by Jill Gregory
He was married to a former Miss World, had two perfect children—and the one that was imperfect, the brain-damaged eldest son who had been born first and in trauma after an automobile accident, had been shipped off to an institution, well cared for but ignored, as if he no longer existed.
And if Dolph didn’t soon find what Ricky Sabatini had stolen from Tate, he knew he would no longer exist either.
Because Tate would decide he was no longer the best. There was always someone waiting to take his place, someone stronger, smarter, more ruthless and resourceful. Dolph had risen through the ranks in just such a way and he knew the drill.
Already, Hammer, who had gone trigger-happy with Archie Noon, and Lyle Samuels, the tech genius who had installed and been responsible for the Tate house’s security system, had both been removed. Bloodily removed. Piece-by-piece removed.
Their bodies would never be found and no one would ever know. But Dolph knew—because he had disposed of them, exactly as Tate had ordered.
Hammer had screwed up. And Samuels’s system had failed. His guards and dogs and alarms and buttons and lasers had failed.
And Mr. Tate loathed failure. Particularly when it hit home, and this particular failure had hit home in the most personal way for Oliver Tate.
Ricky Sabatini had stolen from him. Stolen something of immense value and beauty. Something Mr. Tate prided himself on possessing—especially since he himself had stolen it from an enemy.
And if Dolph didn’t get it back, and soon . . .
He thought of what he had done to Hammer and Samuels. And knew that there were at least three men on his team who would be only too happy to do the same to him. And then to step into his shoes.
Men ready to prove that they were the best at whatever Oliver Tate asked of them.
Dolph waited until the boy ran from the room, the coin clenched tight in his hand, and then he spoke.
“I’m leaving in an hour for Salt Lake City to follow up on the Warner woman. I didn’t want to tell you earlier in case it didn’t pan out, but Len might have a lead on Sabatini and is checking it out. I’ll know more from him by the end of the day.”
“That’s more like it.” Tate nodded. “Keep me informed. I want him dead as much as I want what he stole from me.”
“And the woman? If we find her and she doesn’t have it after all?”
“Kill her regardless. It’ll be a lesson to Sabatini and to anyone else who might try to go up against me. Don’t come back here, Dolph, until she’s dead.”
Dolph nodded. He hoped he was the one to find the woman. It would prove his worth to Tate once and for all, and besides, he liked killing women. In addition to the stress, the pressure, and of course, the high pay and equally high stakes, this job had some special perks. Now and then he got paid to do what he liked best.
Standing before Oliver Tate, he struggled to keep from smiling. First he’d make her tell him everything she knew about Tate’s little treasure and about Ricky Sabatini’s whereabouts, likes and dislikes, friends, all the information they’d need to track him down—and then he’d kill her.
Slowly. Deliciously.
“Dolph, I’m tired of waiting. I want them both found and I want my property. You’re to bring it back here personally. If you can’t do it in a timely fashion, I’ll have no choice but to turn the matter over to someone who can get the job done.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Tate. I won’t let you down.”
Oliver Tate made no reply. He watched Dolph leave, thinking what a shame it would be to lose him—Dolph was quick and intelligent and ruthless, as well as being big as an ox.
But if he couldn’t recover the prize, what good was he?
I can’t afford inefficiency, Tate thought, turning back to the window. Far below he saw his wife applying sunscreen to Stephanie’s back and legs. He liked watching them from above, surveying the kingdom he had created for them, for all three of them.
The sprawling Tudor house in Southhampton, the three acres of gardens, velvety cool and brilliant with flowers, the stables where only Thoroughbreds were allowed to dwell. Then there was the cabana and guesthouses, which were larger than the stinking ship he’d toiled on to earn his passage to America.
His children would never know what it was to be spat upon, beaten, dressed in rags. They would never know hunger or fear. They were born to lead, as he was leading, and they would lead from strength. Always from strength.
He’d teach them. Especially Eric. The boy would one day take his place and he must see what a leader needed to do to stay on top.
He must know. Just as Olvan Tatrinsky knew what he must do to those who had stolen from him.
The loss of one treasure was as bad as the loss of all. It could not be tolerated, and such an affront must be punished, rectified, and purged. The treasure was his, for as long as he chose to keep it. And someday when he decided it was time, when he had tired of looking at it, admiring it, anytime he chose, he would give it to Stephanie. She must have the best, only the best.
And no scum cop like Ricky Sabatini was going to cheat Oliver Tate and his family out of anything.
At least, not for long.
His secretary buzzed him from the reception area outside. The entire third floor of the house was set up as a home office with a reception area, conference room, and a private office suite. There was also a completely separate, private entrance for those admitted through the security gates with special passes.
“Yes, Linda.”
Below he saw the housemaid setting up a tray on the patio beside the pool. No doubt crab salad and caviar and French bread and baby greens, as Renee preferred when dining alfresco. He expected there would be peach melbas for dessert. He was eager to go down and join them, to sit with Renee and hear her tell him about Eric’s achievement.
But his secretary’s words made him grimace, for he’d have to delay several moments before riding the elevator down to the pool.
“Wallace Becker is on line three.”
“I’ll take it.”
NYPD precinct captain Wallace Becker spoke the moment he clicked onto the secure line. “We’ve got him— we’ve got Sabatini. My men are working him over as we speak. Any time now, he should be begging us to make a deal.”
Chapter 9
ADA SCOTT WAS ENJOYING HERSELF IMMENSELY. How she relished having all these laughing, chattering women in her house—relished how pretty her parents’ oak dining table looked set with its lacy white cloth and her Blue Willow dishes and the small cut-crystal bowl in its center brimming with chrysanthemums.
The house smelled good too—thanks to Bessie’s and Katy’s help with the cooking. They’d fixed chicken-and-spinach quiche for lunch, along with a tossed salad of baby greens, pecans, grapes, and mandarin oranges. Roberta had insisted on baking her grandmother’s cranberry muffins, and Ada had contributed dessert: her own special pineapple upside-down cake, along with lemon cookies and ice cream.
Sunlight beamed in through the ivory lace curtains and seemed to crown her small cozy living room with a chestnut glow that made even the worn furnishings look almost lustrous once more.
As much as she loved the peace and isolation of her two-story frame house perched at the secluded end of Angel Road, she often still missed the company of her husband and her son when he was growing up—and of Billy and all his friends now that he was away at college.
She felt her throat closing suddenly and tears threatening. She blinked them back. Silly, foolish, old woman. There was nothing to cry over. She’d lived a good long life and there was still some more to go, if God was willing.
She had a good many friends, not to mention Bessie and the Templetons. And a job and a right smart grandson who was going to get a college diploma.
She had no right to cry at all.
Pouring icy lemonade from her mother’s crystal pitcher into tall glasses, she glanced once more around the living room.
Corinne, bless her, seemed as happy as the
meadowlark singing in the aspen outside the window. She’d waited a long time for Roy to get over Katy Templeton and get around to popping the question. She deserved to be happy.
“What do you guess she’s thinking about right now?” Katy Brent murmured in her ear, so suddenly that Ada started and almost sloshed lemonade over the side of the glass.
“Who, honey? Corinne?”
“No . . . Josy. Over there by the window. Josy Warner. She looks almost hypnotized, doesn’t she?”
Sure enough, the newcomer to town—who for some reason Corinne and Roberta seemed to have adopted— was admiring Ada’s small array of old family photographs and knickknacks atop the small stone mantelpiece above the fireplace, studying each in abject fascination, as if it were a glittering gold bar dug out of earth and rock.
“Seems a bit odd, if you ask me.” Ada shrugged. “Hard to believe some fancy Chicago interior designer is going to want to copy how I display my little treasures.”
“Why not? She could probably learn a thing or two from you. Your house is my favorite in this whole town— except for my own old home, and my cabin with Jackson and Mattie. I get the feeling Josy is . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and Ada glanced at her sharply. “She’s what? Speak your mind, Katy.”
“I was going to say she’s . . . I don’t know . . . lost. Or . . . looking for something.”
“That one?” Ada adjusted the dessert plates so that they lined up evenly with the edge of the table. “She seems cool as a cucumber to me. Even if she is a fish out of water.”
“You don’t like her?” Katy stared at her in surprise.
“Now, I didn’t say that. She’s nice and quite pretty if you like that city-girl look. And I liked the way she stood up to Tammie when Tammie wanted her to take a look at those guest cabins and give her some ideas for redecorating. Said she charges one hundred dollars an hour for consultations and that included travel time and phone calls.” Ada chuckled. “Did you see the look on Tammie’s face? That did tickle me, I admit.”
They both glanced over at Tammie Morgan, seated on Ada’s faded chintz sofa between Ellen MacIntyre and Roberta. Tammie considered herself the epitome of Western chic and glamour and thought of herself and her husband, Wood, as the self-crowned royalty of Thunder Creek.
True, their ranch was one of the wealthiest in the county—even before they’d turned a ten-thousand-acre parcel into the Crystal Horseshoe Dude Ranch and now even more so—but Tammie tended to go overboard in the control freak and look-at-me-I’m-rich departments.
She’d hired a renowned celebrity chef, Elmo Panterri, to operate the Cowpoke Cafe, which had gone into direct competition with Bessie’s Diner right after the dude ranch opened. Fortunately for Bessie, her customers had remained loyal, and Elmo had soon lost his taste for small-town living. He’d broken his contract within six months and some wannabe überchef had taken his place, but he hadn’t lasted long either.
“I can’t believe Tammie gave Corinne that tacky old weathered-barn-in-the-moonlight print that hangs in half the guest rooms in the dude ranch,” Ada sniffed. “What in the world kind of a shower gift is that?”
“That’s Tammie for you.” Katy sighed. “But that crocheted tablecloth you gave her is lovely, Ada. She was thrilled when she saw it.”
Ada nodded but she was barely listening, for she was distracted by the sight of Josy Warner reaching toward the small painted pitcher at the end of the mantel.
“Oh, no. Don’t—” Ada began, but it was too late.
Josy was already lifting the pitcher by the handle, no doubt to take a closer look, but as she raised it off the mantel the china handle immediately broke off, separating from the rest of the delicate pitcher, which tumbled and crashed onto the polished wood floor.
Josy gasped and stared down at the cracked pieces of Ada Scott’s beautiful little pitcher. The room full of chattering women had all turned to stare at her as the crash resounded through the living room and then a horrible silence filled the warm spring air.
“I’m sorry,” she managed to choke out as Ada approached her and gazed sadly down at the pink and blue and ivory shards.
“You had no way of knowing that the handle was broken.” Ada knelt, gathering the jagged pieces. “It broke off last week and I used a little Elmer’s glue to keep it in place until I could get something stronger to repair it. I shouldn’t have waited.”
Josy stooped to help her pick up the shards, cursing herself for having lifted the pitcher in the first place. “I feel terrible about this. I’d like to replace it for you—”
“No need.”
The words sounded curt. Angry. Josy’s stomach clenched.
Great way to ingratiate yourself with your grandmother, she thought miserably. Break something she’s probably cherished half her life.
Grabbing at pieces of china, she heard Bessie’s and Corinne’s voices above her.
“It was an accident, that’s all,” Bessie stated.
“It’s no one’s fault,” Corinne murmured.
Josy wanted to drop through the floor. “I’m so terribly sorry,” she said again.
For a moment it was hard to breathe. She was remembering the time in the Hammond foster home when she’d dropped her milk glass on the floor after dinner. Not only had the milk spilled all over, but the glass had splintered into a hundred pieces.
May Hammond had screamed at her and then Karl had stormed into the room, drawn from the television by his wife’s shrieks.
He’d grabbed her by the hair, nearly ripping her curls from her head and dragged her downstairs into the damp, dark basement crawling with ants and spiders.
“You’ll stay downstairs until tomorrow morning when it’s time to go to school. We don’t want to see your stupid face for the rest of the night,” he’d told her.
The basement had been terrifying—even with the single bare lightbulb over the sump pump turned on. It only served to show her the ants crawling across the cement floor, the cricket hiding in a dusty corner. There was no furniture down there, no place to sit except the steps or the floor—only boxes of old stuff and a broken grandfather clock.
But as soon as the Hammonds had gone to bed, Ricky had stolen down the stairs. He brought a chair for her, and a blanket. He stayed in the basement beside her the entire night, promising to kill any bugs that came close to crawling on her. He’d sprawled on the steps, dozing off now and then while she huddled on the chair, wrapped in the blanket.
In the morning he’d snuck back up before anyone saw him and returned the blanket and chair. Then, finally, after breakfast, she’d been sprung.
Karl Hammond had insisted she be sent off to school without breakfast, but as soon as she and Ricky were on their way, out of sight of the house, he gave her the Pop-Tart he’d stuck into his pocket instead of eating.
For a moment, kneeling beside Ada Scott in that charming house on Angel Road, gathering broken fragments of a once beautiful china pitcher, she felt just like that little girl who’d been banished to the basement, the little girl who’d so gratefully eaten a cold Pop-Tart on her way to school in the same clothes she’d worn the day before.
But she wasn’t that little girl, not anymore. She’d come a long way from the Hammonds and from quietly taking whatever anyone dished out. And dropping the pitcher truly had been an accident, she reminded herself. She took a deep breath, set her shoulders, and gripped the shards carefully, consciously and deliberately pulling herself out of the past.
And at that moment, Ada Scott straightened, looked down into her face, and stretched out a cool, blue-veined hand.
“Come, child, I’ll get my broom for the rest. There’s no cause to look so mortified.”
“Maybe not, but I wish I hadn’t—”
“No, sirree, don’t you think that way.” Ada wagged a finger in her face. “People are important, not things. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?”
For a moment Josy was speechless. No, nobody ever had.
“Don’t think you’re getting off easy,” Ada told her before she could reply. “You’ll stay and help me clean up today after everyone’s gone. Unless you have something more important to do,” she added, but there was a gentle twinkle in her eyes.
“I can’t think that you’d want me around all your pretty dishes and things after this,” Josy said ruefully. “You’re taking a pretty big risk, you know.”
“Hmmm, is that so? Well, I’m a gambler—everyone knows that. Me and Bessie, we just love to beat the odds.”
It was midafternoon before all the guests departed, and before Bessie and Roberta drove back to town to reopen Bessie’s Diner, which had been closed from eight this morning until three in the afternoon in honor of the bridal shower.
Roy came by and had ice cream and coffee before helping Corinne load her gifts into his truck. Then Josy found herself alone with Ada as a few clouds drifted across the sky, momentarily obscuring the sun.
“Most of it’s done,” Ada pronounced crisply, surveying the aftermath of the party. “But if you’d shake that tablecloth out back and help dry some dishes, I’ll be all set before my legs give out.”
But she gave no sign that her legs were about to give out. Josy had never seen such energy in a woman—Ada swept the floor, cleaned the sink, plumped and tidied the cushions of her chintz sofa and the blue crocheted throw across the back of a mahogany rocking chair.
“Come over here and let me show you something,” Ada said when Josy had carefully dried the last of the platters and serving bowls and set them on the small kitchen counter beside the dish drainer.
Ada led her into the living room and straight to the mantel. “That pitcher you broke belonged to my mother—this is her in this picture right here.”
She pointed to a photograph in a square silver frame. The photo showed a woman and a man dressed in thirties-era clothing. Josy had examined the picture before and had guessed that it might be Ada’s parents—and her own great-grandparents.
The woman was holding a toddler in her arms, and the toddler eyed the camera with what could only be called a wary expression.
