Vengeance: An Action-Adventure Novel (A Jon Steadman Thriller Book 3)

by Nellie Neeman

  “How delightful. He’s a lucky man. Is he here with you?”

  “I wish. He’s visiting his parents in Austin. If I can get away for a few days, I hope to go meet them.”

  Terry looked around, stunned at the sight of Netta outside the room walking quickly down the hallway. Terry jumped to her feet. “It was lovely speaking with you, Charlotte, but there’s someone I need to catch up with.”

  Charlotte frowned slightly. “May I give you my card? I’d love to stay in touch.”

  Terry didn’t hear her. She had already grabbed her bag and was running for the door.

  ***

  Terry collapsed onto one of the lobby’s leather chairs. She’d lost Netta. Again. She was sure she’d seen her, but by the time Terry made it out to the hallway, the woman was gone, swallowed up by the throngs of participants being let out of the final lectures of the symposium.

  Terry was messaging Shira, requesting another meeting, when her phone rang. Her mood changed instantly. “Gabe?”

  “Hi, honey. How’s the conference going?”

  “Disappointing.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that.” No follow-up questions. The guy was a saint. He knew she was on assignment for Yosef Kahn, but he somehow managed to keep his curiosity at bay. “Isn’t today the last day?”

  “It is.”

  “When can I see you?” he asked.

  Terry’s heart sang, grateful Gabe missed being together as much as she did. “Actually, I’m working on that. I’ll get back to you later.”

  “If you need incentive, my parents are offering us their vacation home this weekend. If you like it, maybe we can get married there.”

  But I want to get married in Israel. “That’s generous.”

  “Are you okay? You sound funny.”

  “I’m fine. Now that I hear your voice. If I finish up here, the weekend sounds great. Please thank your parents for me.”

  “Will do. Love you, Dr. Lavi. Hang in there.”

  “Love you, too.” Terry hung up glad to have a possible reprieve from her current mission.

  It was time to get out of New York, even for a little while.

  ***

  Los Angeles

  Theodore Davis turned over the non-descript mailer, inspecting it. No return address. It looked like junk mail but in a nicer envelope. And his name was hand-written, not the typical impersonal print. He added it to the mail pile to look at later.

  His wife Nicole had asked him to drive their daughter to Little League practice. He didn’t mind. Was glad to do it. He wanted to coach the team but for that, the time demands were too great. His growing business wasn’t a nine-to-five venture. After years with Big Law, he’d gone out on his own, several of his big-money clients choosing to follow him. For the practice to thrive he needed to give it the TLC it deserved, even on the weekends. His wife was supportive of his good work ethic and looked forward to the fruits of his labor—remodeled kitchen and new flooring. But she also knew he’d regret it if he missed seeing their daughter grow up, and she was right. Their daughter, Lizzy, was a natural athlete. She could out-pitch any boy on the team.

  “Come on Lizzy, let’s go.”

  “Ready Daddy!” He delighted in his nine-year-old’s exuberance, watching as she ran to the door in her red and white uniform, mitt in hand.

  Nicole came to the door to see them off. “Have fun, honey. Break a leg.”

  “What?” Lizzy looked mortified.

  Theodore and Nicole both laughed. Nicole said, “It means good luck.”

  “That’s a weird way of saying it.”

  “I suppose it is.” Nicole kissed her daughter on the head. “See you later.”

  “Bye, Mommy.”

  Theo said, “Me too.” And Nicole kissed her husband as well.

  ***

  Hours later, Theo and Lizzy came home. He heard his wife in the kitchen, then watched her walk toward him, donning a chocolate-stained apron, a bowl of cookie dough in her hands.

  “Theo? How’d the game go?” Nicole asked.

  “They lost but no tears so all in all it was a win.”

  Lizzy came in trailing after her father. “We had them, but then Jason hit a homer and we couldn’t catch up.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. Better luck next time.”

  “Yeah, next time we’ll cream ‘em.”

  “Lunch is ready. Go wash up.”

  Lizzy dropped her mitt on the floor and ran upstairs.

  Theodore bent to pick up his daughter’s mitt, tossing it in the front closet, then followed his wife to the kitchen. “Nic, I need to get some work done.”

  “No problem. I won’t bother you until dinner.” She handed him a plate with mini sandwiches, crust off.

  He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, went into his office and closed the door. He took a seat behind his desk, moving a Lego castle to the floor and turned on his computer. He needed to attend to the last few emails that had come in.

  An hour into his work, he needed a break and took to his mail pile.

  ***

  Los Angeles

  Luanne was reviewing her notes along with those Jon was able to share with her. Among them was his call with Dr. Terry Lavi, a premier geneticist in Israel who had helped the FBI on a recent high-profile case.

  Something nagged at her. Then she saw it. Dr. Lavi had made a point that a hacker capable of obtaining such detailed genetic data would have needed both know-how and sophisticated equipment. How could random people access the equipment necessary to analyze DNA? It occurred to her that it must be a relatively small percentage of the population that had such skill and an even smaller one with access to the required equipment. In her estimation, it would need to be someone entrenched in that world, who had easy access. Perhaps a scientist, someone like Dr. Lavi. Or perhaps academics or lab techs. People who worked in places like Ancestry.com. Luanne felt like she was on to something. And needed to brainstorm. Two heads were always better than one. Even when the other head belonged to the cocky Agent Steadman.

  ***

  Jon called Utah Bank and Trust. They would not provide any information about the transfer of funds without a warrant. He’d known that was likely, but it was worth the try. Having never obtained a warrant, Jon was unsure about the proper protocol. He called Doug. No one answered. He didn’t know what that meant. The man was always available by phone. He left a message.

  In the end, Matthews’s assistant returned his call. A no-nonsense woman in her sixties. She explained the procedure was to call a local judge and obtain the paperwork. She would need a copy for their records.

  “When will Agent Matthews be available to speak?”

  “He’ll be out of the office for the next several days.”

  Jon got a pang. “All okay?”

  “It’s personal. Have a good day, Agent.” She hung up

  Jon looked at the phone. He called Craig. “Any word on Matthews’s wife?”

  Craig instinctively lowered his voice. “She died this morning.”

  Jon felt his stomach drop. “Oh, no.”

  “Yeah, the service is tomorrow afternoon.”

  Jon asked for the details.

  He spent the next hour narrowing down which judge to call and found one in Salt Lake City. Then, he booked a flight back to New York. On his own dime.

  Chapter 27

  Los Angeles

  Theodore couldn’t believe his eyes when he’d pulled out the three photos. He stood quickly and locked his office door. With trembling hands he studied the images. They were closeups of a smiling girl of mixed race in a pink scarf and mittens, seated on a park swing, feet dangling. Her father standing behind her.

  His heart racing, he looked at the envelope again, hoping for some indication of the sender. There was none. Inside, remained a single sheet of paper. It was a printout of sorts. The type was small with lots of numbers. He put on his reading glasses, trying to decipher it. Only when he reached the bottom of the page did he really understan
d. DNA match: 100%. Paternity confirmed.

  It had been fourteen years since he’d seen Abigail in person. The time had flown by. He felt a sadness come over him. So many emotions but mostly sadness. He missed his eldest daughter terribly. She was the spitting image of her mother, dark, flawless skin, fine features. She had a wicked sense of humor. Cheery disposition. The only resemblance to him was in her eyes. Blue just like his. Abigail and her mother, Janelle, had moved to Santa Fe when she was still little. Janelle had taken up art and had found some success there. Theodore sent money from a private account every month. And sent birthday cards every year, the last one for her eighteenth. He knew she was doing well in school, showing an interest in law, just like him.

  From what he could gather, Abigail took a DNA test, possibly looking for details about her lineage, or to find unknown relatives. It made perfect sense for someone who had grown up without family. Janelle’s family had disowned her once she’d become pregnant with a white man’s baby, something her activist father would never tolerate.

  The thing was he had never submitted to a paternity test or ancestry site. Yet, someone had obtained his DNA. But how? Why?

  Abigail was a secret he had managed to keep for eighteen years. A short-lived torrid affair. He’d already been divorced from his first wife and remarried to Nicole. Janelle was a beauty, kind and generous. And forbidden fruit. Her father, a leader of the short-lived resurrected Black Panthers. Theodore had defended the man after a particularly violent protest. And met Janelle in the process. The man had been passionate in his beliefs, though Theodore thought he was living in the past. It was time—in his outsider opinion—for the movement to look to the future.

  Theo and Nicole had been married for two years at the time and had hit a rough patch. Mostly due to his tedious work schedule. She was newly married and wanted her husband around. Time with Janelle’s father allowed for close proximity to both father and daughter. Which led to Abigail. He learned of the pregnancy after she had already moved in with her grandparents in Detroit. He never questioned the paternity. Along with Janelle, they agreed never to tell Nicole. While they would always cherish their time together, their lives were too different and there was no love between them. Regardless of his actions, Theodore loved his wife. They had worked on their marriage and once on solid footing, decided to try for a child. Lizzy was a very wanted baby.

  It wasn’t lost on Theodore that there was no blackmail letter. It was both a relief and a concern. It meant he had no control. Nothing he could do to stop the sender from forwarding all this to his wife. The stalker was putting him in a position to keep lying to her until dropping the bomb and exposing it all. Whoever’s behind this wants me to dig a bigger hole for myself. Theo took photos of the envelope’s contents, then ran them through the shredder, obsessing over it. What did the person want? Who would want to destroy my hard-earned life?

  ***

  New York City

  Jon stood in the back of the chapel, holding a bouquet of yellow roses and lavender stems. Only a few family members were present. He could identify them by who was visibly distraught. Scanning the crowd, he saw a mix of federal agents and lawyers. Though all were dressed conservatively, the distinction was clear by their demeanor. The Feds kept to themselves while the lawyers worked the room. Some seemed to know each other, likely having worked cases together. Could be how Doug had met Erica.

  The pallbearers had just set down the casket. He watched as his boss made his way to the podium, positioning his written speech before him, doing his utmost to maintain his composure, though unsuccessfully. He looked up at the crowd, spotting Jon dead ahead at the back of the room. He raised his brow in surprise and offered a nearly imperceptible nod.

  As Jon listened to the eulogy, he was taken with how much the man had loved his wife. They had been what Doug called a perfect match. Simpatico, complementary. It dredged up thoughts of Jon’s own lost love. As he watched Doug step down, he felt the anxiety rising, the sweat building on his brow and turned to leave. He needed air. He stepped outside, trying to recall the exercise his therapist told him would reduce the intensity of an oncoming attack. He closed his eyes, took in a long slow breath, held it and let it out to the count of four. On his third cycle, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and faced Doug Matthews. They looked at each other, two faces distorted in pain, and before he could think, he brought his boss into a tight bear hug. No words were said. He felt the older man’s body shake, and then with his head down, Doug broke away and walked back inside the chapel.

  Chapter 28

  New York City

  The funeral, the lavender, the interaction with Doug. It was too much. The breathing exercises worked until Jon got back home. Still, he was glad he’d never refilled his anxiety meds. In recent weeks, he’d managed to wean himself off them and was determined not to go back. He knew about their destructive capabilities.

  Entering his empty apartment, the weight of having no one there waiting for him settled heavily on him. Thoughts of Ashleigh resurfaced with a vengeance. It was more than four years since his fiancée’s death. Since he failed to save her. Leaving him with a limp and a lifetime of guilt. He was overcome with sadness and a desperate need to find photos of her. When he’d started dating Melanie in graduate school, he put them away. Having them out had felt inappropriate. He searched for the box in the back of his closet. Since the breakup, they’d remained hidden. But now he knew seeing Ashleigh’s face would be a lifeline.

  Frustrated at shuffling through the boxed mess of junk and random papers, Jon spilled the contents out onto the floor, vilifying himself for not taking better care of them. He knew he had pictures from school and from the day he proposed. Instead, his hand hit upon the invitation to Ashleigh’s memorial in Austin. Seated on the floor, his back against the sofa legs, Jon looked at it, wide-eyed. His life would have taken a vastly different trajectory if she was still here. He missed her to the bottom of his soul. He let out a deep sob, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Jon dug out an old stash of whiskey from the back of a kitchen cabinet. He’d intended to get rid of the bottle but never had the chance. His shrink would have a field day with that one. He made a feeble attempt at recalling her prescribed mental exercises, then took a long pull straight from the bottle. He knew where it would lead. He’d been there before. But now, as he sat among the paper-strewn floor, he simply didn’t care.

  ***

  Pounding in his head, pounding on the door. “Jon, you in there?”

  Jon couldn’t feel a thing. Exactly what he’d hoped for. It took great effort even to get his eyelids open. When he did, he groaned deeply, not so much from physical pain but from knowing he fell off the wagon. Dammit.

  More pounding.

  “Whoever you are, go away!”

  “It’s Doug.”

  No.

  “Open the goddamn door!”

  Jon heard the mania in his boss’s voice and stumbled to the door.

  Doug stood there, disheveled, a mess. His stubbly face was red with anger. Or was it anguish? For a moment, they merely stared at each other.

  He has no one. Just like me, Jon mused. What a pair.

  Doug pushed past him and into the apartment, sniffing Jon’s clothing as he did so. “Nice.” Then, “That reporter, Luanne Parker, called me. Said you rang her up in the middle of the night in a drunken stupor, babbling about Ashleigh in a purple dress. She thought you had a heart attack when you stopped in the middle of a sentence . . . Goddamn it. My wife’s funeral was yesterday. Can’t a man get a moment’s peace?” He said it without conviction. A beat. Then softer, “Come on, Jon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  ***

  Los Angeles

  Two days later, Jon sat in the lobby of his hotel, nursing a beer, its frothy foam dripping down the side of his ice-cold glass. He was waiting for Luanne. She said she needed to talk some things out about the case. He also had an update to share. The coast-to-coast flights were becomi
ng more manageable. He’d slept fitfully for half the flight, caught up on some work, and read Luanne’s most recent article—a take on Americans’ obsession with royalty. She made no mention of the breakup. Or what led to it. The piece was impressive. Luanne was an excellent writer, offering the reader just enough compelling information to keep them reading until the end, leaving them feeling informed but not overwhelmed.

  Jon drained his beer and watched as Luanne walked through the entrance. Today her hair was streaked purple. A line of studs trailed up her left ear. He questioned if the current state of print journalism was why she hadn’t found a job right out of college. One look at her conjured up visions of a rule-breaking satanic worshipper. He laughed at the thought. She was one of the more level-headed people he’d met. As pop psych went, he guessed she was using her outward appearance as a defense, to keep unwanted attention at bay.

  “How’re you doing?” she asked, taking a seat on the leather chair across from him.

  “Sorry about the drunken phone calls.”

  “Sorry I called your boss. I didn’t know who else to contact. I was worried you’d hurt yourself.”

  Jon studied his empty glass.

  “Wanna talk about it?” she asked.

  “Not especially.” The whole episode was embarrassing. To Doug’s credit, after brewing a pot of high-octane coffee, he’d left Jon’s apartment, didn’t mention the episode again. Said nothing when Jon went back to LA. Seems there was a new truce in place.

  “How was the funeral?” Luanne asked.

  Jon shifted in his chair. “As one would expect.”

  “Good of you to go.”

  “He’s my boss.”

  “And apparently a friend, if you flew cross country to be there.”

  Jon shrugged. His relationship with Matthews was way too complicated to decode. Changing the subject, he said, “An email came in this morning. The payments in Chavez’s account were sent from a shell company in the Bahamas. Our techs will need to go backwards and figure out who established the company. Retracing the financial steps is like following a windy path of breadcrumbs where many of them have been eaten. It’s a tedious and sometimes fruitless process.”