"I want the real pushers. I don't care who they are." He wanted the streets and school playgrounds safe for kids.
"As long as I get to even the score with Ling,” Quinn said.
"Agreed."
"Okay, then. What's our next step?"
ooo
Dressed in black sweatpants, a gray T-shirt and his favorite sneakers, Doran arrived at the local high school track fifteen minutes before sunrise. He was finishing his warm-up routine when he spotted Frederickson swaggering toward the bleachers. From the bottoms of his obviously new running shoes to the spotless green sweatband at his brow, the Senator looked like an Adidas advertisement.
Doran jogged over to him. “Morning, Senator." Frederickson gave him a cursory up and down look, his expression of disgust increasing as he tabulated every article of Doran’s well-worn clothing. Though the feeling was mutual, he hadn’t woken up this early for a debate about attire. Doran schooled his features into a bland expression, while he adopted his most conciliatory attitude. "You’re a hard man to track down.”
“This is the one time during the day when my constituents don’t besiege me." Frederickson began his stretches, posing as if hoping a camera could be nearby. When Doran lounged against the bleachers instead of leave, he cleared his throat. "Who told you where to find me?”
“I have my sources.”
“My sources tell me you’re in bed with my opposition.”
“Like her brother, Ms. MacLennan had some attempts made on her life.” He paused significantly.
“Surely you don’t think I’m behind it.”
“She hired me as a bodyguard.”
The senator straightened and looked him in the eye. “The yo-yo nature of their campaign has shot me ahead in the polls,” Frederickson said. “It’d take a miracle for her to win and winning is the only problem I have with the frigid bitch.”
Until this moment, he'd had doubts; now, Doran knew the truth, but he still needed evidence. He gave the senator a lazy smile. “Whatever problems you have with Ms. MacLennan are irrelevant to my reason for being here.” A pair of elderly joggers approached. "After all, that's not what you hired our firm to research."
Frederickson finished his stretches and began to jog in place. When everyone else was out of earshot he grinned. “Did you finally find out who Helen is boffing?” His harsh, quiet tone seemed out of sync with his friendly smile.
“In quite a hurry for that divorce, aren’t you?” Doran easily matched the senator’s pace. “From what little I understand about politics, something like that could be disastrous to your political future.”
“Not since Bill Clinton.” Frederickson’s smile reminded him of a shark. “I should never have married her so soon after Bernice died. Can you believe the lousy luck I have with wives? Two died accidentally, now I’m married to a tramp.”
The statement had so many inconsistencies with what they’d uncovered that Doran made a mental note to look into the circumstances of the other wives deaths. He shook his head. “The only thing Helen seems to take an interest in is Scotch." Frederickson looked ready to punch him. "As I previously told you, I believe your wife is an alcoholic and needs help.”
“I suggested it." Frederickson’s mouth thinned into an angry line. "She refused.”
“You should insist.”
The senator's glare told him to mind his own business. “I can not force her to do something against her will.” Frederickson jogged toward the track.
Doran watched him for a moment. The senator was slick, but just how sharp was he? Furthermore, did Frederickson suspect that he’d been photographed entering PBCO while disguised as Ramsey MacLennan? Doran stretched the tense muscles in his neck. With Ramsey out of the senatorial race, what was his motivation for the charade? He set out at an easy loop and quickly caught up with Frederickson. “Actually," Doran said, "the reason I’m here is to ask why you were at PBCO last night.”
Frederickson stopped as if struck. Doran jogged a couple paces, then turned. Face pale, the senator stared at him. “Whoever told you I had anything to do with that is lying.”
The man was guilty as sin. Had he realized that his trap would come up empty and he’d lose millions? Doran clenched his hand to hold back the punch. “Based upon information you passed on.”
“What information?”
Doran continued on, as if the senator hadn’t spoken. “We had an operative film th-“ His calm tone seemed to terrify the Senator.
“Film it?” Frederickson’s voice cracked like a teenager. “You got into the building?”
Doran went to full alert, but outwardly adopted a casual stance. “No.” He shrugged, as if the senator’s poorly concealed terror wasn’t an admission of guilt.
“Too bad.” Frederickson visibly relaxed. “If I’d known your man was around, I’d have gotten him in.”
“Yeah.” Doran signed. “Too bad.” Despite his outward nonchalance, Doran went to full alert over the easy way the man made up plausible-sounding lies in a split second.
Confident of his deception, Frederickson began running in place. Doran matched him step for step, while he tried to decide how much to reveal. Side by side, they began a slow jog around the track. Frederickson kept a self-assured smile pasted on his face, as if prepared for a photo shoot. Running for Congress gained new meaning. Frustrated by the crawling pace, Doran turned around and began running backwards. Frederickson’s eyes widened, and he picked up the pace, but his poster-boy smile didn’t falter.
“So, why were you there?” Doran asked.
“I owe them for a smear campaign.”
Doran adopted an inquisitive tone. “And you thought verifying the rumor would balance the scale?”
“Something like that.” Perspiration beaded on Frederickson’s upper lip and they hadn’t even made a whole lap around the cinder track.
“So, what’d you find out?” This was going to be good.
“Nothing.” Frederickson tried to hide the fact he was short of air. “I heard someone coming and hid in a closet.”
Doran let his disappointment show. “Too bad you didn’t hear what was going on.”
“Yeah, too bad.” Despite a flushed face and a saturated sweatband, the senator acted like neither the speed nor the lie bothered him, but the tic by his eye and shift of his gaze belied the relaxed facade.
They continued at the annoyingly slow pace for a second then a third lap. Doran could have walked faster than Frederickson ran, so he continued jogging backwards. When it became evident that Frederickson had no intention of saying more about the previous evening, Doran launched into a casual summary of the previous two-month's of surveillance they'd done for him. "In conclusion, Quinn and I think it's a waste of your money and our firm's time to continue the investigation of your wife," he finished.
"Fine. Send me the bill."
Doran inclined his head. "You're getting along pretty good." Despite his flushed face, Frederickson raised an arrogant brow in question. "On the tape, you looked like your leg was bothering you."
"Old injury. It acts up when it's damp." With that, Frederickson stumbled. Doran caught his arm. The senator yanked his arm free and glared at the bleachers. Doran glanced back in time to see a familiar head duck behind the field house. Why was Zoë Lancaster here? Was she following him? The senator faked a turned ankle and headed for the bleachers. By the time he reached his athletic bag, his limp was as pronounced and false as his story.
Though Doran remained solicitous, he found the fake limp more incriminating than anything he'd discovered about the MacLennans. After Frederickson assured him that he would be fine, Doran ran two more laps, then collected his gear. He then drifted into the bleacher’s shadows, where he quietly stowed his duffel bag, then settled down to watch Frederickson continue making a big show about messaging his ankle.
Doran thought back to the night he’d mistaken Zoë's arrival as a trap. Though she'd reeked of booze and Opium, how drunk had she really been? When she'd j
iggled down the stairs in her skimpy attire, she'd kept insisting that she recognized him. Had she identified him as the man tampering with Kelsey's car? If so, why hadn't she made any attempt to stop him or call the police? Instead, she’d given the impression that Frederickson was as close a friend as Kelsey. He frowned and remembered Zoë’s words. 'Kel believes Marv will do anything to keep his senate seat. She thinks it gives him power and money to control things and she thinks he’s a drug smuggler or dealer or something. He’s not. He’s a good man, but her whole family hates him and they brainwashed her.' Doran messaged his temple. What if Zoë had been telling him what she figured he wanted to hear, because she somehow knew he worked for the senator? He winced at the far-fetched nature of that theory. Still, the girl had seemed sincere. Could she have been somehow brainwashed? The senator was certainly slick enough to dupe him and Quinn. What if Zoë was one of Frederickson’s conduits for misinformation? What if Frederickson had been irritated with him for showing up because he had come for a clandestine meeting with his informant, not for exercise? It would certainly explain the pristine clothing and the lack of wind, which he would have expected to habitual jogger to have.
If he wasn’t here to run, why was he here every morning? Doran scrutinized the other walkers and runners as they moved around the track. This would make an ideal place to pass information. Which made the fact that Zoë was here even more interesting. When Zoë had accused him of working for Frederickson, it had seemed like her allegation carried a hidden meaning.
People always suspected others of doing what they were doing.
Damn, this mess was convoluted. Of course, anything involving Ling Chen always was a tangle of lies.
If the MacLennans were innocent, he was after the wrong person.
After posturing and preening for several more minutes and giving anyone who noticed the idea he was into physical fitness, but injured, Frederickson grabbed his gear and hobbled toward his Lexus.
Unless Zoë had seen him duck under the bleachers and was avoiding the senator because she didn't want to be pegged as the mole, he could kiss the theory that Frederickson was actually at the field to rendezvous with Lancaster good-by. He watched the Lexus depart, but stayed concealed in the shadows. Doran saw movement behind the field house. He froze, ready for anything. Looking haggard as a bag woman, Zoë emerged from behind a dumpster. Eyes focused on the exit, where the senator had departed, she adjusted her too-tight tiger print jumpsuit. Doran silently moved behind her. Mouth flat, she kicked a soda can, then stumbled as her too-high heel connected with the uneven ground. As she teetered, Doran caught her elbow. She screamed yanked her arm free and whipped to face him. When she recognized him, her expression became wary and uncertain.
“Hello, Zoë. We meet again.”
“You remembered, this time.”
Doran glanced at the dust left by the Lexus and decided to test his theory. “And I remember the other time we met.” He smiled at her and allowed his look to pass over the straining tiger print fabric. His glance ended at the fire engine red toenails encased in four-inch-high-heels. He raised his head and smiled at her. “Interesting choice of bed partners." Her guilty look spoke volumes. Doran smiled. "Especially considering where you officially spend the night when you’re in town.”
“You have no right to criticize.”
Score one for deduction. “Valid point.” Doran intensified his smile. “However, I’m not screwing one and pretending to be a friend to the other. Both employed my firm, but when I realized there could be a potential conflict of interest, my partner and I decided to drop Frederickson as a client. We'd concluded that his issues lacked substance, anyway.” Whenever possible the truth was always the best.
Zoë’s eyes narrowed. “The way I understand it, you’re one of Marv’s hired goons. Kelsey was supposed to die or at least get the message with her accident. You were there.” She shook her head, but didn't look confident about her conclusions. He doubted if she was certain he'd been the one under the mustang.
“No conflict? I’d call simultaneously kill her and protect her a major conflict. Furthermore, DQ’s contract with Frederickson had nothing to do with murder. Lastly, I am not his goon or anyone else’s.”
Her bright red lips pursed. “So what is your contract with him?”
“That’s privileged information, which I can’t divulge.” She snorted. “Ask him. I assure you that it didn’t have anything to do with you or Kelsey.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You have to believe someone. It might as well be me.” Doran studied her and wondered if the trashy clothes were a mask or if Kelsey really considered someone this tasteless a friend. “Think about this: you seem to believe I was hired to kill her. I must conclude that you are referring to the way someone sabotaged her car." Zoë's eyes widened. Doran nodded in confirmation. "I met her when she crashed into me. If I'd damaged her car, why would I risk having her crash into me?"
She gave him a confused look. “That was when she banged you?”
"According to your theory, I would have known her car didn’t have brakes.”
“How - when did you find that out?”
“I told you, my partner and I are investigators.”
“So they really are trying to murder her.”
“Perhaps.” Doran shrugged. “It would have been suicidal to stop in front of a car that had enough velocity to push both of us into the intersection. I am not self-destructive.”
“So you didn’t have someone toss the firebomb through the window, either?”
He shook his head. “Sheer luck that I saw the flash in my peripheral vision. With the line of work I’m in, it’s best to stay alert 24/7 - I never know when someone is going to want a piece of my ass or where they’ll chose to take it.” He gave her an embarrassed glance. “Until Kelsey told me about Ramsey's accident and all the other threats, I thought the Molotov cocktail was meant for me.” Zoë studied his face. Doran pressed his point. “I acted without thinking. If I hadn’t, I’d have been hurt, maybe killed. So would Kelsey and maybe even you. Saving her was pure reflex. Whoever wants Kelsey dead doesn’t care who else gets hurt.”
Zoë's gaze shifted to the exit the Lexus had taken. Her unstated implication was clear. Where did her loyalty lie? With the family she’d been raised in or with her lover? Doran studied the expensively vulgar outfit and knew where his bet lay.
She chewed her lower lip until her front teeth became streaked with red and her lips showed pale through the gloss. “What you’re saying is that whoever this person is would just as soon kill me, too. Right?” Her look begged him to be honest. Doran nodded in agreement. “Why do they hate Kel so much? What’d she ever do?” The childish, plaintive tone sounded odd coming from Zoë.
Doran tilted his head to one side. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Zoë gave an exaggerated shrug, which shoved her artificially augmented breasts against the already straining fabric.
He glanced at his watch. “Shoot. I’m late.” Zoë looked as if he'd slapped her. In case he could somehow use her in the future, he added, “I’m really sorry, but I have to leave." He fished one of DQ's cards from his pocket. "If you can think of anything that would help me protect Kelsey, call me. Okay?" She nodded. He eased a tense muscle in his spine. "I'm really beginning to hate politics.”
She nodded vigorously. "Me, too. You gotta help me convince her to drop out before he kills her. Please?"
He patted her bejeweled hand and nodded.
ooo
Feet tapping to the jazz playing from the lab’s speakers, Kelsey bent over the hydroponics table and, using special tweezers, carefully separated the roots of the young plants. When the weather report came on, she took off her gloves and rubbed her lower back. “What do you think, Lucky? Are you tired of keeping me company in here?” He peaked at her from under the counter, one ear straight out, the other drooping, as if he wasn't quite sure what she’d asked. The polished steel counter s
howed bags under her eyes. She gently pulled back the skin at the corner of her eyes, but the stress of the past two nights still showed. She let go of the slack skin and squinted at her reflection. She must have looked this bad when Devlin Doran had come into the kitchen last night, yet his eyes had glistened when he’d spotted her. Kelsey trembled with the memory of his look, and her belief that his eyes conveyed the message that he wanted to sink into her warmth and remain there forever.
She’d yearned for that hot, wet union, too. Had craved him since his heat had enfolded her after the horrible crash. Had desired him since her soul had been captivated by the rhythm of his heart. Had been too ill to do anything about her yearnings and had been terrified of the intensity of her need.
Did he know how his kisses had enflamed her? Did he realize she wasn’t accustomed to the feelings? Unlike Zoë, who seemed to view sex as a recreational sport or hobby, she’d always needed love and commitment.
Her stomach growled. A glance at her wristwatch confirmed that it was nearly lunchtime. If she hadn’t promised Doran that she’d stay locked in, she would have gone over to the gym and exercised away the cloying tension. Instead, she tilted her head back and slowly rotated it, then she touched her chin to her chest and counted to ten. The stretch helped, but not enough because she still wanted him to touch her. Hold her. Kiss her. She sighed and wondered if Zoë’s values were rubbing off on her or if she’d virtually fallen in love at first heartbeat.
Kelsey looked around her lab. Both doors were dead-bolted from the inside; there were neither cameras nor windows. Kelsey stepped out of her navy pumps and placed them near the chair, which held her navy jacket. Then she took off her lab coat, hung it up, hiked up her skirt, put her feet shoulder width apart, her arms straight out to her sides, she started the deep muscle toning routine she’d practiced for years. With a bounce of joy, Lucky sat next to her.
Hand firmly placed on her hip, she reached overhead with her opposing arm and lengthened the bunched muscles in her side. Within moments, she began to feel better. After doing fifty, she switched sides.
Deadly Rumors Page 17
