“Yes … but something’s not right about her attack,” Quinn said.
Ellie sensed what he meant. “The timing …?”
“Yeah. Why after twenty years, does Dontrell suddenly find Irene today?”
“The day before she planned to give Mr. Falcone the signed statement from Leland Radford.”
Quinn nodded. “Way too convenient.”
“I agree. Where is Radford’s signed statement?”
“The police can’t find it. They’ve searched Irene’s room and every room at The Pines.”
“So now there’s no written signed statement that Radford wanted his child to inherit.”
Quinn nodded.
“What about the nurse that Irene said witnessed Radford sign the statement?”
“She’s with Doctors Without Borders in Borneo, eighty miles from cell phone or Internet service.”
Elle shook her head. “So … now, there’s only your word as to what Irene told you about Radford’s dying statement.”
“That’s right.”
“Welcome to the club, Quinn?”
“What club?”
“The You-Too-Are-A-Target Club.”
He paused. “Good point.”
“Be careful, Quinn.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ellie thought she heard something outside and looked out the window for several seconds, seeing nothing but shadows.
“Ellie … you there?”
She looked around the yard and whispered, “Yeah …”
“You okay?”
She decided to level with him. “I keep flashing back to the attacks.”
“Understandable.”
She said nothing.
“But you also seem frightened about something else. Something now, maybe.”
“I’m hearing things, and overreacting to every sound I hear.”
“Like what …?”
“Like a sound that someone was moving around outside the house a few minutes ago. And then again, just before you called.”
“That’s it! I’m coming over now.”
“No, Quinn, I’m fine. Really. I’ve got the house alarm on. All doors and windows are locked.”
“I’m on the way.”
“Quinn …”
He’d already hung up.
She closed her eyes and felt relieved that he was coming over. Very relieved. She sensed danger, even more so now that Irene had been attacked. She decided to check the house again.
She walked over and reset the house alarm, then made sure the dining room and bedroom windows were all locked. Then she walked to the kitchen and froze. The back door was wide open! She’d locked it earlier.
Was someone in the house? She listened, heard nothing.
Then she realized Celeste may have unlocked it. Sometimes she went outside to walk around her small garden. Ellie quickly locked it, then went back and tried to study, but she was too nervous to focus.
Moments later, she thought she heard something outside. Or was it inside?
She held her breath …
Then a horn honked three times.
Could that be Quinn this soon?
She hurried to the front door, looked out and saw Quinn’s SUV careen into the drive. He jumped out, and hurried up to the front door as she stepped outside.
“You okay?”
“Now I am.”
“I’ll go check things out.”
He hurried around the side of the house, checked the garage, then in back. Seconds later, he came back and looked at her.
“Everything seems fine.”
She felt bad that she’d made him drive over for nothing.
Sarah Barnes walked over from next door. “I heard someone between our houses thirty minutes ago, then nothing for a while, then someone just now. Everything okay over here?”
“I also heard noises out here.”
Sarah looked at her with concern.
“You shouldn’t stay here tonight,” Quinn said.
“It’s okay. The house alarm works fine, and I have Celeste.”
“Not anymore you don’t,” Sarah said. “Celeste will stay with me tonight. You know how she loves staying over. You stay somewhere else tonight.”
Ellie knew they both made sense. “I have a friend I can stay with.”
“You’re looking at him.”
“But, Jennifer – ”
“She’ll have to understand.”
Ellie knew Jennifer would not understand.
THIRTY SEVEN
In Old Louisville, Ellie watched Quinn park in front of a large, charming historic home, The Brandeis House, named after Louis Brandeis, the famous Supreme Court jurist from Louisville.
“Wow – you live in this huge mansion?”
“Just one apartment,” he said.
Ellie loved this old section of town: forty-eight blocks of turn-of-the-century homes near the University of Louisville. Architectural experts said the neighborhood had the largest collection of Victorian homes in the United States.
Most were still in excellent condition, despite a hundred years of Louisville’s wet cold winters and long hot summers. The mansions were originally lived in by whiskey and bourbon barons, Ohio River shipping tycoons, and a few scoundrels. Today, some of their descendants lived there, along with business people, professors, families, and one very lucky law student named Quinn Parker.
He led her inside to a foyer of magnificent, polished auburn mahogany. She loved its full, rich scent.
She stepped into Quinn’s apartment and felt like she’d stepped into the 1920s. The antique furniture, kitchen table, chairs and end tables were old, polished maple. A gold and red Tiffany lamp sat on a side table. Law books stuffed his shelves. On his desk sat family pictures of Quinn with his parents and a girl who looked like the older sister he’d mentioned.
But no photo of Jennifer DuBois.
Probably in his bedroom.
His rent had to cost a fortune.
“Quinn – such luxury!”
“Yeah.”
“Do your parents know you sell drugs?”
“Not yet. Actually, this apartment’s only fifty bucks a month.”
“And I’m Lady Gaga.”
“Fifty bucks! Really. This house belonged to a successful Brandeis Law School grad who bequeathed it to the school with two stipulations. First, that they rent the six apartments to six former U of L football player law students at fifty bucks a month. And second that the law students do ten hours of pro bono work at a free legal clinic each month.”
“Such a deal!”
“Yep.” He led her into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
“We’ve got RC Cola, Nehi Orange drink, and … hillbilly penicillin.”
“Huh?”
“Jack Daniels.”
“Jack sounds medicinal.”
He fixed two whiskeys and they sat in side-by-side wicker chairs facing the window. She plopped down in one chair, he in the other. They clinked their glasses and sipped. The liquid felt like velvet going down.
“So, Miss Ellie, after two vehicle attacks, some thugs driving us off Highway 25, a bullet hitting my TrailBlazer inches from your head, and a bad guy circling your house, how you feeling?”
“Like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive.”
He smiled, then turned serious.
“Ellie …?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re safe with me.”
She knew he meant it. “I always feel safe with you.”
He shrugged. “You know what these attacks mean?”
“Someone believes my DNA will match Mr. Radford’s DNA.”
“Or knows it will.”
“But how can they even know about my DNA test? Only Fletcher Falcone, the nurse, and Irene Whitten the housekeeper knew. And they wanted me to take the test.”
“Maybe one of them mentioned it to the wrong person.”
“Which one?” she said, sipping her whiskey.
He
shrugged. “The Romans had a wise proverb.”
“They had a slew of them.”
“I’m thinking of cui bono ….”
“Who benefits,” she said.
“Yep. And several people benefit from the Radford estate at this time.”
“Like …?”
“Like the managers for Radford’s many corporate divisions. Radford set up six managers. It’s reasonable to assume they fear you might sell off the businesses they manage, or maybe replace them. As a result, they would lose managerial income and lucrative fees. Big money means big fees and big motivation to keep them.”
“You talked to these managers?”
“A few. Darrel Simmons controls Radford’s businesses and manufacturing. Cecil Crawley controls commercial real estate, a printing company, office buildings, shopping malls. Both seemed like stand up guys.”
Ellie nodded.
“I also chatted with Radford’s investment manager, Heinrich De Groot. He controls Radford’s stocks, bonds, and investment portfolios … hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth. He also manages Radford’s 12,000 acres of coal-rich property in southeastern Kentucky.”
Ellie nodded.
“On the phone, these managers seemed like solid businessmen. But who knows? If you inherit the estate, you may sell everything and bingo – they lose fat fees.”
“Doesn’t Fletcher Falcone, as executor, have overall control of the estate assets?”
“He does. But Leland Radford set things up so these six individual managers run their specific areas and report their numbers to Falcone.”
“So if there’s no heir, what happens?”
“Then the executor, Falcone, sells off the estate assets and distribute the proceeds according to Radford’s will and Kentucky probate law. He’ll liquidate all assets, investments, businesses, properties, land holdings, and The Pines estate itself, everything. He and the managers would get more fat fees for doing that. And on top of that, Falcone and the others would get compensation for all other services they’ve been providing. Lots of hours billed. Possibly huge commissions on all assets they sell off.”
“Like the 12,000 acres?”
“Yep.”
Quinn sipped his whiskey. “The question is – how far would any of these managers go to prevent you from inheriting?”
“Someone’s willing to go all the way.” She touched the scab on her cheek.
Quinn nodded. “Your DNA results will resolve everything.”
“If I live long enough to see them.” She heard her voice crack.
Quinn seemed to hear it too. “Ellie, look at me.”
She turned and faced him. He stood up, raised his arms above his head, made enormous bicep muscles. “Tarzan plenty strong. Two-time All-Eight Conference tight end, meaner than a sack of rattlesnakes. I’ll beat the shit out of anyone who tries to hurt you.”
She laughed. “Thanks, Quinn, but then I’d have to worry about you.”
“Me?”
“Sure. I’d worry about your football knee and your two concussions.”
“How do you know about all that?”
“I read. The Louisville Cardinal and the Courier Journal.”
“Ah …”
“And earlier, I saw you take the Vicodin. Is that for the knee?”
He nodded. “Damn thing still hurts at times. But the concussions seem fine now.”
“How’d they happen?”
“Helmet to helmet hits. In the past, opposing players aimed their helmets at ours. The more dings on your helmet, the more macho you were. I got semi-knocked out twice in the last season. Concussions. Doctor told me it was too dangerous to play. But we needed three more wins for the league championship. I played. We got lucky and won. Doc said if I kept playing I could expect memory problems, maybe a stroke, brain damage.”
“Sort of a no brainer, pardon the pun.”
“Yeah. So I turned down an offer to play for the Detroit Lions.”
“Smart move.”
They clicked glasses and sipped more whiskey.
Suddenly, she yawned big. “Sorry …”
Quinn seemed to fight off his own yawn.
“So what now?” she said.
“Sleep.”
“Sounds good.”
He led her down the hallway toward a small bedroom with an attached bathroom.
“The Presidential Suite. Towels, soap, indoor plumbing, all the amenities – except chocolates on your pillow.”
She pictured Quinn lying on her pillow. Stop thinking like that, she told herself. He’s practically married to Jennifer DuBois.
“What time’s your first class tomorrow?” he asked.
“Eight.”
“Wake you at seven?”
“Perfect.”
She smiled and locked on his dark green eyes. She owed him so much. “Again, Quinn, thanks for riding in on your white horse tonight and rescuing this damsel.”
“Happy to ma’am.” He inched closer to her face. He was going to kiss her. She knew it. Her heart raced.
He leaned closer and touched her cheek. “Your scab is healing well.”
“Oh … good.” She smelled his aftershave.
“Sleep well, Ellie. And don’t worry. Six big tough U of L football players live here.”
“That’s what worries me.
“Why?”
“Illegal use of the hands!”
He laughed. “Could happen if your backfield’s in motion.”
Laughing, she turned and walked down to her room, wondering if her backfield was in motion. He headed the other way to his bedroom. She shut the door and closed her eyes. He’d wanted to kiss her. She was sure. But he’d stopped. Why? Only one reason.
Jennifer DuBois … the luckiest girl in Kentucky.
Minutes later, Ellie climbed into bed.
Despite her exhaustion, she had trouble falling asleep. Her mind was on Quinn … and on whether he cared for her. And if he did – was she ready to risk caring for him … maybe even risk loving him?
She had felt the pain of lost love before.
More than once.
THIRTY EIGHT
He mashed his cell phone to his ear and listened to Huntoon Harris’s latest pathetic excuse for not handling Ellie Stuart.
“She’s hard to git at,” Huntoon said.
“An unarmed college girl?”
“She hangs with that big dude, Quinn. All-conference tight end! And them cops is circling her house like flies on shit!”
“Any more excuses?”
“I kin git her!”
“Forget her!” he shouted, his anger boiling over.
“But – ”
“Forget her! She’s described you to the cops. I have other work for you. I’ll call later.”
He slammed the phone down and thought about Huntoon. He’d only hired him because a college friend begged him to. The friend obviously didn’t realize Huntoon could only handle life’s simpler tasks, like applying a baseball bat to a human skull. Thinking was his Achilles heel. If the IRS taxed brains, Huntoon would get a refund.
A few nights ago, the fool nearly murdered the wrong U of L student, a girl named Elle Steward, even though he had the correct name, Ellie Stuart, spelled out on a piece of paper.
His phone rang: He checked Caller ID. A neighbor lady. Probably calling again about her son’s latest DUI. He pushed his Not In button so his secretary would handle it. But ‘DUI’ triggered something – something he should have thought of sooner: a solution to his Ellie Stuart problem.
The solution was Roy Klume.
A couple of years ago he’d represented Klume after the young man got his fourth DUI. The judge planned to give Klume Kentucky’s maximum prison time, plus rehab, plus a five-year driving suspension.
But after I persuaded Klume’s wealthy father to donate ninety thousand dollars to the judge’s reelection campaign, the judge decided that Roy Klume’s DUI was just a nasty antihistamine reaction to his chronic sinusitis, and le
t him walk.
But … I still have proof of Klume’s two-times-over-the-limit blood-alcohol, proof that could destroy the Klume family reputation … proof that will persuade Roy Klume to help us.
And persuading people is one thing Huntoon can do.
THIRTY NINE
Huntoon Harris drove down Old Paris Road toward Lexington. He was still pissed at the boss for yanking him off the Ellie Stuart job. I coulda nailed her with just a little more time.
Tammy Wynette’s Stand by Your Man blasted out of his radio.
How’s come nobody ever stands by me? he wondered. His druggie parents dumped him in a Burger King bathroom when he was six months old. His bitchy ex-wife dumped him just for banging her thirteen-year-old sister who jumped his boner while he was sleeping. What’s a man to do? And in Iraq, his lying lieutenant court-martial him by saying that the towelheads Huntoon shot were innocent! Bullshit!
But life taught him the big bad lesson: Nobody stands by you. You’re alone. You cover your own ass. You do what you have to do. And the sooner you learn it, the better.
But at least the boss gave him this no-brainer job. Huntoon turned down a shady street with magnolia trees and modern office buildings. Moments later, he pulled into the parking lot of a contemporary steel and concrete structure with three stories, massive windows the color of old Coke bottles and a red brick wall in front.
Huntoon cruised down rows of parked cars until he found the only new red Ford Fusion. The license number matched the number his buddy at Motor Vehicle Registrations gave him. The Fusion was Roy Klume’s.
Minutes later, Huntoon watched a reed-thin nerdy-looking guy with scrawny, dishwater blond hair, horn-rims and a stuffed pocket protector walk out the entrance. The nerd was Roy Klume based on his Facebook photo. Four other geeks walked with him, snickering like they were auditioning for Revenge of the Nerds.
Klume walked toward his red Fusion. Huntoon crept ahead and arrived at the Fusion when Klume did.
“Mr. Klume?”
“Yes?” Klume walked over to Huntoon’s passenger window.
“Lookie here!” Huntoon showed him the business end of his .45.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Naw, just me, Roy. But Jesus does want you to git in my car right now. If you don’t, your brains is gonna paint that pretty red Fusion of yours! Unnerstand?”
Roy Klume stared at the gun, frozen, then slowly got in Huntoon’s car.
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