in hand and turning it on, despite his warning.
The screen showed a dozen missed calls and five messages. With one manicured nail, she pressed the buttons to retrieve the messages and listened to each one in turn.
Deep Cover Page 29