Dead By Nightfall

by Beverly Barton

  Sensing another person’s presence in the room, Maleah knew she wasn’t alone even before Sanders spoke to her. The guy moved like a phantom, silently maneuvering around the house without being heard and often without being seen.

  “Barbara Jean said to tell you that she and Inez will have breakfast ready in about thirty minutes.” Sanders approached her desk.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  His gaze traveled from her computer screen to the telephone on her desk to the nearly empty cup of coffee she held. “Any updates?”

  “The Astra arrives this morning. I’m assigning it for Ben and Meredith’s use for as long as they need it. If she gathers any info on Shelter Island, they will pursue it wherever it leads. And the Cessna is coming in from California tomorrow. I think we should send Rett to Amara to take a look around, make sure nothing is going on there that we don’t know about.”

  “It would seem you have everything under control.”

  Maleah never felt completely at ease around Sanders. There was something about the man, something unnerving. He was too quiet, too reserved, too disciplined. Except for the bond that existed between him and Griff and between the two of them and Dr. Meng, and the occasional tender glance he gave BJ, Maleah would swear the man had no feelings. During the time she had known him, she had seldom seen him express any human emotion.

  “When do you expect to hear from Griff?” Maleah asked, breaking the lingering silence.

  “I would imagine he will contact me after he and Yvette have seen the girl.”

  “Do you think she’s—?”

  “No.”

  Just a one-word response, succinct and to the point. No discussion. No reason why he believed as he did.

  The telephone on Maleah’s desk rang. Startled by the unexpected ringing, she jerked at the sound. Without hesitation, she lifted the receiver.

  “Perdue,” she said.

  “Ms. Perdue, this is Jeffries at Powell headquarters. We’ve just come into possession of some information that we believe could be of vital importance.”

  Maleah’s heartbeat did a nervous rat-a-tat-tat. “And that information is?”

  “We’ve been digging into Kroy Enterprises, but it’s like swimming in quicksand,” Jeffries told her. “Just when you think you’ve located a reliable source, you discover it’s just one more fake lead. Kroy is a riddle inside a puzzle inside an enigma. Dummy corporations. Hidden assets.”

  “You were able to find out, with very little effort, that Kroy Enterprises owned the jet that took off from McGhee Tyson Sunday morning and that they own Shelter Island,” Maleah said. “But we believe that was because someone wanted us to know.”

  “Well, I can’t say whether or not that same someone did or did not want us to find out that there is a hundred-foot-long yacht, a Lloyd’s Classification 100-A-1, registered to an M.L. Oclam. But I can tell you that he made it damn difficult to find a link between Oclam and Kroy. We’ve been searching for anything owned by Kroy, so the yacht almost slipped by us.”

  “Who is it?” Sanders asked.

  Maleah placed her hand over the mouthpiece. “Jeffries at downtown Knoxville headquarters. He’s got something.”

  “Are you still there, Ms. Perdue?”

  “I’m here and I’m listening.” Maleah’s mind whirled with the info, repeating the name M.L. Oclam several times, then she jotted it down. “Is Oclam spelled o-c-l-a-m?”

  Jeffries chuckled. “You’ve already figured it out, haven’t you?”

  “M.L. Oclam. Just like Kroy is York spelled backward, M.L. Oclam backward spells Malcolm. Surely this guy doesn’t think he’s being clever. Inverting the letters of a word is child’s play. Any intelligent ten-year-old could figure out—” Maleah stopped when she heard Jeffries’s laughter. “What?” she asked.

  “You’d be surprised how easy it is for highly trained professionals to overlook the name Oclam when they’re diligently searching for Kroy.”

  “Whoever figured it out, give him or her a pay raise.”

  “That would be Bitsy Chambers, our computer guru.”

  “This yacht got a name?”

  “The Isis.”

  “Lovely. I don’t suppose you’ve been able to track her.”

  “Oh, yes, we have. She’s in the Caribbean Sea, off the coast of Barranquilla, Colombia.”

  “Thank you, God!” Maleah shouted. “Keep me posted. And Jeffries, give yourself a raise, too. I’m sure Mr. Powell will okay it.”

  The moment she ended her telephone conversation, she jumped to her feet and almost hugged Sanders, stopping herself just in the nick of time. “Kroy Enterprises owns a private yacht, the Isis, and she just happens to be in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Colombia right now. What do you want to bet that Nic’s aboard that yacht?”

  “This could be the break we have been hoping for,” Sanders said.

  “Should we call Griff?”

  “No, not yet. There will time enough to tell him once we put a plan into motion. We do not know if Nicole is aboard this yacht. Let me handle this”—he paused—“for now.”

  “Handle it how?”

  “The agency has contacts in Colombia.”

  “Contacts but not agents,” Maleah reminded him. “Agents we can trust. Contacts owe their loyalty to no one. They work for the highest bidder.”

  “If we wait until we can fly in agents, we could lose our chance. If Nicole is aboard the yacht, then we need to act now, not hours from now. And I can promise you that no one outbids the Powell Agency and our contacts know we pay top dollar.”

  Maleah nodded. “You’re right, of course. We can’t wait.”

  Quaint and peaceful, Biddenden, one of many Wealden villages set in the picturesque Kent countryside, was located ten minutes from the Benenden School. Mitchum’s secretary had handled their reservations, choosing The West House for their lunch meeting with Suzette York and the school’s counselor, a Ms. Tomasina Hartwood. Ms. Hartwood was a member of the UK Council for Psychotherapy. Mitchum had also made arrangements for their lodging at the George Hotel in Cranbrook.

  “The girl has been told that she’s to meet a lady who may be her birth mother,” Mitchum had explained.

  Griff escorted Yvette into the restaurant, housed in a fifteenth-century weaver’s cottage, at seven minutes till one, and they were quickly seated at a round table near a huge brick fireplace. When their waiter presented them with menus, Griff informed the man that there would be two others joining them shortly.

  “I keep telling myself not to get my hopes up,” Yvette said. “But I want this girl to be my child. I want it so desperately.”

  Knowing the risk he took in touching Yvette, Griff reached out and grasped her hand.

  “Thank you,” Yvette told him as she eased her hand from his.

  “For what?”

  “For being you, Griffin, a part of my soul.”

  Griff looked away, unable to watch the pain in Yvette’s dark eyes. He saw his own pain reflected there.

  He glanced at the menu, quickly scanning the lunch choices. If Nic was here, she would order the Roast Temple farm label anglaise chicken with wild garlic gnocchi and St. George mushrooms. He could hear her saying, “No matter what these fancy schmancy chefs do to it, they usually can’t screw up chicken.”

  Yvette suddenly tensed. When Griff glanced at her, he noted that her gaze was transfixed at something all the way across the restaurant.

  She’s here. Suzette York has arrived.

  But how could Yvette know for sure?

  Griff’s gaze followed Yvette’s and then he understood why she had instantly recognized the girl. A lead weight dropped into the pit of Griff’s belly.

  Standing there at nearly six feet tall, with almond-shaped gray eyes, and long, straight brown hair, every feature as delicately beautiful and distinctively Eurasian as Yvette’s, the young woman could indeed be Yvette’s child.

  Griff did not want to admit what he felt at that very moment. But what choic
e did he have? The girl had his height and his gray eyes. He couldn’t deny that she could very easily be his daughter, too.

  Chapter 17

  Linden brought Nic into the empty lounge, indicated for her to sit, and then stood guard at the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

  As ordered, she had bathed and dressed and was ready now for presentation to York’s guest, who apparently had not arrived yet. Whoever this guy was, he must be an earlier riser. Either that or he had stayed up all night.

  “Do you know who York’s guest is?” she asked.

  “A friend and business associate.” Linden barely glanced at her.

  “Business associate, huh? Which business—drugs or slaves? Or both?”

  Linden glared at her. “I’d keep that pretty little mouth shut if I were you. Better not stick your nose into things that are none of your damn business.”

  “You don’t seem your usual chipper self this morning,” Nic said. “What’s got you wound so tight?”

  That’s it, Nic, prod the grizzly bear.

  Linden came toward her, his hand raised to strike; but the clearly audible sound of voices outside on deck brought him to a sudden standstill. He lowered his hand to his side and stepped away from her.

  “I am delighted that while you were here in Barranquilla on business, you were able to make time to join me on the Isis for a few days,” York was saying. Apparently he and his companion were close by. “I have a delicious surprise for you, old friend.” York laughed. “Of course, I’ve arranged for your usual entertainment choices. They’ll arrive before we set sail.”

  “Thank you. I can always count on you to see to my every need,” the other man said, his accent decidedly French. “But it was your promise of delivering something extra-special that lured me away from business today.”

  The lounge door opened. Nic rose to her feet, stood straight and tall, and armed herself with every ounce of courage she could muster. She was as battle-ready as she could be wearing a Versace coral silk blouse and cream linen slacks and four-inch Alexander McQueen pumps. York had provided her with a select choice of designer clothing. For all intents and purposes, she appeared to be a pampered guest.

  York looked the part of a European playboy with his expertly styled silver hair, glossy manicured nails, and custom-made clothing. At approximately five-ten, he looked even shorter standing next to the six-foot-two, possibly six-three, gentleman with a thick mane of white hair and neatly groomed gray mustache and Vandyke. York’s guest was handsome for a man his age, which Nic guessed to be his midsixties, and had probably been drop-dead gorgeous twenty years ago. Where York’s sleek, cosmopolitan image seemed somewhat forced, as if he didn’t quite fit the part, his guest truly owned his man-of-the-world persona.

  York ushered his friend into the lounge, smiling proudly as if he were about to present his guest with something as priceless as the Hope Diamond.

  The aging bon vivant stared at Nic, his dark-eyed gaze traveling over her slowly, appraising her worth as if she were on the auction block. A sliver of forewarning spiraled down her spine. This man, for all his attractive, sophisticated appearance was no gentleman. Gut instinct warned her that he was a ruthlessly cunning viper.

  “What is this?” he asked, his question edged with contempt.

  “Now, now, old friend, there is more to the lady than meets the eye,” York assured him. “I have plans for her that you will appreciate. But she is not for your pleasure, of course.”

  “You have aroused my curiosity, mon petit Malcolm.”

  My little Malcolm? What an odd thing for York’s guest to call him. Did this Frenchman know York’s true identity? I’d lay odds he does.

  Bouchard had used the term as if speaking to a boy and not a man. Did the endearment signify anything of importance? If Griff knew, would it help him figure out the fake York’s identity?

  “Come here.” York motioned to Nic. “I wish to introduce you to a dear friend, a gentleman who visited me often on Amara.”

  Nic moved forward, her every step forced, as she came face-to-face with someone from her husband’s past. Without blinking, she looked him in the eye.

  “Nicole, it is my great honor to introduce you to Monsieur Yves Bouchard, well known in our business as Le Ravisseur.”

  The Abductor!

  Nic had absolutely no idea who this man was, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that a man whose nickname meant The Abductor was probably in the human trafficking business. “Monsieur,” Nic barely managed to say, her heart rate accelerating with each passing moment.

  Yves lifted her limp hand to his lips. With iron control, Nic internalized the shiver of revulsion, keeping her hand steady.

  “Nicole is the wife of someone you will recall from our many hunting expeditions on Amara,” York said. “Yves, this lovely lady is Griffin Powell’s wife.”

  Yves Bouchard’s bedroom brown eyes widened in surprise and then he smiled. “You did not disappoint me, old friend. She is indeed the something extra-special that you promised.”

  “Do you suppose Griffin would still be such an amazingly cunning adversary on a hunt?” York chuckled softly and winked at Nic.

  “He was a superb animal who managed to outsmart those of us who stalked him,” Bouchard told Nic. “I’ve never been on a hunt that equaled the ones when your husband was our prey.”

  York grabbed Nic’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “And now I have the perfect bait to lure Griffin Powell into my snare and bring him back for one final hunt.”

  As he rose to his feet, Griffin could not take his eyes off the young woman walking toward their table. Pushing back her chair, Yvette grasped the edge of the table for support as she stood. If Suzette was not who York claimed she was, he had done a mind-boggling job of finding the perfect fake, someone who resembled both Yvette and Griffin. Although her features were not perfect matches for Yvette’s, they were similar. The same slanted eyes, although an almost identical gray to the color of Griff’s eyes. A small nose, a full mouth, and flawless skin, a shade lighter than Yvette’s honey gold complexion. Willowy slender, like Yvette, but much taller, as she would be if her father had been a tall man. Griff was six-four. Suzette was close to six feet.

  Only after they arrived at the table did Griff actually look at the woman with Suzette. The middle-aged, petite brunette, dressed neatly in gray slacks and a white blouse, held out her hand to Yvette.

  “I’m Tomasina Hartwood.” She shook hands with Yvette and then with Griffin. “And this is Suzette.”

  “Hello.” The young girl glanced nervously from Yvette to Griff.

  “Please, sit down, ladies.” Griff gestured with a sweep of his arm.

  Once they were all seated at the table and the waiter took their lunch orders, Ms. Hartwood immediately got down to business. “Mr. York, Suzette’s legal guardian, has spoken to her and explained why you are here today, Dr. Meng. She knows that you may be her birth mother.”

  Yvette didn’t respond. She seemed to be in a trance, her body rigid and her eyes downcast.

  “We don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.” Griff focused on Suzette. “And neither Dr. Meng nor I want to upset you, but we do need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes, of course,” Suzette replied. “I understand. There are questions that I would like to ask Dr. Meng and”—she looked at Griff—“and you, too, Mr. Powell. Papa told me that you may be my biological father.”

  Papa did, did he? That son of a bitch!

  If this girl was the real deal ...

  Don’t take anything at face value. For all you know, Suzette York is every bit as phony as the imitation York.

  “What do you want to know?” Yvette finally found her voice.

  “You gave birth to a child who would now be my age. Why did you give her away?” Suzette asked.

  It took Yvette several minutes to reply. “I did not give up my baby willingly. My child was stolen from me.”

  “Oh.” Suzette’s
strikingly beautiful eyes widened and her rosebud mouth opened in a perfect oval.

  “Papa found me when I was five. I was living on the streets in Hong Kong, dirty and unkempt, begging in the streets along with other children. I have no memory of my life at that time. I’ve been told that I probably blocked out ...” She paused. A lone tear trickled down her smooth cheek. “Papa has been both mother and father to me for as long as I can remember.”

  “Do you know your actual birth date?” Griff asked, realizing Yvette needed time to compose herself before speaking again.

  “No, I’m afraid that I don’t. Papa gave me a birthday. He said it was an important date for him. His little sister’s birthday. She died when she was just a child.”

  “And that date is?” Griff asked.

  “October first.”

  Yvette gasped. She had given birth on October first.

  “Is something wrong, Dr. Meng?” Ms. Hartwood asked.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Suzette, would you agree to a DNA test?” Griff asked, determined to unearth the truth as soon as possible. If this girl was Yvette’s child—and possibly his child—there would be no simple and easy way to handle the situation. If the pseudo-York was her legal guardian and had brought her up from the age of five, not only would the law be on his side, so would Suzette’s loyalty.

  “Yes, of course. Papa said that a DNA test would prove whether or not I was Dr. Meng’s daughter.” She glanced shyly at Griff. “And if I’m your daughter.”

  The waitstaff brought their food and served them. But apparently only Ms. Hartwood had an appetite. Everyone else picked at their food during lunch. Even when served a delectable dessert of white and dark chocolate honeycomb sorbet—something called a Crunchie—Suzette merely nibbled.