by T. E. Woods
Hush Money is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Alibi Ebook Original
Copyright © 2017 by T. E. Woods
Excerpt from Bad Girl by T. E. Woods copyright © 2017 by T. E. Woods
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Bad Girl by T. E. Woods. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Ebook ISBN 9780425284568
Cover design: Elderlemon Design
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By T. E. Woods
About the Author
Excerpt from Bad Girl
Chapter 1
NOW
My hands are so sticky. The young woman stumbled forward a few hesitant steps. She stopped, examining her hands as though it were the first time she’d seen them. She pressed her fingers together, then pulled them apart. Together. Apart. Is it supposed to be like this? She smeared her hands against her black trousers, trying to clear whatever viscous substance coated them. Bits of fiber from her slacks added another layer of pollution to her skin. She ran her hands across her torso, hoping the stiff cotton of her white blouse would succeed where the smooth wool had failed. Her prize was a deep red smear across her stomach and chest.
This isn’t right, either. She lifted her hands to her nose and smelled a mixture of iron and earth. Have I spilled something?
The woman looked around her. I should know where I am. Her brain played a frustrating game, teasing her with memories linked to nothing. That porcelain rose is trimmed in real gold. I must never use chemicals to clean it. She struggled to recall how she knew that, only to be tormented with another phantom bit of knowledge. There’s a safe behind that wall. Who had used it to hide things eluded her.
I should have been at work an hour ago. That mental announcement came with such authority it was as though it were spoken outside her body. But aren’t I at work now? She struggled to focus. No answer came to her. Instead an icy jolt of pain slashed somewhere behind her eyes. She lifted her left hand to soothe the excruciating spot and felt the warm, sticky substance transfer to her forehead.
There’s another room straight ahead. His room. I’m never to be in there unless he is, too. Who he was she couldn’t say. Only the rule floated in her consciousness. She was never to enter without permission, and even then only if he accompanied her. I was just in there. He was there. She staggered down the carpeted corridor, dragging her left hand against the wall, as though she was in a maze and needed to keep hold of her anchor.
There he was. On the floor. Just like before. She looked away. Down to where his shoeless feet rested in a pool of something thick. Something the same crimson as the goo that spattered her own hands. Her eyes noticed something new. She bent over to pick it up. It was heavy. Cold.
I know what this is. She closed her eyes and demanded her brain provide the name of the object she held. The memory of loud explosions came to her, accompanied by the stink of smoke and the echoing clang of metal on metal. She opened her eyes and looked at the object again. This did it to him. This…thing. She dropped the object to the floor and forced herself to look at the man. His face was slack. Pale. She kicked the toe of her shoe against the sole of his foot.
He didn’t move.
I know him. He knows me. Still no name came to her. The man’s shirt was soaked with red. Did he spill something? Did he make this mess?
Her chest seized with a choking intake of breath. For a moment, all fog lifted and she was gifted one distilled truth.
This man is dead.
Terror grabbed her throat. A heartbeat later the hazy blanket descended on her brain again, leaving one parting comfort.
I’m glad.
Chapter 2
SIX WEEKS AGO
“It’s starting to smell pretty ripe out there, Your Honor.” Melanie White closed the door to the mayor’s inner office and peeled off her sodden raincoat. “Even this deluge can’t wash away the stink.”
Roger Millerman leaned back in his leather chair and focused on how her trousers tightened across her world-class ass as she leaned forward to shake the April rain out of her hair. If she was a step or two closer, he might get a good look down that pink blouse of hers, too. Damn, he thought. That woman could make a potato sack look hot as Freak Night in Vegas. Somebody ought to run a Sexiest City Council Members contest. Melanie would win in a shutout. He smiled at the thought of Melanie heading up yet another list of bests.
“They’re homeless, not stupid,” he said. “They have sense enough to come in out of the rain, and the front porch of the City-County Building is as good a refuge as any.”
“They’re bringing their dogs and their shopping carts full of trash with them.” Melanie didn’t wait for an invitation. She crossed the mayor’s office and sat in the brown tweed chair nearest his desk. “And from the reek of urine, they don’t bother running to Starbucks to relieve themselves, either. For God’s sake, Roger. This is where schools bring the kids for field trips. Where all the Cheeseheads from Packer Land want to visit when they come to the big city. Do you really think dozens of drunks and drug-addled losers lolling on the city’s doorstep is the kind of image you want to project?”
Roger leveled a stern stare at her. “How many paychecks are you away from joining them, Melanie? If you didn’t have your father’s wallet backing you up, would you have enough money set aside to cover your bills for six months if you got into an accident or fell ill? How about it, Miss President of the Common Council? How long before you’d be out on that porch, trying to stay dry during a thunderstorm?”
“Save the claptrap for the stump.” She held his gaze as she slowly crossed one perfectly toned leg over the other.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. Teasing bitch. She wants something from me. But then again, they all do.
“You’ve got to take care of this,” she continued. “It’ll be summer soon. Festivals will be starting up. Tourists pouring in. Get those vagrants off the street before they become an embarrassing photo op.”
“Best thing you can do to make that happen is whip up the votes to get me the funding I requested for those day s
helters. You’ve kept it stalled in committee so long it’s gonna grow moss.”
“Is that what this is about? Are you trying to ram a project you know damn well the city can’t afford down the throats of the aldermen? Keep the homeless blocking the way of the good citizens using the building their taxes pay for until they demand we fund your project?”
“I’m gonna do what I gotta do until you and yours do the right thing.”
“The right thing is to keep this city on firm financial footing. Throwing eight million dollars into a never-ending sinkhole of services to the homeless won’t do any of us any good.”
“Those homeless out there are just as much Madison citizens as the person stepping over them to come in here to register their dog, pay their taxes, or cast their vote. And as long as I’m mayor, I’m going to see that they get just as much use of city resources as your constituents do in the downtown high-rises.”
“That’s fucking bullshit and you know it. The only reason you want those homeless day centers is to position yourself against the governor. The People’s Mayor. Isn’t that how you want folks to remember you when you run against him in three years? You haven’t given one pup’s turd about the homeless in any other of the seven years you’ve sat in that chair. But now that you’re eyeing the governor’s mansion, you’re doing all you can to be his polar opposite. Personally, I think it’s a stroke of genius, Roger. If I were in your shoes, I’d do the same thing. But I have to make sure the folks in my district are taken care of. And being panhandled as they walk from their condo to the Overture Center gives them the impression I don’t give a damn about the very high taxes they pay.”
“Then invest those taxes in my centers. One on the East Side, another on the West. I’ll have ’em up and running before Thanksgiving. Treatment programs, housing opportunities, education and training projects. Give that to me and I promise, by the time your constituents are leading their grandchildren down State Street, all dressed up in their finest velvet and plaid to sleep through yet another year’s Nutcracker, they won’t have to stoop to drop one precious dime into anyone’s paper cup.”
Melanie didn’t try to hide the smirk tugging at her lips. “The council’s top priority is in-fill development. You know that, Roger. We need to build our tax base by making good use of the infrastructure we already have. Too many buildings are standing empty. We need to attract start-ups. We need established companies to move their headquarters from the suburbs and bring them downtown. The housing and restaurants and shops to support the people those moves bring with them mean nothing but cash pouring into the city’s coffers. Let’s focus on that for the next biennium. Then we can think about how to pull money out and pay for the do-good projects you so like to have your picture taken while ribbon-cutting.”
You fucking cunt. You use Daddy’s money to get his friends to vote you into a council seat. A year later you bat those green eyes to get the other aldermen to elect you council president. Me? I was winning my first election before you were off your mother’s teat. This is my city. And I decide when and where the money goes.
“What exactly would you have me do with our homeless, Melanie?”
She shoved a still-damp tress of red hair behind her shoulder and shrugged. “I’ve always been a fan of the simplest approach. While I can’t support the kind of funding your centers represent, I’m sure I could get the council to approve relocation expenses. It’s in their best interests, after all. Summer’s coming. It would break my heart to see those folks swelter through another hot Madison summer. Not to mention another frigid winter. Sending them to a place with a more temperate climate gives us a win-win situation.”
“Relocate? All of them?”
“Don’t be dramatic, Roger. There couldn’t be more than a few dozen. As I said, I’m confident I could get the council to approve the expense.”
“How about bus tickets, Melanie? Let’s buy each and every damn one of them tickets to Florida. That temperate enough for you?”
“Frankly, I don’t care where the tickets take them. So long as it’s one way.”
She didn’t look like a woman who was joking.
“Fund those centers, Melanie.”
“It’s not happening. You’re mayor, not king.”
Roger felt bile rise in his throat. The next gubernatorial election was thirty-one months away. He needed to build a statewide reputation as a man who could govern all of Wisconsin. These centers would be his launching pad. He’d put in too much effort and time to let some rookie politico stand in his way of taking the governor’s oath of office.
No matter how hot she might be.
He opened his top desk drawer, pulled out a thick folder, and slid it across his desk.
“What’s this?” Melanie asked.
“Open it.” He leaned back and kept his eyes on her face. He didn’t want to miss the instant she understood who was the puppet and who pulled the strings.
Casually she flipped through the early pages. Her pace slowed when she came to the first eight-by-ten glossy. The blood drained from her face when she saw the second. Her hands shook when she picked up the copied bank records. She set them aside and held up a thumb drive.
“What’s this?”
“Video. With full audio, too. You’d be surprised at the fidelity of the sound. You look great in the close-ups, by the way.” He nodded toward his computer. “Wanna take a look?”
She dropped the thumb drive back into the file. “Who’s seen these?”
“Just me. Different people supplied me with the various pieces, but I’m the only one who’s seen the…shall we say…fully assembled file.”
“You’re blackmailing me?”
“Blackmail? Should we get the FBI involved to see if that’s the word they’d use? Or would it be better to go straight to the papers?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his massive cherry desk. “And by all means, let’s send a package to Daddy and Mum.”
Melanie shoved the file back across the desk. She stood. Her posture was less imperious than when she’d entered his office. She picked up her raincoat and said nothing as she headed for the door.
“Next council meeting, Melanie,” Roger called out. “I want those projects funded. It doesn’t need to be a unanimous vote of support. An overwhelming majority will do.”
Chapter 3
NOW
Sydney Richardson fought the urge to run panicked into the street when she glanced at her watch. Four-thirty. She looked out the glass facade of Hush Money, the restaurant she and her team had spent the last eighteen months perfecting, and saw nothing but the foot traffic typical of a late afternoon on this first Friday in June. Buses, cars, and bicycles rolled by. The State Capitol building rose from manicured lawns across Mifflin Street. Not one person stood under the portico protecting the heavy bronze-and-glass doors to her establishment.
No one’s coming, she realized. Over three hundred thousand dollars invested in this place and it’s already a flop. She looked at her watch again. 4:32. Twenty-eight minutes before Hush Money’s official first night of business. What the hell was I thinking? I should have insisted on reservations. But no, I had to have our first night open. More party than dining. A festive birthing for Madison’s latest eatery. Great idea, huh, Syd?
She turned her back to the empty entry and scanned her creation for the hundredth time that day. Twenty-six tables spaced across hand-scraped hickory floors. Each covered in white linen and surrounded by four chairs.
We must have sat in at least sixty before we settled on these. The chairs were birch. Steamed to fit a human’s bottom with engineered Swedish precision. Curved to support the small of a diner’s back. Every centimeter designed to encourage patrons to linger in the Hush Money experience. Well, if no one shows, the crew and I can commiserate in comfort.
Overhead, pendant lights of champagne-colored glass cast a soft glow. Epic paintings, each large enough to hold its own against the wide expanse and high ceiling, lined the walls.
Sydney had insisted only Wisconsin artists be represented. Her designer had originally balked at the idea, but no one could deny the end result. The entire room radiated an urban elegance flavored with midwestern comfort.
Sydney crossed to the bar, where a dozen men and women stood in quiet readiness. She’d hired most of them away from the best restaurants in town. Two had relocated from Chicago when word got out that Hush Money was hiring the best and paying top dollar to get them. She tried to look confident as she smiled, greeted each by name, and urged them to have a great evening.
“There’s only one opening night,” she told them. “Let’s leave our guests eager for their next experience here, but let’s make sure we’re having fun, too.”
Sydney locked eyes with the woman standing at the end of the line of servers. This woman wasn’t dressed in the crisp white shirt and black trousers that were Hush Money’s uniform. Instead she wore a floor-length satin skirt. Gunmetal gray, matching her hair, which today, like every day of her adult life, was styled in a chignon at the nape of her neck. A pale pink blouse, long-sleeved and lace, picked up the natural rose in her cheeks. Her blue eyes signaled warm comfort as she tilted her head to the left, urging Sydney to follow her to the office.
“Do you remember your first boy-girl party?” the woman asked once they were alone. “It was your twelfth birthday. Your father wasn’t so keen on having boys in the house.” Sydney’s mother chuckled. “He would have kept you a little girl forever if he could. Do you remember that party, Sydney?”
“Are you distracting me, Mom? Or are you trying to make me cry because Dad isn’t here?”
