Scent of Roses & Season of Strangers

by Kat Martin

  Nothing was there that said where Patrick might have been taken—nor was the briefcase with the cashier’s check he was carrying.

  Jerking her gaze toward the sea of cars disappearing down the busy highway, she thought she caught a glimpse of the long white limo but she couldn’t be sure.

  The Lincoln was still running. Julie raced back to the car and climbed in, then sat there shaking, trying to decide what to do. Her instinct was to tear onto the highway, try to catch up with the limo, flag them down and do whatever it took to help Patrick convince the men he would find a way to repay them.

  But reason said there were a dozen cars that color and a dozen roads the limo could have turned onto and simply disappeared. She might drive for hours and never find them. If Sandini and McPherson weren’t satisfied with being paid only half of the money—and she was convinced they wouldn’t be—then time was of the essence. There had to be something else she could do.

  Julie pulled the Lincoln onto the highway, her mind running through every desperate possibility she could think of, none of which seemed to have the least amount of merit. There was Owen Mallory, of course, but now that she knew the kind of man he really was, and after their last ill-fated meeting, she no longer believed he would help her. It even occurred to her that Owen might be behind the Beverly First’s refusal to make the loan, since she had told him the name of the bank.

  She didn’t want to believe it, but it might just be the truth.

  Which left her with only one possible alternative. Alexander Donovan.

  It was risky. God knew Alex was living on the edge, a frail old man growing older by the day. Yet Alex had always maintained a certain quiet strength. He was a successful businessman, a man who knew more about finance than anyone Julie had ever known.

  And he had come to love this new Patrick, Julie believed, as if he were truly his son.

  Her fingers shook as she dug her cell phone out of her purse and frantically punched the auto dial for Alex’s home number. He was their last hope and she couldn’t help wishing that she had called him sooner.

  If anyone could help Patrick now it was his father.

  The butler, Mario, answered the phone on the second ring and quickly put her through to Alex, alerted perhaps by the urgency in her voice.

  “Alex? It’s Julie.”

  “Good morning, my dear. I’ve been hoping you would call.”

  She tried to control her voice. “How…how are you feeling?”

  “Fairly chipper lately. My arthritis is acting up, but it isn’t too bad, and at any rate there’s not much I can do about that.”

  “I—I’ve been meaning to drop by, but with Patrick moving in and getting ready for the wedding, I’ve just been so busy.” Her throat began to close up. She prayed that he wouldn’t hear the distress she was trying to hide, but Alex was a difficult man to fool.

  “Julie, my dear girl. I can tell there is something wrong. Please don’t be afraid to tell me what it is.”

  “Alex…it’s Patrick.” Her voice broke. “He’s in trouble over the Brookhaven deal. He owes some money to a couple of men—”

  “Sandini and McPherson?”

  She straightened, pressed on the brakes at yet another stoplight. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “I’ve known for some time. I heard rumors before his heart attack and hired a private investigator. I spoke to Patrick about it that night at his apartment, but he never mentioned the money. I suppose I should have guessed.”

  “He didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Those men, Julie…they aren’t the sort to be trifled with. Patrick should have come to me.”

  “I tried to convince him. You know how stubborn he can be.”

  “Where is he? I’ll speak to him and together we’ll work this thing out.”

  Her throat went tighter. “That’s the problem. They’ve taken him, Alex. He only has half the money, but they expect him to pay it all. I’m terrified of what they might do.”

  Silence descended over the phone. “Listen to me carefully, Julie. Are you at the office?”

  “I was headed there. I’m in my car on the way.”

  “All right. Once you get there, stay close to the phone. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  “But w-what about Patrick?”

  His voice roughened. “I lost my son once. I don’t intend to lose him again.” With that Alex hung up the phone.

  * * *

  Tony Sandini leaned his corpulent frame against the red leather seat in the white Lexus stretch limo. The window was closed between the driver’s compartment up in front and the rear of the limo, where he and Woody Nicholson sat on either side of Patrick Donovan. Jake Naworski and Ralph Ceccarelli sat across from them on a seat facing the opposite way.

  Tony bent forward, waving the cashier’s check Patrick had handed him into the guy’s too-handsome face.

  “So what have you got to say, pretty boy? I know you can add, and we both know this don’t add up to what you owe.”

  Patrick sat up a little straighter. “It’s almost half,” he said, surprisingly calm for a man in his situation. Then again, maybe the bastard didn’t understand the situation as clearly as Tony did. “Give me a little more time and I’ll see you get the rest.”

  Tony chuckled, jiggling the fat at his girth. “You’ve had time, Donovan. More than you shoulda’ had in the first place.” The car turned sharply just then, pulling onto a narrow dirt road, rutted and overgrown with weeds. They were somewhere deep in the Malibu hills, on a chunk of private land away from the traffic where no one could see them, hear the bastard scream, or the thud of their silenced weapons. The kind of spot Tony preferred for this kind of work.

  The car slid to a halt and he waited a moment for the dust to clear.

  “Get out of the car.” Grinding down on the door handle, he hefted his big bulk out of the limo. Woody Nicholson prodded Patrick in the ribs and they got out and stood in front of him, bone-thin Nicholson shoving his Glock nine-mil into Donovan’s side, a smile of anticipation splitting Woody’s sallow face.

  “I don’t like you, Donovan,” Tony said, shifting his attention back to the man in front of him. “I never did. You promised to make us some money or we never woulda’ made you that loan. Instead all you’ve done is cause us trouble.”

  “I told you I would pay you and I will. I just need—”

  Nicholson buried his fist in Patrick’s stomach, turning the last word into a grunt and doubling him over. Donovan dragged in several deep breaths and started to lift his head, but Nicholson hit him again, splitting his lip and flinging blood all over his expensive white shirt.

  “You beginnin’ to get the picture, pretty boy?” Tony’s own hand unconsciously fisted. “You don’t mess with Tony Sandini—nobody does. We gave you time to get the money you owed and you haven’t done it. You ain’t paid.” He grinned. “But you will.”

  He turned to Woody and motioned toward the trees off to the left, a thick copse of sycamores near the edge of a steep ravine. Nicholson grabbed his arm, but Patrick twisted away.

  “I thought you were smarter than this, Sandini,” he said. “Shooting me is going to cost you six million dollars—to say nothing of the trouble it’s going to cause. Give me another two weeks and you’ll be money and trouble ahead.”

  “And you’ll be lounging on a beach in Mexico with one of your big-titted blondes. You friggin’ lowlife—what kind of fool do you think I am?”

  Patrick might have answered, but Jake Naworski wrenched an arm up behind his back so hard he clamped down on his jaw in pain.

  Tony tipped his head toward the trees and the men dragged Patrick off in that direction. He was tougher than he looked. Jerking free, he managed a couple of good solid punches before they started pummeling him again. A wild blow landed o
n Ceccarelli’s chin, knocking him into the dirt.

  Tony smiled to think of Ralph with mud on his pristine, extravagantly expensive navy blue suit.

  Tony watched a moment more, then headed back to the limo just as his cell phone started to ring. He recognized the number. Tony frowned, wondering what the hell McPherson could possibly want since they had spoken less than an hour ago. Sliding his substantial bulk back inside the car, he pressed the phone against his ear and listened to his partner on the end of the line. The whole time, he kept wishing he was back at the hotel getting a blow job from his little blond stew instead of sitting out here in the dirt.

  Unconsciously nodding, he called out to the driver. “Hey, Mickey—if it ain’t too late, tell them guys to hold off on Donovan. Tell ’em to bring him back over here.”

  The driver took off at a run and Tony returned to the phone. “You sure this guy’s gonna pay us?” he said to his partner.

  “According to my sources, Alexander Donovan’s got more money than he can count. Apparently he’s always been secretive about it. He figured if his son knew how much he really had, the guy would sink even deeper into booze and drugs. At any rate, he’s offered to pay the bill and throw in a million for good measure. He says the money’ll be waiting at Donovan’s office by the time you get there. Just drive the guy back, drop him in the parking lot, and the money is ours.”

  Tony shrugged against the seat of the limo. “What the hell? Money’s money—why should I give a damn where it comes from?”

  He ended the call with McPherson and hung up the phone, turned at the sound of footsteps in the dirt outside the car. Woody Nicholson’s bony frame appeared at the open car door, his jacket off, his knuckles scraped raw and oozing bright red blood.

  “You sure you want him back?” Woody asked.

  Tony grunted. “Sorry to put a crimp in your fun, but pretty boy here, just went from a lowlife to a precious commodity. Get his ass back in the car and let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Seconds later, Patrick slid in through the opposite door wearing the evidence of Nicholson’s handiwork—a black eye, bruises, a fat lip, and a bloody nose. Tony chuckled. At least he wouldn’t be quite so pretty anymore.

  No one spoke as they drove to the real estate office. Jake and Ralph clearly looked as if they’d been brawling, but Jake usually looked that way. Ralph’s shirt was bloody and the pocket of his suit was torn. Tony had to give Donovan credit, he wasn’t such a pussy after all.

  It didn’t matter. Not if that money wasn’t there when they reached the office.

  Tony tossed a hard look in Patrick’s direction and leaned back against the red leather seat of the car.

  * * *

  Patrick sat rigidly as the limousine turned down Canon toward the parking lot of Donovan Real Estate. Julie’s car parked in the distance caught his eye and he was glad to know she had arrived there safely. Then again, maybe her being there wasn’t good. He didn’t think the men would hurt her, but he couldn’t be sure.

  So far he wasn’t sure about anything.

  Like why they had brought him back here. One minute he was standing on the edge of a sharp ravine, his arms pinned at his sides, being beaten bloody by that slimeball Woody Nicholson and his two cronies. They were going to shoot him, he was sure, shove his body into the bottom of the ravine. God only knew how long it would have been until someone had found him.

  Then, just when he thought his time had run out, the limo driver had appeared and he was dragged back to the car—albeit reluctantly—by Nicholson and his friends. Mopping the blood from his face with the handkerchief Sandini lent him, Patrick almost smiled. It certainly wasn’t a situation he would have faced on Toril.

  Gazing out the window through the black tinted glass, he waited as the limo drove toward the rear office door. Julie stood tensely beside it, next to Nathan Jefferson Jones, positioned like the linebacker he was, behind Patrick’s father. The huge man wheeled Alex forward just as Tony Sandini swung open the heavy car door and stepped out onto the blacktop.

  “You got it?” Tony said to the frail man in the chair.

  “Every dime I promised,” Alex said. “Assuming you have safely returned my son.”

  Sandini motioned toward the limo. “Get him outta there.” Nicholson shoved him across the seat and Patrick climbed out onto the pavement, Nicholson and Ceccarelli sliding out behind him.

  As soon as Patrick’s feet hit the ground, Tony reached over and grabbed the suitcase out of his father’s lap and handed it to Ceccarelli, who held it while he popped the shiny brass latches. It didn’t take long to count the money, bundled as it was. When he finished, Tony jerked his head toward Patrick.

  “He’s all yours, old man,” he said to Alex.

  Nicholson shoved Patrick forward. “Have a nice day,” he said with a smirk.

  Patrick didn’t answer. It wasn’t exactly a nice day, since he felt as if he’d been run over by an eighteen-wheel truck. On the other had, he was still alive—which made it a wonderful day.

  As the limo drove away, disappearing down Dayton into the crowded streets of Beverly Hills, his gaze swung to Julie and his father.

  “Patrick!” Julie was instantly in his arms, hugging him fiercely, and he tightened his arms around her. “Thank God you’re safe.”

  “A little the worse for wear,” he said when she reached up to touch his bruised face and swollen lip, “but fine nonetheless.”

  “You don’t look fine. God, Patrick.” She went back into his arms and clung to him and he didn’t make her stop.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “Really.”

  Reluctantly, she let him go and his gaze went in search of his father. The old man’s eyes were fixed on his face.

  “You should have come to me,” his father said in the same tone of voice he had once used on his young disobedient son. “Fathers are supposed to help their children. Remember that and don’t ever be afraid to come to me again.”

  Something tightened in Patrick’s chest. Memories washed in, times in his childhood before his mother died when he had known his father cared, known that his father really loved him.

  “How did you know? How did you raise the money? How did you get it so fast?”

  Alex chuckled softly. “Julie had sense enough to call, thank the good Lord. As for the money…it seems I’m worth a good bit more than I might have previously let on.” He chuckled again, a rumble in his thin chest. “Quite a bit more, actually.”

  Patrick said nothing, absorbing the old man’s words, understanding why Alex had done what he had. Then he sobered. “I’ll pay you back, Dad. I promise. I’ll pay you every penny. I won’t let you down again.”

  His father looked stunned. Patrick hadn’t called him Dad since he was a little boy. Alex stared at him and his eyes grew moist with tears. “I know you will. I never doubted it for a minute. I’m proud of you, son.”

  Patrick felt the gentle touch of his father’s hand, and an odd warmth settled in his chest. For a moment he found it hard to speak. “Thank you, Father.” He glanced into Julie’s upturned face, saw the happiness shining there. “I owe my life to both of you.”

  They smiled at him and Patrick smiled, too, his heart full of joy and love, emotions he had only begun to discover. He was thinking he had heard the phrase no place like home, but until today he had never really understood it. Now for the very first time, he realized what the saying meant.

  For even with all of its problems, even after all that had happened, there was surely no place like the home he had found here on Earth.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for a special preview of the second gripping book in the

  Maximum Security series

  from New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin.

  Missing turns to murdered, and one woman’s search for answers w
ill take her to a place she never wanted to go.

  The Deception

  Available now from HQN Books.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dallas, Texas

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Gallagher. I know this is terribly difficult, but unless there’s someone else who can make a positive identification—”

  Kate shook her head. “No. There’s no one else.”

  “All right then, if you will please follow me.” The medical examiner, Dr. Jerome Maxwell, a man in his fifties, had thick black hair finely threaded with gray. He started down the hall, but Kate stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  “Are you…are you completely sure it’s my sister?” She smoothed a hand nervously over the skirt of her navy blue suit. “The victim is definitely Christina Gallagher?”

  “There was a fingerprint match to your missing sister. I’m sorry,” he repeated. “We’ll still need your confirmation.”

  Kate’s stomach rolled. Her legs felt weak as she followed Dr. Maxwell down a narrow, seemingly endless hallway in the Dallas County morgue. The echo of her high heels on the stark gray linoleum floor sent a sweep of nausea through her.

  The doctor paused outside a half-glass door. “As I said before, this is going to be difficult. Are you sure there isn’t someone you can call, someone else who could make the identification?”

  Kate’s throat tightened. “My father’s remarried and living in New York. He hasn’t seen Chrissy in years.” Frank Gallagher hadn’t seen either of his daughters since he and his wife had divorced.

  “And your mother?” the doctor asked kindly.

  “She died of a heart attack a year after Chrissy ran away.” For Madeleine Gallagher, losing both her husband and her daughter had simply been too much.

  The doctor straightened his square black glasses. “Are you ready?”

  “I’ll never be ready to see my sister’s murdered body, Dr. Maxwell. But I’m all Chrissy has, so let’s get it over with.”

  The doctor opened the door, and they walked out of a hallway that seemed overly warm into a room that was icy cold. A shiver rushed over Kate’s skin, and her heart beat faster. As Dr. Maxwell moved toward a rollout table in front of a wall of cold-storage boxes, Kate could see the outline of a body beneath the stark white sheet.