Endgame (Last Chance Series)

by Dee Davis

  "They're up in arms because I went up on the roof today," Madison explained.

  "I just wish I'd been there," Harrison complained. "The computer guy never gets to have any fun."

  "Like you haven't handled your share of cases." Madison rolled her eyes. "He loves to play geek. But no one's buying."

  "Well, you've both got more energy than I do." Kingston's smile encompassed them both. "And on that note, I think I should be heading home." He started for the door. "Keep me posted. And watch your backs."

  Harrison frowned. "Optimistic guy."

  "He means well. But I'm afraid he's been listening to Dad more than he should." Madison sighed, rubbing her temples. "I'll be glad when this is over."

  "Me, too." He walked over to one of the PCs. "Thought I'd take another crack at the Homeland Security computers."

  "Still hoping to find an alias?"

  "Yeah. Payton and I were talking and he thinks I should be trying translations of the name. Maybe it's got a correlation in another language." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture making him look like a kid. "There's got to be something. Nobody exists in a vacuum."

  "Maybe not. But sometimes it's damn close."

  "You going home?" Harrison was already typing. In another minute he'd be lost in his own little world of bits and bytes.

  "No." She was feeling restless, and an empty apartment was only going to magnify the problem. "I thought I'd swing by Jeremy Bosner's. I told Gabe I'd talk to him about beefing up his security. And now seems as good a time as any."

  Harrison swiveled around to look at her. "It's almost ten o'clock."

  She looked at her watch, surprised that it was so late, then shrugged. "Better safe than sorry. Besides, Jeremy's always been a night owl. He'll be up."

  "You and Gabriel all right?" The question came from left field, and Madison worked to cover her surprise.

  "Everything's fine, why?"

  "Because he stormed through the hotel lobby, just as Payton and I were heading to the restaurant. And based on your earlier encounter, I figured maybe the two of you had gone on to round two."

  "We talked," Madison said, knowing full well they'd done a hell of a lot more than that. "I might have hit a few sore spots."

  "If his glower was anything to go by, I'd say more than a few."

  "He'll survive." She shrugged. "Besides, he got no more than he deserved." That wasn't exactly true. He'd scared her. But not with words. In fact, it had been his gentle perception that angered her the most. She didn't want to be understood, and she certainly didn't need advice from Gabriel Roarke.

  The man had nothing she needed.

  Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE BAR WAS CROWDED, the kind of place that only Nigel could have sniffed out. Molly Malone's was as close to a British pub as one was likely to find this side of the pond. At the moment, Nigel was bellied up to the bar having a spirited discussion with the bartender about a soccer match on television.

  Payton sat in the corner, nursing the same beer he'd ordered an hour ago, while Gabe, sitting across from him, was well into his third whiskey. Probably not a strategic move, but at the moment, it suited his mood to dull his brain, twelve-year-old Bushmills being his weapon of choice.

  The bottle sat open on the table and he stared at the amber liquid as it glowed in the lamplight. "Why the hell did you tell Madison about Iraq?"

  If he'd had one less drink, he probably wouldn't have asked, but it irked him that Payton had shared secrets with Madison. Partly because he wanted that part of his life dead and buried, and partly because he didn't like the idea of Payton sharing anything with Madison.

  Payton twirled his beer glass idly, considering the question. "I didn't tell her anything she didn't already know."

  "Then how did..." He trailed off, realizing immediately where the information had come from. "Cullen."

  "So she said. Look, in her defense, she's just trying to understand you." Payton's expression was inscrutable, the shadows of the pub hiding even his scar.

  "Me?" Gabe choked out a laugh, remembering her earlier dismissal. "Believe me, that's definitely not what she's doing. More than likely she's trying to profile us. Identify all our little idiosyncrasies and then categorize us—tying everything up in neat little boxes."

  Payton raised his eyebrows, not saying a word, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  "I hope you didn't tell her anything." Gabe could no more explain his anger than he could explain his attraction for the woman, but at the moment both were undeniable.

  "Of course not." Payton's expression darkened. "I don't talk to anyone about what happened. You better than anyone should understand that." He finished the beer, slamming the glass back on the table. "I told you I just confirmed what she'd been told."

  "I'm sorry. I overreacted."

  "The woman gets to you." Payton's lips quirked upward again. "Anyone can see that. I kind of like knowing you aren't immune to the species."

  "She pisses me off, if that's what you're talking about. But beyond that I don't give a flying fuck what happens to her as long as she stays the hell out of my business." At the sound of his rising voice, the couple at the next table turned to look at him, and Gabe felt heat rushing up the back of his neck.

  "Obviously I think she's less of a menace than you do. Why don't we leave it at that." Payton was openly smiling now.

  "Leave what at what?" Nigel walked up, slid into the chair next to Gabe and handed Payton a new beer.

  "Nothing," Gabe barked, his anger receding but not vanished. "How'd the game come out?"

  "We always lose in the clutch." Nigel shrugged cheerfully. "But I never give up hope. Any chance you solved the case while I went missing?"

  "No." Payton met Gabe's gaze, ignoring the message there. "We've been talking about Madison Harper."

  "Quite a girl, our Madison." Nigel's grin grew wolfish.

  "She's off-limits." Gabe glared at his friend. "We're working with her. Period."

  "Ah, so that's the way the wind blows, is it?" Nigel pursed his lips and swallowed a laugh. "I should have known."

  "There's no wind." Gabe wished suddenly that he'd stayed in his room. His bottle of whiskey would have tasted just as good there, and he wouldn't have had to endure his so-called friends' abuse. "I just want everyone's mind on business. Madison is a part of the team. Deal with it. And keep your goddamn hands to yourself. Got it?"

  "Sir, yes, sir." Nigel saluted smartly, still laughing.

  "Have you heard anything else from Lin Yao?" Gabe asked, determined to change the subject.

  Payton put his glass down, his expression turning serious. "Still nothing substantiated. But there's definitely something going on. Two antigovernment groups in particular have popped onto the radar. One is based in Northern China and keeps a notoriously high profile."

  "Meaning they're not our boys," Nigel said, leaning in to keep his voice low. "If they were, the murders would have been splashed across the headlines."

  "Exactly." Payton leaned back against the wall, his eyes traveling around the room, automatically checking for listeners. "But it doesn't completely rule them out. The second group is more likely. They're headquartered in the high Himalayas. Sort of the Chinese equivalent to the Hole in the Wall Gang.

  "Stealth is their main mode of operation, and Yao's sources confirm they're not happy about the accord. He has one source who believes there's been activity in the U.S., but he wants to confirm it independently, so I'm waiting for word. In the meantime, Harrison is checking for movement and also for anyone who is associated with them that might use W. Smith as an alias."

  "I've been over the potential target list," Gabe said, "and I think the clear winners are Cullen, Kingston Sinclair and Jeremy Bosner. Cullen is aware of what's going on of course, as is Sinclair, and I asked Madison to talk to Bosner." Gabe twirled the whiskey in his glass.

  "You realize there could be others," Nigel said to no one
in particular.

  "Yes. Unfortunately there's no way to watch over everyone. In fact, I'm not sure it does us any good to watch anyone. It's far more important that we work toward finding the bastards behind this."

  "Preferably before anyone else dies." Payton blew out a breath. "Anything come in from the lab?"

  "Nothing substantial. They lifted three prints and a partial. Two of Madison's and one of mine." Gabe couldn't keep the chagrin from his voice.

  "And the partial?" Nigel asked.

  "No identity so far. But they're still working on it. I'm not expecting much. The rest of the apartment was clean. If our man was there at all, he's hardly likely to have wiped down everything but the windowsill. I expect it will turn out to be one of ours or someone in the apartment building."

  "How about interviews—anyone in the building see Smith?" Payton's frown mirrored Gabe's. It seemed every step forward resulted in another two or three back.

  "I can answer that one," Nigel said. "I talked to everyone on Smith's floor. There were three other apartments. And typical of New York, everyone claims not to have seen him."

  "You think someone's lying?"

  "Unfortunately, no." Nigel shook his head. "In places like that people work to mind their own business. If you don't, you wind up dead. A couple of Tracy Braxton's techs did the lower floors. And again there was nothing. Someone on the second floor thought maybe they'd seen him, but when pressed couldn't come up with anything except that he was white."

  "It's something, I guess." Payton didn't sound hopeful. "But I'd say the odds are against it. Unless he wanted to be seen."

  "If this is meant as a wild-goose chase then it's possible, I suppose." Nigel leaned back in his chair, his brows drawn together in thought. "But I'm thinking that more likely he knows we're on to him and simply cleared out."

  "So how do you explain the ghost act?" Gabe asked.

  "The vagrant idea actually has merit," Payton said, draining the last of his beer. "That particular neighborhood is full of them. So it isn't too much of a stretch. Maybe the partial will confirm it."

  "Even if it was a vagrant, that doesn't explain where the hell he went."

  "He must have jumped the gap between the buildings. It's the only logical explanation," Nigel said.

  "But it was at least twelve feet." Payton looked to Gabe for confirmation, and then back to Nigel. "That's one hell of an agile tramp."

  "Takes all kinds." Nigel laughed.

  Gabe realized suddenly that he was tired and it was late. He wondered where Madison was, then quashed the thought. Fatigue did strange things to a man. Lowered his defenses. Opened doors he'd thought firmly closed.

  What he needed was a good night's sleep. Everything would look clearer in the morning. And in the meantime, he'd simply banish all thoughts of her from his mind.

  *****

  IT WAS TOO COLD to be walking, but Madison didn't care. She needed to clear her head. She'd taken a taxi to Fifty-seventh and Second, and then on impulse made him stop and let her out. Jeremy Bosner lived on the corner of Second and Sutton Place, so she really hadn't far to go, and the crisp October night was just the tonic she needed.

  The wind blew sharply off the East River, cutting through the leather of her coat as if it were cotton or chintz. She pulled the collar closer and tipped her face to the breeze, letting it wash away the frustrations of the day.

  They'd found nothing, just chased their tails around while the murderer yanked their chain. Of that she was certain. Whoever had hacked into the computer had wanted them to find him, or at least the trail he'd left. He was toying with them.

  Just as Gabriel Roarke was toying with her.

  Madison stuffed her hands into her pockets, picking up the pace. There were people on the street, but not as many as she'd have expected this time of night. Light spilled across the pavement as she passed storefronts and apartment buildings. Above her, wildly gyrating leaves were lit by the adjacent apartments. People safe and warm.

  Home.

  A rush of longing swept over her, the need to belong swamping all other emotion. It was a stupid thought, of course. The wistful dreams of a foolish girl. And she was no longer that girl. She had a home. Just blocks from here. And her father and her mother, and friends, and a job she loved.

  She needed nothing else. It was only the past reaching out to pull at her. Like the wind. She pulled her arms into her sides, attempting to lock in the meager warmth her jacket provided. She should have stayed in the taxi.

  She stopped, half thinking that she'd flag another one, when something, a movement or a noise, dragged at her subconscious. Slowly she turned around, her gaze sweeping the street, looking for the source of the worry blossoming in her gut.

  The last of the evening's stragglers seemed to have disappeared. She was nearing York and the river, Fifty-seventh Street shifting from retail to residential seemingly in an instant. Behind her, about a half a block away, a man walked his dog. Or more precisely, his dog walked him.

  A couple across the street stood in the shadows, making out, their arms locked around each other, oblivious to everything else. Jealousy tickled her mind, but was dismissed easily in her need to find the source of her concern.

  She waited in the lamplight, watching the street for signs of something amiss. Nothing moved except the man and the dog, the lust-filled couple, and an elderly man and woman who emerged from a building just up the way. Everything was as it should be. Her imagination was simply getting the best of her.

  With a shiver, she hurried forward. Jeremy lived just past Sutton Place, his brownstone part of a cul-de-sac that had held court for a couple hundred years, the graceful buildings harking back to a more elegant time.

  She passed the police booth at the corner, noted it was unmanned, and made a mental note to see that the NYPD were alerted to the situation. No sense in not taking advantage of what would seem normal observation.

  The light changed and she pushed on across the street, the wind stronger now that she was so close to the river. It stung her cheeks, dancing in her hair, whipping the strands into her eyes, only to die down to nothing once she reached the shelter of the row of brownstones.

  She was relieved to see light coming from across the street—Jeremy's parlor window. She'd been to the brownstone many times over the years, usually at Christmas. It was beautiful in a Dickensian kind of way, complete with gabled windows, wrought-iron fencing and a Scrooge-like lion head that served as a door knocker.

  She was also delighted to note that the twenty-first century prevailed in the form of a security camera mounted above the door. After opening the gate, she climbed the steps to Jeremy's red-painted doorway, thinking that the only thing missing from the picture was a planter with a bay tree.

  The wind whistled behind her, and again the hairs on her neck prickled. She spun around, eyes straining into the dark for something out of place. She could hear the quiet whoosh of the traffic on the FDR, and see the white caps of the waves in the river.

  Everything in its place. She was just jumpy.

  The brownstone immediately across the way was covered with scaffolding, home improvement New York-style. The flanking buildings were also dark but obviously occupied, their residents most likely already in bed for the night. Which was no doubt exactly where she should be. Shaking her head at her own folly, she started back down the steps, only to turn again when she heard the door behind her opening.

  Jeremy stood in the warm light that spilled out across the stoop, his gaunt face creased with worry. "Has something happened?"

  "No." Madison shook her head, embarrassment coloring her words. "I came by to talk to you about security, but I hadn't realized how late it was."

  "Thank God." The older man's face relaxed into a smile. "I was afraid there'd been another murder."

  "No, nothing like that."

  "Good. I'm glad to hear it. I just poured myself a brandy. Why don't you come in and keep me company? It's a dreadful night to be out." He
shot a look into the shadows almost as if he, too, feared something was out there. But then again, he would be worried, Madison thought.

  "Come on. I've been meaning to talk with you anyway." He moved to the side, gesturing her to enter.

  "All right." She walked past him into the lovely marble foyer. "If you're certain I'm not intruding." Just at the moment a brandy seemed the perfect way to abolish the uneasy jitters that had followed her down Fifty-seventh. And she did need to talk to him.

  Jeremy closed the door and led her into the parlor, a beautiful walnut-paneled room with a fire blazing cozily at one end. There was an open bottle of brandy sitting on a drinks table beside a velvet sofa, and across from it, next to the fire, a half-empty glass balanced on the arm of a wing chair. An open book sat next to it. Madison could just make out the tide—Nine Coaches Waiting. A great story, but an odd choice for Jeremy, surely?

  It was only then that she noticed he was wearing a velvet smoking jacket, faded gray flannels adding to the sense of timelessness. An era long gone, yet still preserved here as if it had only been yesterday. Madison smiled and held her hands out to the fire. "It's wonderfully warm in here. I really do feel as if I've interrupted your evening."

  "Nonsense, my dear. You're just the tonic this old man needed."

  She turned to face him, accepting the glass he held out. "I'm afraid I haven't come with any answers. If you talked to Cullen, you'll know that today wasn't much of a success."

  Jeremy nodded, and settled back into the wing chair, brandy in hand. "He mentioned that the killer managed to slip through your fingers. But that isn't what I wanted to talk about. The truth is, I owe you an apology."

  "For what?" Madison sank down onto the sofa, trying to follow the turn of the conversation.

  "I was out of line yelling at you. I know that the task force is working as quickly as possible. It's just that my conversation with Chiao Chien was frustrating to say the least. We've worked so hard to lay the groundwork, and to think that some dissident could undo the whole thing by randomly killing the principal players..." He stared morosely into his brandy glass.