Stacy’s eyes went wide as she saw the official identification. “I didn’t think we had private investigators in Canada.”
I sighed. “Yes, we do. And we’re wondering how Keith Shaw goes from unloading veggies on your dock to waving around hundred-dollar bills.”
“I didn’t know about that.” She gestured at the sparsely decorated office. “I can tell you he didn’t get it from here. We never keep more than a hundred dollars on hand including personal wallets. We believe it’s best to avoid temptation.”
“Understandable.” Bran leaned forward. “Keith Shaw only came into this cash after some sort of photo shoot, some publicity stunt. Tell us about it.”
Stacy frowned. “It was a meeting with some of our sponsors. Hanover Investments is at the top when it comes to donations, as you know. Some of the board members showed up to take pictures with the workers for newsletters, the usual fluff they send out to let their people know where the money’s going.” She shook her head. “No one got paid for it.”
She dug for a folder at the bottom of a stack to her left. “I have the photographs here. We were discussing how to use them at the last meeting.”
She flipped the plain brown folder open to reveal a series of black-and-white images of the men from the loading dock, the three we’d passed on the way in. They perched on the lone forklift, Keith Shaw among them. He glared at the camera and I imagined he wasn’t the top choice for a poster boy.
Behind the forklift stood a line of dignitaries, local government flunkies making time with the press. Bernadette beamed at the camera while Michael scowled, obviously eager to get out of the spotlight and back to work.
“Keith hasn’t been in for two days. He called in sick yesterday and hasn’t shown up today so far.” She cleared her throat. “As long as he reports to his probation officer there’s no problem but if there’s more—” She let the sentence hang. “Should we be calling the police?”
I resisted the urge to wave my hands frantically in the air. The last thing we needed was to have the police on our trail or worse, doubling back on our tracks. If they found Shaw’s body they’d be searching for his killer and not necessarily connecting it to Liam’s kidnapping. If we told them it was connected Hank would have my ass back in jail faster than I could blink for withholding evidence and I’d be trying to explain why I hadn’t handed Liam over to the authorities.
I still hadn’t figured out how I was going to dodge that bullet.
“No.” Bran waved her off. “My father, he thinks someone picked his pocket. We always carry spare cash, you see.” He displayed his own thick bundle of cash, ignoring my eye roll.
Stacy let out something akin to a peep.
He gave her another killer smile. “You’ll understand we want to handle this as quietly as possible.”
“Oh yes,” Stacy agreed.
“My apologies for the deception,” Bran said. “I didn’t want to cast aspersions on Mr. Shaw until we verified he was the actual criminal.” He gave a noncommittal shrug. “For all we know he won a lottery.”
“But you can’t find him.” Stacy looked from one of us to the other. “Doesn’t it confirm he’s the thief?”
“Not really.” I leaped in to try to save the conversation. “He could be on a bender drinking away his winnings. You understand we don’t want to make any accusations until we have more than just vague theories to go on. Not to mention the embarrassment to the center here if we wrongly accused him and it got leaked to the press.”
A flash of panic in her eyes told me I’d said the right thing.
“We’ve got to get going.” I slipped my business card across the top of the photographs. “Please call us if you hear anything about Mr. Shaw.”
Like, say, his death.
She added the card to the folder before closing it up and placing it back atop the precariously teetering stack. “I can’t believe Keith would steal someone’s wallet.”
“Why?” Bran asked as we stood up.
“Because he’s a paroled murderer. This would put him back in jail for the rest of his term.” Stacy covered her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I should have said that.”
“I think it’s okay,” I said.
* * *
Bran looked over at the shippers as we made our way to the front of the kitchen. They were busy emptying a truck that had arrived while we were in Hampton’s office. The forklift spun around, neatly depositing a half-full skid of plastic boxes in a corner. The other men stripped the shrink-wrap away and sorted through the canned vegetables.
“Think they know anything?” Bran asked.
I hesitated. “I don’t think Shaw was into sharing—if he brought one of these guys in they’d demand a share and wouldn’t be here.” I winced as the forklift tines screeched for oil.
Bran led me through the front eating area. I could almost hear his teeth grinding.
It wasn’t proof either way but it was a link between Shaw and the Hanovers. Brayton was nothing but a sheep being led to slaughter on the Hanover altar.
“Now where to?” Bran put his hands on his hips. A homeless man started to approach us, hand out, but spotted Bran’s annoyed expression and paused, unsure what to do.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “The important thing is that Liam’s safe.” I dug in my pocket for some spare change, finding a few gold-colored dollar coins. I flipped them toward the man with a wan grin. He scooped them up and scampered into a nearby alley.
“For how long?” Bran kicked at a stone. It bounced into the street and off a moving car, causing a dent or at the least, a scratch. “Jess can’t keep him forever.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, running through our options.
They ranged from few to none.
Bran’s cell phone rang.
We both jumped.
Bran dug his phone out of a pocket. He looked at the caller ID and went pale.
“My father.”
I drew a deep breath. “Your call. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”
His fingers hovered over the small screen. “I don’t know what to say to him.”
“Don’t say anything,” I prompted. “Let him lead the conversation. Let him call the shots.”
He touched the clear surface and laid the phone down on his palm so we both could hear.
“Dad.” His tone was calm and steady. “What’s up?”
I moved in and touched Bran’s shoulder. There was no way I could imagine the emotions rushing through his system right now and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. It was one thing to be told you had a half brother and quite another to hold him in your arms and know there was another connection to your lifeline, another link in your family chain.
“Good morning.” Michael’s tone was low and calm. “How are you and Rebecca doing today?”
“Fine, thank you.” Bran glanced at me and shrugged.
“My assistant told me you called her regarding a charity front. What’s that all about?”
Bran hesitated, long enough for his father to pick up on it. Michael Hanover hadn’t made his money by being dim. “A story idea. You know how these things go.”
“I see. Did you meet Rebecca yesterday?” Smooth as silk and sweet as cotton candy. Now I knew where Bran got his charm.
Bran threw me a look. “Yes, I did. We’ve been chatting.”
“Really.” The calmness made my skin crawl. “What about?”
A streetcar rumbled by, the long extended body painted in red and white. It came to a shuddering stop not far from us and discharged a pair of shabbily dressed men who quickly walked away from us. One cast a glance over his shoulder, assessing our potential for future interaction.
I scowled at him.
Bran didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Abo
ut you blackmailing her into doing some work for you.”
Michael snorted. “Blackmail is a very strong word, son. I wouldn’t toss it around unless you have something to back it up.” His voice deepened. “Or something to hide.”
“She’s not hiding anything from me.”
“Are you sure?” Michael purred like a lion playing with a mouse. “How well do you know Rebecca Desjardin?”
“Well enough,” Bran snapped back. “I want you to stay out of my personal business.”
“Your business is my business. As long as you take my money.”
I winced. I knew Bran wasn’t financially independent—his reputation as a serious journalist was growing but a freelance writer only got paid per story, nothing guaranteed from week to week, month to month. He’d managed to snag some good paychecks as of late but it didn’t cover the amount of money he’d been tossing around since we’d been together.
I wasn’t the only one being blackmailed here.
“Where are you right now?” Michael asked.
“We’re hanging at a diner on Queen Street. Got some great steak and eggs,” Bran lied without missing a beat. “Talking things over. She’s upset with the way things went yesterday.”
“I understand. And believe me, I didn’t mean for it to get so...complicated for her. I can’t imagine the shock of finding a dead body and then having to deal with the police.” I could imagine him wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I hope she’s coping.”
“She’s doing as well as can be expected.”
“Good. I hope she’s had a chance to consider and can see things from my point of view,” Michael said. “I understand it’s rough with her, coming from such a disadvantaged family, to understand how things work for us.”
“What do you mean?” Bran asked.
I could imagine Michael Hanover sitting behind the oak desk, studying the photographs on his wall. “I understand it’s her job to be suspicious but I hope she’s not going to be silly and take her wild theories to the authorities.”
“What wild theories?” Bran asked.
I heard the hitch in Michael’s voice. He didn’t want to bring Bran into this but if he wanted to secure my total silence he had to.
“That I’m somehow more involved with this than I already am. I told the police everything—about how Brayton needed a discreet courier and I connected the two. Nothing more.”
Michael wasn’t stupid. He was worried about his line being tapped. A bit paranoid, but he hadn’t gotten to where he was by trusting people to stay silent.
“So she’s told me,” Bran replied coolly.
“I assume you don’t agree with her.”
“Reb has a different way of seeing things.” He reached out and tapped the edge of my nose. I responded with a smile despite the situation.
“She’s got to understand how things work in our family, Bran.” Michael’s tone grew harder. “If you expect us to accept her fully you’re going to have to keep her under control. She’s got to learn to know what to say in public and what stays behind closed doors.”
“Like Mom does?” Bran barked. “Letting you screw around behind her back, doing any woman who’s stupid enough to spread her legs for you?”
The men on the bench shuffled away at hearing his raised voice.
“Bran—”
“No. No no no.” Bran punched an invisible speed bag. “We are not going to do this over the phone. Come over to Reb’s place and we can talk about this.”
My stomach lurched. I didn’t want to be standing between Bran and his father. Having lost my own at a young age I couldn’t bear to be the reason their relationship fractured.
“Rebecca’s place?” Michael asked. “Why there?”
“Because I said so. We need to talk and I’m sure you don’t want me tearing up your office in front of all your employees.”
I couldn’t fault his logic. His father wouldn’t be at ease in public and definitely not at work. At least if he came to the house he’d be on my turf and we’d be able to deal with him without outside intervention.
“Okay. I’ll be there within the hour.” He hesitated. “It goes without saying I expect no tomfoolery from you.”
Tomfoolery? I mouthed the word.
Bran snorted. “Like what? Having the cops hide in the closet like some cheap detective novel?”
I bit my tongue. It wasn’t all that bad an idea.
Except Hank would kill me for asking.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Michael replied. “All I’m asking is that you allow me to present my view of the situation.”
Bran shook his head. “See you then.” He cut the connection.
“What are you going to do?”
“I want to hear the truth. I’m not letting him threaten you. We’re no closer to getting any answers and I’m fucking tired of getting to the party a day late and a dollar short. He’ll tell me what we need to know about Liam and about Molly Callendar.”
“And what happens if you don’t like what you hear?” I said softly.
He gave a halfhearted shrug. “Won’t be the first time.” He looked around. “Where’s the streetcar stop?”
“Let’s walk out to Yonge Street.” I waited until we were well away from the soup kitchen before venturing into dangerous territory. “What are you going to say to your father?”
“I don’t know,” Bran admitted. His hands curled up into fists and uncurled, curled and uncurled. “I want to smack the shit out of him but it won’t change anything. Especially if he’s responsible for what happened to Molly.” He rubbed his palms on his jeans. “I don’t know what to do. I’d say for you to call Attersley but there’s nothing we can give him that won’t put you in jeopardy.” He shook his head, lips pressed together in a thin line. “I won’t let that happen.”
I took one of his hands and held it. “Just think before you act.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“One little incident and you’ve got me all figured out, eh?”
Bran swooped in for a kiss, soft and sweet. “Not a chance. And I hope to spend many more years trying to figure you out.” The loving tone was tempered with sadness. He’d lost something today and I had no idea how he’d cope or recover.
This love thing was tough.
Chapter Nine
The streetcar ride was fast enough—we’d caught a straggling rush hour car and it surged along the tracks, dropping us near the house within the half hour.
“How fast can your father drive?” I wheezed as I trotted along, trying to keep up with Bran’s long strides.
“He has a driver. Probably sitting on the Gardiner in traffic.” He turned into the small yard. The rosebushes struggling to survive at the front jabbed out at us with fresh thorns as we brushed by and headed for the front door.
I worked on the deadbolt. Not that it stopped certain people from gaining access but I had to put up at least a façade of home security.
“What do you want me to do?” Bran asked.
I gave him a blank look. “What?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to do whatever you feel is right for you and for Liam.” I pushed the door open. “We’ll make do with the rest.”
Jazz strolled by us and hopped up on the couch, oblivious to the drama happening around her.
Bran let his breath out slowly. “Sometimes I envy that cat.”
I chuckled. “You’d like to be coughing up hairballs?”
“Not so much.”
“Do you want me to try and tape this?” I had an ancient cassette recorder in the bottom of my desk. I wasn’t even sure if it still worked.
Bran shook his head. “Not admissible in court unless both parties know they’re being taped. And I ca
n promise you my father won’t give permission.” He smiled and held up his cell phone. “If I wanted to I could do it with this. But it’d still be inadmissible.”
I resisted the urge to slap my forehead. I hadn’t figured out all the bits and pieces of this new phone.
“I’ll make some tea.” I headed for the kitchen, grateful to keep my hands busy. There was no way this meeting was going to end well.
All I could hope for was that the damage wasn’t permanent.
I heard the limo before Bran did, the low hum of the finely tuned engine a distinct sound in this area.
I listened. One set of footsteps coming toward the house.
Inside I breathed a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have put it past Michael to bring a whole troop of security thugs to make his point. I wasn’t prepared for a fight but I’d make them all bleed for it.
“He’s here.” I headed for the door. “Alone.”
“Good,” Bran answered. He rubbed his palms on his jeans.
I put on my neutral face and opened the door.
Michael Hanover stood there, his attention everywhere but on me. His eyes kept darting around the front yard as if zombies were about to rise up and eat him.
He should be so lucky.
Behind him the elderly white-haired driver leaned on the hood of the black stretch limousine reading a magazine.
“Rebecca. Brandon.” Michael wore another power suit, gray with a white shirt and salmon-colored tie. His hair was perfect, the gray spots at his temples carefully brushed into the short red strands. “May I come in?”
For a second I thought about slamming the door in his face with a laugh. That, or punching him in the face, laughing and then slamming the door.
“Rebecca,” Bran said behind me.
I put away the fantasies and stepped back to let him enter.
Michael Hanover moved to the center of the living room. His body language told me he didn’t want to be here.
I left the door unlocked. If we needed police or an ambulance I didn’t need the extra trouble of having to release the deadbolts again.
As far as I was concerned the danger was inside right now, not outside.
Family Pride (Blood of the Pride) Page 16
