by Riley Banks
Even as he said it he knew he was being hypocritical. He’d cut his teeth in Vietnam and had gone on to cover every battle and skirmish up until the second Gulf War.
‘I have my reasons.’
Pride swelled in his chest. Journalists either had that drive, or they didn’t. You couldn’t manufacture it and you certainly couldn’t fake it.
‘Okay but before I forget, the reason I wanted you to call me… someone called for you.’
‘When?’
‘Couple of nights ago.’
‘Did you take a message?’
What’s she think I am? Her fucking secretary?
‘I offered to help but he insisted he’d only talk to you.’
‘Could you pick the accent? I’ve got a source in Birmingham.’
‘He wasn’t British. He was Australian.’
There was so much silence on the other end he wondered if she’d hung up or they’d lost the connection.
‘Burke? Are you there?’
‘You’re sure he was Australian?’
Now she sounded like she’d been sucking helium.
‘Yeah, definitely. Is there a problem?’
‘Let me know the second he calls again.’
He’d bitten his tongue so much he’d probably lost half an inch. ‘Sure. Listen, call me every day. I don’t want to spend another three days wondering if you’re dead or alive.’
‘I will.’
‘Goodbye, Charlotte and I’m sorry about your friend.’
For the last three days, Highgrove had eaten slept and shit Harvey Inc. He scanned the files again, wondering what he was missing.
Campagni was parked outside The Washington First Bank in a black Lincoln Town Car, his frustration growing with each passing minute.
His instructions were clear and, under normal circumstances, he would have already fulfilled the brief.
But neither he nor Bill had taken into account the sudden appearance of the Special Operations Division Special Tactics Branch, an elite SWAT team who had stormed the bank three minutes ago.
Before he could decide how to act, he needed to know why the police were there. Had they come for Baker or had Dick reneged on their deal?
Surely the man wasn’t that daft.
Besides, they were hardly going to send a SWAT team for a blackmail attempt.
Campagni could not act until he knew for sure so the waiting game had begun.
If the police emerged with Baker in tow, he could take the shot and be out of there before the police had any idea where the bullet had come from.
And knowing their hatred of paperwork, they’d probably thank him for saving them the trouble of arranging an extradition order.
Dick would be easy enough to track down at home. It would mean taking out the wife as well but she was about to lose a daughter and a husband. Maybe she’d prefer to join them in death.
Five minutes ticked over and Campagni started to doubt his plan. The bank was still in lock down. What could possibly be taking them so long?
At the ten minute mark, the glass doors slid open and four heavily armed SWAT members emerged, their weapons no longer held in attack mode but slung carelessly over their shoulders.
Another four team members came after them, in similar fashion. But where there should have been the manacled form of Baker, there was only empty space. The police had not made an arrest.
This left only one alternative.
The police had not come for Baker. They had come for him.
He reached for his phone, swearing when he realised it was switched off.
How the hell did that happen? What if Bill has been trying to call me? Fucking battery must be dead again.
He plugged the phone into the charger, switching it back on, surprised to find it fully charged.
That’s weird.
He pressed call on the last number dialled. The phone rang twice before the same pleasant voice answered.
‘Put me through to Robertson, right away.’ He didn’t bother giving his name, certain the secretary would recognise his voice anyway.
‘He just left.’
‘What did the police want?’
‘How did you know about the police?’ She struggled to keep her voice cool and neutral but she was fighting a losing battle.
‘What did they want, and don’t lie to me?’
‘Mr Robertson called them.’
‘Why?’
‘The real Mr Baker turned up here…’
‘Where is Baker now?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You heard me. Where is Baker now? Is he with Robertson?’
Her silence was the only answer he needed.
Chapter Thirty-Five:
Dick Robertson drove the white Lincoln Escalade like it was a small convertible, the powerful V8 engine propelling them along the highway at ridiculous speeds.
‘Hey, slow down. The last thing we need is the police pulling us over.’
The banker took his foot off the accelerator but his hands continued to white-knuckle the steering wheel.
Paul was only too aware that the two of them shared a common bond. Both had daughters caught up in a Harvey web of deceit. Yet it was a connection neither man cherished.
‘I still can’t believe she copied it,’ he said, staring at the pile of papers in his hand.
Robertson’s secretary had broken about a dozen federal laws by photocopying the contents of the safe deposit box but Baker wasn’t about to press charges for the breach of protocol.
‘What time is your flight?’ Dick asked, taking the turn off to Washington National Airport.
Baker took out his mobile phone but the screen was completely blacked out.
Dick Robertson laughed but there was no humour in the sound. Just bitterness and regret. ‘It will restart.’
‘Why? What’s the matter with it?’
‘Security,’ Robertson said, laughing again, his eyes shining with manic energy. ‘What a joke huh?’
Baker shrugged. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I had a device installed in my office which automatically blacks out any electronic equipment not connected to our network. Phones, cameras, recording devices – that sort of thing. It’s a bit like a cell phone jammer only more complex.’
‘Aren’t they illegal?’
Robertson laughed. ‘Apparently so is blackmail. Doesn’t stop it happening. I should have packed one in Nancy’s bag.’
Dick told him about the photographs of Nancy. Thankfully Paul hadn’t seen them. Had no desire to see them. Not when there were probably similar images of Victoria. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m hoping these papers will help punish them.
‘Sorry, that’s no consolation. The damage is already done…’ Robertson didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to.
Baker understood all too well. Nothing could make up for what had happened. Justice couldn’t replace what had been stolen.
Robertson pulled up in front of the airport departures entrance.
‘I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. What can I do to repay you?’
‘Just get those bastards. Make them pay for what they’ve done to our kids.’
Cloistered in her sixth floor room, Charlotte waited while 432 emails downloaded to her computer. It would take hours to sort through it all, though a good ninety percent would end up in the computer’s trash bin.
She clicked on the name tab, listing the emails in alphabetical order, finding it the easiest way to do a bulk clean up.
Under A, she had almost half a billion dollars in lottery winnings, prize money and lost inheritance. There was also a couple of ‘Dear one, I have a rare form of cancer and need your help siphoning money out of the country. Please send me your bank account details so I can transfer it into your account’ type emails.
She filed her AMEX statement under her credit card folder, noting that she had to make a payment in the next few days.
Next she scanned
the headlines from half a dozen ArabianBusiness.com updates, filing away any that were of interest to her and deleting the rest.
The daily headlines from The Australian newspaper came next alphabetically.
Charlotte clicked on today’s headlines, her blood turning to ice in her veins as she saw the lead story of the day.
Two names from her past; two names that should never have been linked together.
Sydney police continue the search for convicted criminal Paul Baker, wanted in connection with the horrific murder of Joanne Parker.
She clicked the hyperlink, opening up the main article.
A part of her hoped and prayed that it was some other Jo. Some other Paul Baker. In her heart, she knew the likelihood was slim but miracles could happen.
Not to you. Miracles happen to other people, not you.
But the first thing she saw was the photograph of Jo. It was a recent one, taken since Charlotte had deserted her homeland, but there was no denying it was her Jo.
The mug shot of her father was harder to be sure about. He had changed so much since she had last seen him. Yes, he had aged. He was no longer a handsome man in his early thirties. He was a hard, bitter, unsmiling man in his fifties. His hair was peppered with grey; his brown eyes had lost their playful sparkle. It could have been a different man altogether if not for the caption beneath the photograph.
Paul Baker served twenty years for corporate fraud against his former employer, Harvey South Pacific.
It was true. He had done this terrible, awful, sinful thing. He had killed Joanne.
Nausea churned her stomach as she read the tight news text. He hadn’t just killed her, he’d stalked her, going to her home, threatening her parents, turning up at Jo’s work. Joanne had died from a single bullet to the forehead. The police believed it to be an execution-style hit. And Paul Baker…
He was their only suspect.
How could he be such a monster?
More importantly, why?
What did he hope to achieve?
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the images of Joanne’s lifeless eyes but she had seen far too many crime scene photographs to not know what Joanne’s injuries would have caused.
Oh God. The phone call. It was him.
Highgrove said an Australian man had called for her. The timing fitted. It was around the time of Joanne’s death. Had he killed Joanne to find her?
Again she had to ask herself why? Did he really think she would ever speak to him again?
The man deserted her. He drove her mother to commit suicide. Every bad thing that had happened to Charlotte over the years was ultimately his fault. Each time someone cut a piece out of her soul, each time someone trampled her trust, each act of violence that surrounded her, it all came back to him. He was the chain reaction.
If he had not gone to jail, if he had not committed those heinous crimes, he would have been there to protect her.
The image she had held on to for so long, the image of her father being dragged away by police, now swirled and changed. In its place her father became a madman, a red-eyed demon preying on innocent girls, feeding off their blood like some gothic vampire.
Hatred swelled inside her. She vowed to get even with the man who had ruined everything, the man who had the Midas touch in reverse. Everything he touched turned to shit.
Not anymore. I’ll find him and kill him. I’ll cut the cancer out of my life if it is the last thing I do.
Eyes burning, she continued to stare at the computer screen, filling her mind with every detail of the one man she couldn’t remember yet couldn’t forget. She shut her mind to the image of Joanne in her final moments.
Miranda, Anita and now Joanne.
It was too much to deal with. Her mind could not compute all the tragedy that had happened in the last few days.
Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. When he’s dead and buried. Then I can grieve.
She closed the computer screen, not caring about anything but the hollowed out feeling in her chest.
‘I cannot stress enough how bad an idea this is,’ said the doctor as two paramedics loaded the stretcher on to the back of a rented speedboat. ‘Your sister is in a critical condition. She should be staying here. She should be monitored around the clock.’
In principle Damon agreed. If he thought for one minute that Anita was safe in Venice, he would have done what the doctor was asking.
Call it a hunch. Call it sixth sense. Call it whatever the hell you wanted to. Something didn’t add up.
Damon had received the call about Anita and Miranda. He’d been the one to inform BJ and his father. So how did BJ make it to Venice before him?
Like everything, BJ had an answer for that. According to him, he was on his way to Greece when the call came through. He’d diverted the plane straight to Venice, which explained why he had arrived before Damon, who had to arrange a helicopter.
But BJ’s excuse didn’t sit right. BJ didn’t care about anyone but himself. If he were planning to go to Greece, he never would have changed his plans, not even with Anita clinging to life.
It wasn’t like he was the doting older brother. Anita and BJ hadn’t spoken in years. So why his concern now? Why the change of plans?
Only one thing made sense. BJ already knew. He was already in Venice when Damon called.
It was easy enough to prove. One thing you could bank on was BJ’s ego. He never travelled anywhere without his list of demands being met, thinking that their family wealth gave him the right to be treated like some Hollywood celebrity.
A call to Pieter at Torre del Morino confirmed his suspicions. BJ’s assistant had lodged his rider yesterday afternoon, eighteen hours before Anita’s body was discovered.
It didn’t prove BJ had prior knowledge of the attack but, coupled with Wilson’s release in Nice (someone further up the tree than Jacobs had pulled strings), it was enough to put a shit load of doubt in Damon’s mind.
It was enough to ensure he went outside the family connections to move his sister, renting a speedboat, using private paramedics, and most of all, doing it without the knowledge of The William S Club.
He had no idea why or even how but he was convinced they had something to do with it all.
As dangerous as a boat journey was, if The William S Club were somehow involved, Anita was at more risk if he left her at the hospital.
Getting her out right under the nose of BJ’s guard dog had taken careful planning and a couple of boldfaced lies.
Damon couldn’t have done it without Karen’s help. Of course, helping him put her future at the company in jeopardy.
He wasn’t about to leave her at BJ’s mercy so he’d arranged for Karen to accompany Miranda’s body home. Once she had done that, she would go into hiding, at least until Damon knew for sure what was going on.
By accompanying Miranda, Karen had freed Damon up to stay with Anita. In her current unstable condition, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘I owe you so much for doing this,’ Damon said, feeling emotion spread through his chest like a widening vortex. So much had happened in such a short space of time that he couldn’t quite get his head around it all. It was all he could do to stay focussed on Anita and not go crazy worrying about everything else, including Charlotte.
Given everything that he suspected, he knew she wasn’t safe here either but what could he do? She had made her decision. Unless he planned to kidnap her, he was going to have to abide by her wishes.
‘You know what I think of your brother. This saves me spending the next two weeks biting my tongue in his presence.’ Karen handed him Anita’s valise, which she’d retrieved from BJ’s room. ‘I haven’t opened it. I left that to you.’
Damon nodded, staring at the clips on the suitcase as if they contained the meaning of life.
‘Okay, you need to go. BJ will know soon enough what you’ve done. You need to be long gone when he does.’ Karen kissed Damon’s cheeks, climbing back up
onto the jetty.
‘Thanks again, Karen.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
He stood on deck, waving at her as the boat sped out through the Gulf of Venice into the Adriatic Sea, where they would eventually reach the Ionian and then the Mediterranean Seas before arriving at their final destination.
As it bounced over the choppy grey sea, the frigid wind slashed against Damon’s face until his cheeks were red and stinging.
Right. Let’s see what The William S Club has been up to.
He clicked open the locks on Anita’s valise, peering inside. He had no idea what he was looking for.
What did he expect? A big neon arrow to point out the connection? The only thing in her suitcase besides the usual girlie crap - clothes, toiletries and shoes (always too many shoes) - was Anita’s mobile phone.
He scrolled through her contacts, wondering if maybe Anita had met Wilson at one of the London clubs she patronised when she was in town.
Next he checked her phone logs. For some strange reason, they were listing from oldest to newest. Anita had always been a bit of a technophobe.
He was there. As was Jodie and a handful of her girlfriends. There were far too many calls to some guy named John Nugent but it was the last two entries that leapt out and slapped Damon in the face.
Two missed calls from his grandfather.
Damon checked the time stamp.
No way.
The police weren’t sure of the exact time Wilson had attacked Anita but going on Miranda’s time of death and the extent of Anita’s blood loss, they had put the attack at somewhere between 10.30pm and midnight.
The first call from his grandfather came through at 10.27. The second at 10.31.
The missed calls created serious ramifications that Damon could not dismiss as mere coincidence.
Everything kept coming back to The William S Club.
Chapter Thirty-Six:
The front door banged behind the young man as he raced through the mansion with the urgency of a fireman.
‘Granddad,’ he called, panic mingling with hope in his baritone voice.
William sat behind the dining room table, conflicting emotions and instincts battling for supremacy.
