A Man of Secrets

by Amanda Stevens

  Walking deliberately past Spence, she picked up another towel from the lounge and took her time as she blotted herself dry. Then she wrapped the towel around her body and knotted it just above her full breasts as she turned to find Spence watching her.

  She smiled knowingly as she picked up a glass from the table beside the lounge and lifted it to her lips. Moonlight sparked off the cut crystal like sunlight on diamonds.

  “Who was he?” Spence asked.

  “Ah. So you did see.” She took a deep drink from the glass. “It was nothing,” she said, coming to stand very close to him. “A harmless little dalliance. But I suppose you’re going to run straight to Mommy Dearest, aren’t you?”

  Spence could smell Scotch on her breath. “I don’t like the idea of strange men roaming around this house at all hours. You should know better than to bring somebody here.”

  She reached out and traced a scarlet nail down the front of his jacket. “I didn’t bring him here. He lives on the grounds. He’s the gardener’s son.”

  “Johnny?”

  “He likes to be called John now.”

  Spence had a vague recollection of a scrawny little boy with a gap-toothed smile helping his father weed the flower beds. A mercenary kid, all too willing to desert his post for more lucrative endeavors, like washing Spence’s car. Hardly the image of the muscular man who had climbed out of the pool—and Melinda’s arms—a few minutes ago.

  “Your grief is touching,” Spence said in disgust.

  The smile vanished from Melinda’s face. She lifted her chin so that he could see the sudden shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I am grieving,” she whispered. “But we all have different ways of coping.”

  “So I heard a few minutes ago.”

  She at least had the grace to look embarrassed, but only momentarily. Turning, she walked back to the lounge and sat down, crossing her legs in a way that left very little to the imagination. But then, Spence didn’t have to imagine. He’d already seen, and the view hadn’t moved him. Melinda was a beautiful woman, but she wasn’t his type.

  She wasn’t Natalie.

  “No matter what you think about me,” Melinda said, her lips quivering in distress, “I loved Anthony. He was my whole world.”

  “Then you must have been devastated when he told you he wanted a divorce.”

  Her mouth literally dropped open. A dozen emotions flashed across her face until, after several painful seconds, she seemed to get them all under control. She gave him an outraged glance. “Where in the world did you get an idea like that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Of course not! Anthony loved me. We were planning a family together. He wanted children with me. A son by me.”

  “You were married for six years,” Spence observed. “Why wait so long?”

  “We saw no hurry. After all, we thought we had years and years ahead of us. How could we have known—” She broke off, and with some effort, squeezed a tear from one eye. With a flourish, she wiped it away with the back of her hand. “How could we have known that woman would destroy everything? She was always so jealous of me. She couldn’t stand it that Anthony wanted me, that he chose me over her. She killed him because she couldn’t have him.”

  With an effort, Spence kept his expression even. “Natalie and Anthony have been divorced for years,” he said.

  “That didn’t matter to her! Anthony told me that she was always coming on to him, begging him to take her back. Her and her…son.” She made the last word sound like an unpleasantness that was beyond bearable.

  An image of Kyle came to Spence now—the dark, unruly hair, the deep green eyes, and the quick smile that always seemed to have a hint of mischief lurking at the corners.

  How could Anthony have ignored Kyle for so long, and then decided, for whatever reason Spence could only guess, that it was time he had custody regardless of how his actions would affect the boy?

  Because Anthony had been a ruthless, greedy man. A Bishop. And after tonight, Spence had to wonder if he was really any better. He’d deliberately set out to use Natalie for his own agenda, and regardless of what he’d tried to tell himself over the years, the end did not always justify the means. He’d put her and Kyle’s lives in danger, and Spence knew he would have a hard time ever justifying that.

  And so would Natalie.

  “I don’t believe she killed Anthony,” he said quietly.

  Melinda gasped. “What? Of course, she killed him! Look at the evidence.”

  “There were no eyewitnesses.”

  “But she was found kneeling over the body with the murder weapon in her hand. His blood was all over her.”

  “She was knocked unconscious. When she came to, she tried to see about Anthony, not even realizing the knife had been placed in her hand.”

  “Oh, please. That’s what she says.”

  “I’m inclined to believe her. How else do you explain her workroom being ransacked?”

  “She and Anthony struggled. Or, more likely, she did it herself after she killed him, to make herself look like the victim.”

  “That’s what the police seem to think,” Spence admitted. “But it all seems just a little too perfect to me. Like someone planned it all out.”

  “Someone did. She did.” Melinda’s full lips drew together in a practiced pout as she stared up at him. “What is the matter with you, Spencer? Where’s your loyalty to this family?”

  That was rich, coming from her. But Spence let it pass, saying instead, “My loyalty belongs with the truth, and I’m beginning to think there might have been someone else who stood to gain more from Anthony’s death than Natalie Silver.”

  Someone who was about to be divorced and cut off without a penny.

  Spence didn’t say the words, but they hung in the air between them. Melinda’s gaze faltered and she turned away, but not before he saw the outrage in her eyes turn to fear. He’d gotten what he came for, Spence thought, turning and walking back toward the house. He didn’t need to wait for Anthea after all.

  * * *

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE coming back to work today,” Blanche said, reaching over to squeeze Natalie’s hand. They were having a morning cup of coffee at one of the riverside tables at Delmontico’s. “It hasn’t been the same without you. Every time I saw that police tape—” She broke off, closing her eyes briefly.

  Natalie nodded. “I know. Believe me, I’m not looking forward to going back in there, but the police have given their okay, and I can’t delay any longer. I’ve lost too much business, as it is. I’ve been afraid to even try to calculate the damage.” She’d been afraid of so many things lately, especially the threat she’d gotten from Russo last night. He’d said he would be in touch to arrange the drop, but what would he do when she couldn’t produce the diamonds?

  Natalie shuddered, thinking about Kyle. He was safe, she told herself, tucked away in her parents’ house. Her father had recently installed a state-of-the-art security system, and the neighborhood was regularly patrolled by the police.

  He was safe for now, but in the meantime, she’d already begun to make arrangements for her parents and son to leave town. Just in case.

  For a moment, Natalie toyed with the idea of confessing all to Blanche. She needed someone to talk to, and for some reason that she couldn’t—or didn’t want to—understand, she’d done as Spence had asked. She hadn’t told the police about Russo and the diamonds, mainly because she didn’t think they would believe her—not without Spence backing her up. And he’d made it clear his main objective was nailing Russo.

  She sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders this morning.

  “Well,” Blanche was saying, “you know I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  Natalie smiled. “You’ve been a good friend.”

  Such a good friend that Natalie knew when something was wrong. As wrapped up as she was in her own problems, she could still tell that Blanche wasn’t herself. Her complexion looked pale and si
ckly, and her brown eyes—usually so vibrant—were dull and listless. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. Even her attire—always a point of pride with Blanche—was drab and unflattering, the baggy, dark green sweater she wore making the shadows beneath her eyes even more pronounced.

  “Blanche, is something wrong?” Natalie asked carefully.

  “I’ve been worried sick about you,” Blanche said over the rim of her coffee cup.

  “I know, but…is there something else? You look so… You don’t look yourself.”

  Blanche smiled ruefully. “I look like hell. Be honest.”

  “What’s wrong?” Natalie asked in concern.

  “It’s nothing, really. Not compared to your problems.” Blanche set down her cup and stared at the dark brew swirling inside.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  Blanche looked up, startled. “Him?”

  “That man you’ve being seeing. He’s married, isn’t he?”

  Blanche looked as if she was about to deny it, then she shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

  “Why? He didn’t…leave you, did he?”

  Blanche’s gaze darted away. “You might say that.”

  “Oh, Blanche. I was afraid something like this would happen. And right before Christmas. I’m so sorry.”

  “No sorrier than I am.”

  Natalie leaned toward her and patted the back of Blanche’s hand. “He isn’t worth it, you know. He isn’t worth letting it get to you like this.”

  Blanche took a deep breath, her eyes on a blackbird that had come to feed on bread crumbs at the river’s edge. “I know he wasn’t worth it. I’ve told myself that a hundred times. But it still hurts.”

  “What are you going to do?” Natalie asked.

  “What can I do? Life goes on, doesn’t it?” She paused, then said, “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What’s the latest word on your case?”

  Natalie sat back in her chair and stared glumly at the river. “I talked to my lawyer this morning. The police aren’t dropping the charges against me.” She’d had some hope that they might after last night, but her attorney had said the D.A. was adamant. A grand jury would have to decide whether or not the evidence against her was sufficient to warrant a trial.

  “Meanwhile, like you, I have to get on with my life. And that means reopening the shop.”

  “How’s Kyle taking all this?”

  “He’s…incredible.” Natalie forced a smile and told Blanche about her son threatening to punch Irene Bishop in the nose for thinking his mother was guilty.

  For the first time that morning, Blanche laughed. Her mood seemed to lighten a little as they talked about Kyle, but then sobered again when she said, “You don’t really think Irene means to take Kyle away from you, do you?”

  Natalie shivered in the bright sunlight, thinking about Irene Bishop and her threats, and the revelations Spence had made last night. Just where did Kyle’s inheritance fit into Irene’s plans?

  There was no way Natalie would ever let Irene get her hands on Kyle. Even if it meant making a few revelations of her own. But would that help? Or would it create even more problems? A whole different set of concerns. And threats.

  “If she tries,” Natalie said, “I’ll fight her. There’s no way I’ll ever let her take Kyle. No matter what I have to do to stop her.”

  Blanche’s eyes looked worried as she gazed at Natalie in distress. “I remember you saying almost exactly the same thing about Anthony. And a few hours later, he turned up dead.”

  * * *

  “SHE DIDN’T DO IT.”

  “The evidence says she did,” Sergeant Phillips growled as he shoved a file into his drawer and slammed it shut. “Besides, it’s out of my hands. The D.A. thinks there’s sufficient evidence to prosecute.”

  “You could still intervene and you know it,” Spence insisted.

  Sergeant Phillips shook his head. “That isn’t the way it works, and you know it. What is it about this broad that has you so worked up, anyway? For an ex-sister-in-law, she certainly seems to have made an impression on you.”

  Spence ran an annoyed hand through his hair. “Look, I’ve told you the facts of the case as I know them. I’ve told you more than I should have.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a day late and a dollar short as far as I’m concerned. I really don’t appreciate the feds waltzing in here and laying claim to one of my cases.”

  “I’m not doing that. I’m giving you what I know in order to help in your investigation.”

  Phillips’s pale eyes studied him suspiciously. “And what do you want in return? Because if you want the charges dropped against Natalie Silver—”

  Spence shook his head. He’d given up on that. “I want you to keep an open mind. I want you to investigate the leads I’ve given you.”

  Sergeant Phillips looked down at the paper on his desk. “Interesting list. What about Russo?”

  “He’s mine.”

  “Figures.” Phillips glanced up. His pale eyes met Spence’s and he shook his head. “You are one crazy son of a bitch, you know that? I’d bet my pension that woman’s guilty.”

  “I’m sure you would.” Spence rose and planted his hands on the sergeant’s desk. “And that’s exactly the kind of mind-set that worries me.”

  * * *

  BEFORE SPENCE LEFT the area, he went by the local FBI office to pick up a fax he’d received from headquarters. He opened the folder and studied the dossier inside.

  The man in the grainy but recognizable photo had gotten out of Joliet Federal Penitentiary six years ago, after having served ten years for manslaughter. Before that, he had been sent up on federal racketeering charges, and before that, for grand larceny. He had been in and out of prison for the better part of his adult life, and had known ties to the mob, in both Dallas and San Antonio.

  Spence studied the picture of Frank Delmontico and smiled in satisfaction. He never forgot a face.

  “Gotcha,” he muttered.

  * * *

  NATALIE UNLOCKED THE front door of Silver Bells and started to step inside, but someone called her name, and she turned to see Frank Delmontico climbing the stairs to the second-story landing.

  He was dressed all in black today—black tailored pants and a black silk shirt open at the neck. Two young men—presumably busboys, since they wore stained white aprons over their clothes—followed him up the stairs.

  Natalie paused, not understanding why Frank had taken such a sudden interest in her. Since the murder, almost everyone else couldn’t distance themselves fast enough from her, but Frank Delmontico chose this particular time to befriend her. Strange, to say the least.

  “You’re opening your shop today.” It was a statement not a question, as if he’d already known she would be here.

  Natalie nodded. “The police have given their okay. I guess they’ve done everything they need to do.”

  Frank paused for a moment, then said, “Have you been inside since the murder?”

  He didn’t stumble or look away when he said “murder.” In a way, his bluntness was something of a relief. Natalie shook her head. “No. This is the first time.”

  “Then no one’s been in to clean up.”

  At first Natalie thought he was talking about the broken glass and debris in her office, but then she realized he meant the blood. Her stomach took a sickening jolt at the crimson memory of that night.

  “That isn’t something a woman should have to do,” Frank said.

  Natalie’s mind was only half on what he was saying. “What isn’t?”

  “The cleanup. My boys will do it for you.” With a jerk of his wrist, he summoned the two young men and they stepped forward, eager to take charge.

  Natalie was touched, but at the same time, she didn’t quite know what to think. “Why…why would you do this for me? You don’t even really know me.”

  Frank shrugged. “It isn’t something a woman s
hould have to do,” he repeated, as if that were explanation enough. “My boys are trustworthy. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “I’m not.” But Natalie realized that on the fringes of her mind, she had been. Perhaps everything she’d been through had jaded her, made her too ready to distrust someone’s motives. She didn’t like that about herself. It was too…Bishop-like.

  She forced herself to smile gratefully. “Okay. I accept your offer. Thank you.”

  Frank smiled, too. “Don’t you worry. My boys will take care of everything.”

  * * *

  AND THEY DID. Two hours later Natalie stood in her office and gazed around. The glass and debris had been swept away, the books and packaging returned to the shelves, and the contents of her desk drawers neatly stacked on her desk. The only thing to remind her of that awful night was the dark water stain on the carpet where they had scrubbed away the blood.

  As she stared at the stain, the horror of that night came rushing back to her. She’d tried to forget, but there was no way she ever would. The moment she’d opened her eyes and turned her head to see Anthony lying on the floor beside her, his blood covering them both…

  She put her hands to her eyes, trying to block the images. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she rubbed her fingertips across them.

  “So it’s true,” someone said behind her. “The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.”

  Natalie spun at that voice. Anthea stood in the doorway, clad in a dark pin-striped suit with a double-breasted jacket and man-tailored slacks. She wore loafers, carried a briefcase, and her short, dark hair was heavily gelled and combed straight back from her unmade-up face.

  Caught off guard, Natalie stared at her for a moment, realizing she’d forgotten how tall Anthea was. Almost as tall as Anthony had been. In fact, she looked very much like her twin brother today. The resemblance was… startling.

  Seemingly unaware of the effect her appearance had on Natalie, Anthea walked into the office, then stopped short, her gaze dropping to the water stain on the floor. As if in fascination, she studied it for a long moment before lifting her green eyes to meet Natalie’s. “Do you really think a little water will wash away what you’ve done?”