by Liliana Hart
“This is preposterous,” Robert said, pleading to the others around him. “I was nowhere near the house when Carl was killed. If he was killed. There are dozens of witnesses.”
“That’s because you’re the weak link,” Jack said. “That’s why you had Janet kill Carl while you were at the store. You don’t have the stomach for death. It’s also why you weren’t the one to hit Mrs. McGowen over the head and let her bleed to death. How did you find out she was Madam Scandal?”
“What?”
“No way!”
“That’s crazy.”
Voices echoed all around us as the news sunk in. Robert sat up straight, his lips pressed tightly together. I noticed Katie had let go of him and had moved closer to her husband.
Jack raised his hands and the noise died down. “You and Janet think you’re pretty smart. As long as the two of you stick together and keep your stories straight, no one can catch you. After all, you took her computer and her phone, so there’s no reason to worry you’ll end up as one of her feature stories.” Jack paused and put his hands on his hips. “Except for the backup camera she kept in her safe. And the fact that she’d already written her next story and scheduled it for a special weekend edition.”
Robert opened his mouth to speak, but Harrison cut in. “Robert, I advise you to ask for an attorney at this point. You’re under no obligation to address these outrageous claims.”
“Oh, Harrison,” Jack said, his smile razor thin. “I’m so glad you decided to bring yourself into the conversation. You almost got away with it. But that’s what happens when you think you’re smarter than everyone else. You make stupid mistakes. Like thinking the three of you could hold it together long enough to commit two murders. Like thinking the three of you could continue as you were and not get caught.”
Janet, Robert, and Harrison were all on their feet, and the other cops who’d been lingering in the background slowly changed their position so they surrounded them.
“We have the pictures,” Jack said. “In fact, the latest King George Tattler was posted about fifteen minutes ago. So believe me, everyone has seen the pictures. You’re through Harrison.”
“What pictures?” Richard Selby finally asked. “What’s the story?”
“Carl’s suicide note was mostly the truth,” Jack said. “He wasn’t the one having an affair. Robert was. With Janet. But not just with Janet. They had a nice little three-way going. Now Janet, you can correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I’m right based on the sequence of the photographs. I’m guessing the affair originally started with Harrison and Robert, and like many people on the street, they decided the vacant house was a good rendezvous point. But like you said, you’ve got a great view from your office window. You knew about Richard’s affair, so I’m guessing you saw Robert and Harrison and decided to invite yourself to that little party for revenge.
Janet stared back at us, wide-eyed, and shaking her head. I think it was finally starting to get through to her that she wasn’t going to get away with anything.
“When Robert and Janet came back early the morning of their run, Harrison was already waiting at Rosalyn’s house. We found a couple of partial prints on the outside of the window. Who was stupid enough to not wear gloves?” Jack asked. “I’m betting Harrison had them on, because he’s no dummy when it comes to this thing. That way he can claim plausible deniability, and it’s your word against his, but no proof. What do you want to bet those partial prints match one of you? Is it worth it to go down by yourself and let Harrison get off? I bet he’s the one who bashed her in the head. He’s certainly got the temper for it. Why should you go to jail for murder one when he was the one who killed her? I bet we can work something out in a plea deal if you talk to me.”
“He was there,” Robert said, his face pale. He took a couple of steps to the side, and Martinez changed his stance so he could grab him easily if he tried to run.
“Shut up, Robert,” Harrison said through his teeth.
“I want a deal,” Robert continued. “I’ll tell you everything I know. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t touch a hair on anyone’s heads. I was only there for Rosie to get the computer. That’s all we were supposed to do. I didn’t know that Harrison was going to…”
“Shut up, Robert!” Harrison said, lunging for the other man. People scrambled out of the way as Harrison started throwing punches, and Martinez and Nash waded in to separate them and put them in cuffs. Chen put a pair of cuffs on Janet, who was still sitting in complete and total shock.
When everyone was subdued, Jack turned his attention back to Robert. “What about the computer and her phone?” he asked. “What did you do with them?”
“Does this count for part of the deal?” he asked. “I’m telling you I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Oh, you’re going to go to jail,” Jack told him. “You just won’t be there as long as Harrison. Just be glad you’re not the DA. They’re going to tear him up in that place.”
“It’s buried in my garden,” Robert finally said. “That area with the fresh dirt, where I told you I was going to plant the exotic rosebushes. It’s all down there. Plus the frame that was on the side of the bed. That’s what Harrison hit her in the head with.”
Jack nodded, satisfied. “I appreciate your time this morning,” Jack said to the others. “And I’m sorry you all had to go through this. Maybe now you can start to grieve and heal.”
No one told us goodbye as we led the procession of killers back to the front of the house.
“Carver’s right,” I said after we got in the car. “You’re sexy when you’re working.”
Jack grinned and then it turned into laughter. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, baby.”
Say No More - EXTRA
Enjoy an excerpt of SAY NO MORE, from Liliana Hart’s bestselling Gravediggers Series. Now available at all retailers and brick and mortar bookstores.
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Chapter One
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Nice, France ~ 2015
There were some men who wore elegance like a second skin. Dante Malcolm was one of them.
He guided the cigarette boat through the black water like a knife, sending a fine spray of mist into the air. The moon was full, the stars bright, and the night crisp and clear. The smell of sea salt and lavender perfumed the air. It was the perfect night for a party. And an even better night for a burglary.
His tuxedo was hand-tailored and silk, his bow tie perfectly tied, and his shoes properly shined. His black hair was cut precisely, so that it would fall rakishly across his forehead instead of appearing windblown.
There was something about wealth that had always appealed to him—the glitter of jewels, the smell of expensive perfume, the not-so-subtle way the elite bragged about their latest toys or investments. It was all a game. And he’d always been a winner. But there had been a small thorn in his side—or maybe it was his conscience—over the past few months.
Liv Rothschild. He was in love with her. Every stubborn, vivacious, persistent, gorgeous inch of her. And that was turning out to be more of a problem than he’d anticipated. Love had never been in the cards for him. Not until he’d crossed paths with a woman whose beauty had literally stopped him in his tracks. Her stunning features had lured him in, but her intelligence had kept him coming back for more.
She knew the world he was accustomed to—the world of the titled and wealthy British elite. Her father had been a prominent member of society, and he’d married an American actress who preferred the drama in her life instead of on the screen. Liv had a sister—a twin—and though he’d only been thirteen at the time, he remembered the news coverage when Elizabeth Rothschild had gone missing.
The guilt Liv carried from that day her sister vanished was what had forged her future. She’d never stopped looking for her. The investigations had turned up no clue to her whereabouts, and even Dante’s searches in the MI6 database had returned nothing. Not a hospital visit or a fingerprint taken. The assumpti
on was that Elizabeth Rothschild was dead. He tended to agree.
But Liv had never lost hope, and Elizabeth’s disappearance had motivated Liv to go into law enforcement and ultimately join Interpol so she would have the resources she needed to find her sister. What had been a surprise to Liv was that she was a damned good agent. What had been a surprise to him was that he’d started looking forward to their paths crossing from time to time. Fortunate circumstances had combined their efforts on this case.
Which was why they were meeting at the Marquis de Carmaux’s château in the south of France. He enjoyed working with Liv, and if he had his way, they’d continue to work together. And play together. In his mind, life couldn’t get any better. He could have it all. And he did.
La Château Saint Germain was lit like a beacon atop the rugged cliffs, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, a pink monstrosity with towers and turrets and more than fifty rooms that rarely got used. Expensive cars lined the narrow road that wound up the steep bluff, headlights beaming for as far as the eye could see as their occupants waited for the valets to take the keys. He checked his watch, noting that Liv should already be inside.
Dante eased off the throttle, and the boat coasted up to the dock. He tossed the rope to the valet, who tied it to the mooring, and then he stepped up onto the dock, adjusting his cuffs and bow tie.
The pathway from the dock led all the way up to the château, the grounds divided into three steep tiers. The wooden steps were lined with hanging lanterns, and the trees were decorated with lights. Once at the top, Dante sauntered along the stone-paved walkway toward the house and retrieved his invitation from the inside of his jacket pocket to present to the doorman. It was time to work.
The Marquis de Carmaux had terrible taste in wine and women, but his art was exceptional. His personal collection was going on loan to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City for the next year, so he’d decided to throw a farewell party so the social elite could not only praise him for his generosity, but be envious of something they’d never be able to get their hands on.
Dante had been fortunate enough to be born into the British upper crust where wealth was passed from one generation to the next, easily accumulated with buying or selling real estate, and easily squandered on a whim. He was titled, a lord no less, and he’d been educated at the best schools, one of his classmates being the future king of England. He also had an unusual talent for math—he could solve any problem in his head, no matter how difficult. It gave him a natural aptitude for winning at cards.
He had many other talents as well—an ease with languages and the ability to see patterns amid what seemed to be nothing but random occurrences—which was why MI6 had wanted him so badly. To a wealthy young man of twenty-two who had multiple degrees in mathematics and was quickly getting bored of the party life that all his contemporaries seemed to live for, becoming an intelligence agent for his country had seemed like the right choice.
It had been around the same time that he’d met a man by the name of Simon Locke.
Simon had introduced him to the art of stealing. He’d given Dante something that no amount of money could provide, that seduced him as no woman had, and that international espionage couldn’t satisfy, though it came a close second. Simon had given him an adrenaline rush that was more intense than any drug and just as addictive.
Simon Locke had given him a purpose. Dante felt no remorse when it came to taking things that belonged to others. Because he only took from those who could afford to lose what he stole, from those who had taken what wasn’t rightfully theirs. His jobs always had a mission. He would collect the item that didn’t truly belong to the current owner, and he’d take a second piece of his choosing as his commission.
He’d met Simon in a Belgian prison while on assignment. MI6 had set up Dante’s arrest, along with a suspected terrorist he’d been drinking with in a pub, by doing a checkpoint sweep for drunk and disorderlies. His mission was to get information about recent bombings in Brussels. He and the terrorist had been locked in a cell together, but Simon had been thrown in with them, having been caught up in the same sweep. He’d been neither drunk nor disorderly, but in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The cell was no bigger than a small closet, maybe eight by eight feet, and metal-frame bunk beds that had been bolted into the floor sat against one of the stone walls. The mattresses were paper-thin and dingy, and it was best not to think about what was on them. There was a metal hole in the floor for a toilet and a barred window that overlooked the guarded courtyard below. The cell was shrouded in darkness, but every twenty-seven seconds the spotlight from one of the towers scanned across the window, giving light to the shadows of the cell.
Simon stayed quiet while Dante drew information from their third cellmate, who had been drunk and disorderly, but fortunately was also loose-lipped. And when the man had passed out and was snoring obnoxiously in a corner, Simon had looked over and said, “It’s good to know British intelligence hasn’t changed.”
Dante had been speaking in flawless French to their other cellmate, but still Simon had known. And then he’d said something that piqued Dante’s curiosity.
“I was like you once.”
In his twenty-two-year-old arrogance, he’d responded, “I beg your pardon, but there’s no one else like me.”
Locke had smiled at him and moved into the light. He wasn’t a big man—maybe five eight or five nine—and his hair was slicked back and tied at the nape of his neck. Even in the holding cell, his black slacks were precisely pressed and his expensive shirt only slightly mussed. There was a nonchalant cockiness about him that Dante could appreciate. He wasn’t screaming about injustice like many of the others down the long hallway. He was calm and cool, his hands in his pockets.
St. Gilles Prison was overcrowded, its nineteenth-century cells never meant to accommodate so many prisoners. The holding cells were in the east tower. MI6 had assured Dante he’d be released early the next morning, but that was still hours away.
“Are they planning your release for the morning, Mr. . . .”
“Malcolm. I’m sure someone will post bond for me in the morning,” Dante said vaguely. “And you? Will you be released in the morning? I didn’t catch your name.”
Simon smiled again and jangled some change in his pockets. Dante was surprised they hadn’t confiscated the man’s belongings when they’d brought him in.
“You can call me Locke,” he said.
“The jailers are getting lax,” Dante said, nodding to his pockets, making Simon grin again.
“Not so much. My pockets were empty when I came in. I tend to travel light.”
Dante wasn’t sure how Locke could have acquired a handful of change, but he was getting tired of the man’s vagueness.
“I told you I was like you once,” Simon said. “What if I told you there’s something more for you than interrogating two-bit terrorists in a moldy jail cell?”
“I’d say they were right to arrest you for drunkenness.”
He shrugged. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens. What if I told you I can get us both released right now? A man like you isn’t used to places like this. I can see the disgust in your eyes. They give you these jobs because you’re young and don’t know any better than to take them. But wait until the rats come. You’ll learn to speak up then.”
The man was beginning to get under his skin, but Dante had to admit he was curious. And the idea of spending even a few more hours inside the dark cell grated against his sense of propriety.
“And how would you get us released?” Dante asked.
Simon took a copper cent from his pocket and held it up to the passing light. “Watch and learn.”
He had watched. And he had learned. Simon had used that copper cent to remove the bars from the window, sharpening it into a screwdriver and undoing the bolts, catching each one in his hand so it didn’t fall to the courtyard below. He’d used a thread from the hem of his pa
nts to separate the bars from the stone wall, all without making a single sound.
So Dante had followed him, knowing that he could at any moment be caught and shot, but there had been something compelling about Simon. He’d watched the other man scale the narrow ledges of the prison, counting the seconds before the spotlight would pass, and timing his movements precisely.
Dante had done the same thing, and he’d found the rush of living on the fringes felt better than it should. Then they were outside the prison, not a soul the wiser. Before they’d gone a block, Simon had slipped into the shadows as if he’d never been there at all.
The next day, Dante had thought he might have imagined the whole event—except that he’d had to report to his superiors about the information the terrorist had given him, and answered why he hadn’t been at the jail when someone had come to bail him out. He’d told them about the man, described his features and abilities. And though he hadn’t given them a name, they’d known the name of Simon Locke. And thanks to Dante, they now had a physical description of him.
He’d returned to London and his home, feeling like he’d somehow betrayed Simon, even though he’d spent hours studying his file and knowing he was a wanted man. When he walked into his bedroom, Simon had been sitting in the chair by the fireplace as if he belonged there. He’d known his identity had been compromised, but it didn’t seem to bother him. His confidence in his ability was much greater than his confidence that there was anyone out there good enough to catch him. But he’d admitted he was getting older, and that he was losing the zest he’d once had for the life.
He’d said once the desire started to wane, it was only a matter of time before a job ended in prison time instead of wealth and luxury. Simon hadn’t been the first Simon Locke. There’d been another before him, and another before him, who’d chosen and trained their successors with great care.
