Vendetta

by Nancy Holder

  After quickly absorbing as much information about Ellison as he could, Gabe felt fairly certain that Ellison was indeed the leader of the secret society. There was a preponderance of news articles and photo calls placing him with the two members of the society Gabe had managed to put away. In the photos, they stood deferentially, while Cavanaugh Ellison appeared tall, his shoulders back and chin held high. Ellison deferred to no other person, not even in photos with kings and queens, dictators, movie stars and world-class athletes. It appeared less and less likely that it had been an accident that his pin had been left in Reynolds’ cell.

  Mention was made in several articles that Ellison was supposed to have attended the ill-fated charity gala. Ellison’s private jet had suffered an equipment failure, and he’d been delayed in Miami because bad weather had rolled in. Gabe wondered if he had intentionally absented himself from the top-level emergency gathering for some reason.

  Gabe finished his croissant and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. He remembered breakfasts in bed with Cat. Mexican hot chocolate and her joyous smile. Her tears when she had arrested her father, and Reynolds had told her that Vincent must be put down. How she had melted against him, bereft. He had hesitated to hold her, aware of her vulnerability, and of how much he had loved her even then.

  She didn’t seem to remember that comfort. Could no longer acknowledge how right they were for each other. Still were.

  She had utterly discounted the sacrifices he had made. He was incredibly rich. He didn’t have to work. No longer a beast and with Muirfield out of business, he had had very little incentive to stay in New York City. But he had remained in the ADA’s office specifically to make amends to Cat and Vincent. At first they had treated him like a pariah, but he had stayed. He had risked his life more than once to help them. None of it had played out the way he had hoped.

  Plan B is looking better all the time.

  Stepping into dappled sunshine, he went around to the trunk of his car, popped it open, and pulled out his .9mm Beretta. He loaded it, then slipped on his shoulder holster, inserted his gun, and put on his suit jacket. As his final touch, he fastened the pin to his lapel, making sure it was positioned up high, so that when—not if—security cameras inspected his face, they would see it.

  Then there was nothing for it but to get back in his car and drive up to the guard station of the estate, an imposing edifice that looked to be heavily reinforced steel and glass beneath a brick façade. Cameras mounted on both it and the other side of a steel gate swiveled as Gabe stopped and rolled down his window. A square-jawed, broad-shouldered man with a rock-hard gaze stepped from the guardhouse. He was wearing a black business suit very much like Gabe’s.

  Gabe showed his work credentials. “I’m ADA Gabriel Lowan. I don’t have an appointment, but—”

  “One moment, sir,” the man said. He pulled out a smartphone and took a picture of Gabe. He pressed a button and then he lifted the phone to his ear.

  “The police are back,” he said.

  Back?

  “Yes,” the man said, and then he lowered the phone. “Go on in, sir. There’s a circular drive at the front of the house. Just park there and someone will escort you to her.”

  Her?

  “Thank you,” Gabe said. The large gate slowly slid back, allowing him a view of sweeping lawns and mature oak trees, hedgerows that appeared to comprise a maze, and a large pond overhung with willow trees. White swans were swimming in the pond, and a small octagonal building sat at the water’s edge. Ellison really was the lord of the manor.

  Glorious beds of rose bushes and all sorts of flowers created living rainbows as Gabe drove along a gravel path, then reached the circular drive. The front of the house sported a massive wooden door carved with unicorns and lions and the initials CC entwined with thistles and Tudor roses.

  A black-haired man stood at the top of a trio of stone stairs. On either side of him, white marble statues of enormous lions growled in perpetual silence. The bulge in the man’s jacket suggested that he was armed. Gabe figured he would be asked to give up his Beretta or leave it in the car, but there was no harm in trying to protect himself.

  “Mr. Lowan,” the man said, as Gabe got out. “I’m Bruce Fox. What can I assist you with?” Then, before Gabe could answer, Fox asked. “Are you here because you have a new lead?”

  Is he referring to Reynolds? Gabe wondered.

  “Is someone from the family here?” Gabe asked carefully.

  Gabe’s hand began to stray to the pin but he put it in his pocket instead. His palms were sweaty; his face tingled with anxiety. Something was going on and Gabe wasn’t sure what it was. The man beside him seemed affable enough, but Gabe knew professional politeness when he saw it. He braced himself for the situation to change once they got inside the house, behind closed doors.

  There was a woman in a gray-and-white maid’s uniform hovering just inside the door. Her eyes were swollen from crying.

  Fox said, “Policia,” and she nodded. She asked him in Spanish if the señor would like coffee. The man said yes to the coffee and asked her to serve it outside, on the patio. Gabe spoke some Spanish—a lot of people in New York law enforcement did—but he didn’t let on that he understood.

  “Have there been any new developments?” Fox asked him. “Is that why you came out here?”

  “I should probably speak with a family member first.”

  “Of course.”

  Fox led him through room after room of fine art and what appeared to be authentic furniture from different historical periods. It reminded Gabe of The Cloisters, a museum in northern Manhattan, which had been assembled from sections of medieval monasteries and convents. There was stonework everywhere, and the walls were covered with tapestries and oil paintings of knights and aristocratic ladies in gowns and elaborate headdresses. Hanging vases of flowers decorated the bannisters of a sweeping staircase, and there jungles of potted palms. But the house felt strangely lifeless, and a sense of foreboding crept over Gabe.

  Then Fox opened a door that led onto a patio covered with wisteria vines. On a low stone table flanked by two chairs upholstered in green canvas sat a green enamel coffee pot decorated with a white Tudor rose, two matching cups and saucers, sugar and creamer.

  Fox raised the pot, Gabe said, “Thank you,” and the man poured Gabe a cup.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  Gabe shook his head, still trying to get his bearings. He accepted the cup and then Fox left him. Bemused, Gabe drank his coffee. It was smooth and rich, perfectly brewed.

  “Hello?” said a woman, and Gabe turned to see Cavanaugh Ellison’s jaw-droppingly gorgeous daughter Celeste striding toward him. She was wearing black leggings, a black tunic, and heeled ankle-boots. Her hair was piled on top of her head and amethysts set in platinum glittered in her ears. A matching platinum-and-amethyst choker set off the velvety brown hue of her complexion.

  She approached, and he saw how anxious she was. Her forehead was wrinkled and her plucked, shaped eyebrows nearly met above her nose.

  “Mr. Lowan?” she said. “I’m Celeste Ellison. Tell me who you are, exactly, and what is going on.”

  Gabe took another sip of coffee while he considered his next move. Celeste didn’t seem to notice the pin on his lapel. Or if she did, it was of no import to her.

  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked her.

  Her frown deepened. “No. I’d like to know where my father is.”

  He tried not to let his hand jerk. Cavanaugh Ellison was missing?

  “I think you should sit down,” he said gently, stalling for time. That was why Ellison hadn’t been in his office, and his assistant had been so vague about where he was. Fox had been asking for developments about Ellison’s disappearance, not Reynolds’.

  She sat none too steadily. Her hands were shaking. Gabe set down his coffee and leaned forward, doing his best to appear nonthreatening so that she would trust him and open up.

  He told her he was from
the District Attorney’s office and she sat up straight, hope brimming and threatening to spill over. She reminded him of someone who was afraid of heights preparing to sky dive.

  “Have you found him?” she asked.

  “Not yet. When did you talk to him last?” he asked her.

  She wilted. Edgy anger replaced the hope. He could practically taste her disappointment.

  “Like I told the other detectives, he went pretty crazy during the blackout. He left and then he called me around three in the morning, and said to stay in the house until he contacted me.”

  The other detectives? He’d have to log into the NYPD database and see if he could locate any information about the situation.

  “And since that call, he hasn’t contacted you?”

  “I already told you people all of this!” she cried. Then she drew a breath. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept all night and I haven’t had any sleep, really, since the break-in. Neither has he.”

  The break-in. Gabe was taking mental notes as fast as he could.

  “Did he give any specific indication as to why he was particularly upset during the blackout?”

  She shook her head. “I—I’m just so worried. When Bruce told me the police were here I thought you were going to give me news. Good or…” She trailed off. “But you haven’t heard anything.” She picked up a sugar cube, toying with it, setting it down on the saucer of her empty cup. “You said there were developments. Please tell me what they are.”

  Gabe let his hands dangle between his knees, assuming a posture of familiarity.

  “Have you had any new reports from the authorities on the break-in? I only ask,” he added quickly, as she began to flare with renewed irritation, “because I’m trying to run through the possibilities of where your father might be right now.”

  “He was so upset. He hasn’t been the same since,” Celeste said. As she talked, she poured herself a cup of coffee, then added a liberal dollop of cream and several sugars, including the one she had set on her saucer. Catherine loved cream and sugar in her coffee, too.

  “What was taken?”

  “Secrets,” she said, surprising him. “A laptop with encrypted files.”

  “And the nature of these files?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  It didn’t take beast sense to know she was lying. He looked at her calmly, without blinking, inviting her honesty. It was a trick of his, and it no longer surprised him how often it worked.

  “My father’s involved in a very high-stakes field,” she said. “His clients are billionaires, entire countries. Dozens, hundreds of competitors would like to hack into his systems, clone our products.” She gestured to their surroundings. “There are security cameras everywhere. And yet someone was able to invade our home and take sensitive material. My father’s been frantic. He hasn’t had a moment’s peace since that night.”

  “When did this happen?” Gabe asked her.

  “The night he was stranded in Miami. We were supposed to attend a charity event. A masked ball. My father phoned me several times. He tried to charter another jet but the weather was terrible that night and no one wanted to risk it.”

  She took a shaky sip of coffee. “Thank God we didn’t go. A friend of ours was murdered. Andrew Martin. You must have heard about that.”

  “I did, yes.” Gabe cocked his head. “I was there. I helped clear the room when that madman Sam Landon began his killing spree. I developed the case for the DA’s office, and I obtained his conviction.” He didn’t mention that he had also convicted two of the pin-wearers for conducting lethal medical trials on juveniles, one of whom had been Sam’s son.

  She gaped at him. “You did?”

  When he nodded she leaned forward and put her arms around him. “Thank you,” she said. She smelled delicious.

  Then she shuddered and silent tears rolled down her cheeks, and after a moment’s hesitation, Gabe put his arms around her and held her. Then as suddenly as she had begun to cry, she stopped. Pulling away, she picked up a white cloth napkin embroidered in green from beside the coffee service and dabbed her eyes.

  “Enough of this.” She cleared her throat and looked hard at him. “If you didn’t come with news about Dad’s disappearance, why did you come?”

  “Last night, a former FBI agent who was convicted of a string of murders escaped from Rikers. When his cell was searched, this was found.” He pointed to the lapel pin. “We believe it belongs to your father.”

  “Oh.” She bent forward, examining it. “Of course. I thought it looked familiar. But it was in someone’s cell?”

  It was obvious to Gabe that she didn’t know what it represented—the ID card into the top stratum of world domination. Nor that she had fully absorbed everything he had just told her. He was fine with that. The fewer questions she asked, the better.

  To his intense relief, she handed it back to him. A shadow crossed her face and her hand darted forward as if to pluck it back out of his hand. He made a fist—an authoritative, possessive gesture—and she lowered her arm to her side.

  “We’ve admitted it into Evidence,” he said. “Of course we’ll get it back to your father once we’ve closed our case. Do you think someone might have taken it from your house during the break-in? Maybe to implicate your father in what happened last night?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose so.” She chewed her bottom lip. “This FBI agent who escaped…”

  “Former FBI agent.” Gabe decided to go for it. “His name is Bob Reynolds, and we found his fingers in all kinds of pies. Unfortunately, sometimes people in influential positions misuse their power and wind up hurting a lot of people. Reynolds was one of those people.”

  “But why would he have my father’s pin? How would he get it? And how would that implicate my father in his dealings?” Then she pressed her fingertips against the bridge of her nose. “Dropped when he escaped. Right.”

  He couldn’t decide if she was shell-shocked, playing dumb, or truly naïve about the way the big bad world worked. As he observed her, he noted telltale signs of chronic stress—circles under her eyes not fully concealed by makeup, a gauntness that spoke of not eating rather than dieting and, perhaps most revealing, she needed a manicure. Gabe had grown up surrounded by extreme wealth—perhaps not at this level, but close—and the women in his adoptive mother’s circle always made sure their nails were perfect. Some of them even had on-call manicurists who came out to their palatial homes to repair chips and change nail colors to go with various outfits.

  “Its presence doesn’t implicate your father in Reynolds’ crimes,” he said. Necessarily. “The more pertinent issue is whether your father had anything to do with his disappearance.” He was repeating himself deliberately to let the information sink in. Sometimes he had to tell a subject the same thing half a dozen times before they absorbed it.

  “You must think I’m the stupidest person you’ve ever met. In all honesty, I’m losing it, Mr.…”

  “Gabe.” He took another chance. “I want to be honest with you in return. I’m not here officially. I was responsible for the conviction of the man who escaped last night, and I’ve made it my personal mission to find him and bring him to justice.”

  “But what about the police?” she asked, and he shook his head. He wasn’t about to tell her that it was an FBI matter. That would only raise more questions about why he was there, since he wasn’t in the FBI.

  “They’re taking too long. They’re ignoring half the things I tell them,” he said, laying on a level of frustration that mirrored her own. “There’s so much bureaucracy…”

  She pursed her shiny lips. “That’s been our experience with them too. My entire life. We only deal with government agencies when we just can’t avoid it.”

  As Gabe would have expected from a man in Cavanaugh Ellison’s position. He was grateful to have a way into her good graces. Having grown up a beast, Gabe had refined his ability to manipulate people simply by echoing back their own thoughts and opin
ions.

  “Okay,” he said, “Here’s the whole truth: I’m off the grid. Way off. I’m looking for the escapee on my own. It’s personal for me, and I’m like you; I can’t trust a bunch of bureaucrats who have nothing invested in the situation to put in the kind of time and attention that I’m willing to spend.” He cocked his head and delivered his ace in the hole, “And now I’m wondering if this man’s escape is linked to your father’s disappearance.”

  He assumed she would react in shock, maybe even fall apart again. Instead she finished her cup of coffee, blotted her mouth, and stood. “Then can you help me look for my father? Maybe if you find him, you’ll find the man you’re after.”

  And just like that, I know she’s not going to the police today, he thought triumphantly.

  “I will. I’ll stay in contact with you, let you know what I find. If you’ll give me a direct phone number, I’ll call you as soon as have something.”

  She raised her chin. “No. What I meant is, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands, too. I’m going to look for my father. We can go together.”

  There were pros and cons to her suggestion, but more cons—lack of maneuverability and privacy, not to mention that his end game extended beyond locating Reynolds and her father. What he had planned, she could never know.

  “It would be better if you did as your father asked, and stayed here. Where you’re safe,” he emphasized. But safe from what?

  “I can take care of myself,” she insisted.

  “I can move faster on my own,” he said gently. “And time is of the essence.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, then.” She got up out of her chair and began to walk away without a word. Gabe watched for a moment, bewildered. Had he offended her? Was she leaving?

  “Miss Ellison?” he called after her.

  She kept going. He rose and took a few cautious steps in her direction, then began to pick up speed as he saw that she was, indeed, taking her leave of him.