Seeing Red

by Sandra Brown

  “When something needed doing, I looked for a candidate or candidates to do it, singled them out, discovered what their heart’s desire was—”

  “And provided it.”

  Thomas didn’t admit it out loud but gave a slight nod. “A public office, a piece of real estate, a seat on the board of a lending company, a national championship. The object of desire could be something as highflown as that, or as plebeian as a married woman’s sudden availability.”

  Trapper said, “She would become widowed.”

  “Accidents occur,” he said, “and the results are often fatal.”

  “You’re contemptible,” Kerra whispered.

  Thomas smiled blandly. “Not in the opinion of the frustrated suitor who was so grateful, he threw a playoff hockey game.”

  She averted her gaze as though unable to stand looking at him.

  Trapper was wearing a thoughtful scowl. “A man recently diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer…”

  Picking up on the lead-in, Thomas said, “Who had inadequate health and life insurance, would welcome a lifetime income for his wife and children.”

  “All he had to do was carry a time bomb into a hotel and confess to mass murder.”

  Thomas raised his hands up shoulder high but, again, didn’t admit anything aloud.

  “Still,” Trapper said, “that would have taken some convincing. It’s not like you promised him paradise and an inexhaustible supply of virgins.”

  Trapper had hit on an essential element of Thomas’s success. “Often the favor was done prior to the recipient’s knowledge of it.”

  “Ah-ha! Of course. So when you tell him to do something, he’s already obligated. How can he refuse? The noose is already around his neck. Either he signs your pledge or you open the trap door.”

  Thomas blinked.

  Trapper saw his surprised reaction and smiled. “Yeah, we know about your pledge. That’s your insurance policy, right? A list of everybody you’ve corrupted. How many are we talking, Tom?”

  “It would keep the FBI busy for years.”

  “A lot of cold cases would go hot again. Including the Pegasus.”

  “And my daughter’s murder. That’s why I came to you. We want the same individual. I’ll give him to you, but I want your word that he’ll be punished to the fullest extent of the law, along with whoever he got to push the plunger on that syringe.”

  Trapper placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “I understand that. But you need to understand this. You can hand-deliver that individual, hell, you can waltz Jack the Ripper in there. Uncle Sam’s boys aren’t going to let you walk for the Pegasus. Maybe for a Berkley Johnson, or the two who burned to death in the factory fire. But not for one hundred ninety-seven souls.”

  “I’m betting otherwise. You don’t know the caliber of the names on my list. Federal prosecutors will be falling all over themselves, thanking me for turning them over.”

  “Like who? Give me a hint.”

  “I’ll hand over the list after you’ve struck my deal.”

  “No list, no deal.”

  “Then we’re in limbo.”

  “I’ve been in limbo,” Trapper said. “And you know what? It ain’t that bad being known as a hero’s son who couldn’t hack it. The lower people’s expectations are of me, the fewer responsibilities I have. We stay in limbo?” He shrugged. “I’m used to it. I can live with it.

  “The question is, can you? Do you want to see the people who murdered your daughter brought to justice, or not? They seriously wounded The Major, but he’s alive. Tiffany’s dead. They wanted your attention so they pumped enough heroin into her vein to bring down a bull elephant. They’re walking around free. Can you continue living with that?”

  “I don’t believe you can,” Kerra said. “Give Trapper what he needs, and he’ll see to it that her murderers are punished.”

  Thomas wavered.

  “Where do you keep the list?” Trapper asked. “Here?”

  “No. Everyone who signs realizes it’s completely inaccessible. Otherwise someone would have killed me a long time ago, then excavated this house searching for it.”

  “How do they know it’s inaccessible?” Before Thomas had time to give Trapper the answer, light dawned in his eyes. “You don’t bring it to them, you take them to it. Bowels of a bank vault? Or something more Raiders of the Lost Ark? A cave, a bunker reachable only through a maze of booby-trapped tunnels?”

  “You have a vivid imagination.”

  “Right. I do. But here’s the point. If some poor bastard signs your pledge, then changes his mind, he’s doubly screwed. The document is inaccessible, and he can’t trust anybody to tell because he doesn’t know who else has signed. You’ve covered up the names of his predecessors.”

  Thomas wondered how Trapper knew all that but didn’t ask. He suspected Glenn Addison.

  “Nifty loophole there, Tom.”

  “It’s kept me alive.”

  “So far. But your future isn’t looking too bright. You’ve got a revolt on your hands. Killing your daughter didn’t bring you around, so they’ve gotten bolder. They took matters into their own hands Sunday night. If they continue to override your decisions, and ineptly, eventually they’re going to screw up real bad, get caught, and guess who they’re going to finger as their mastermind? ‘Thomas Wilcox? Isn’t that the guy John Trapper keeps harping about?’” Trapper gave another shrug.

  “Time is running out for you to act, Tom. Either you’re going to get double-crossed and arrested or double-crossed and killed. In the event of your untimely demise, if I don’t have that list, your daughter’s murderers go free. Forever.”

  Every word out of Trapper’s mouth had been what Thomas had himself concluded. “I’ve prepared for that contingency.”

  “Smart move. What’s the contingency?”

  “Some of the signatures on the original document are unintelligible. In the event that I’m not around to decipher them, I typed all the names in alphabetical order. It required several sheets of paper.”

  “Very convenient. Thanks. I appreciate that. Where’re these sheets?”

  Thomas gestured toward the fireplace and the heap of cold ashes beneath the grate. “But I took a cell phone photograph of each page before burning it. I realize those pictures won’t qualify as evidence, but they should be adequately persuasive until the original can be accessed.”

  “Where’s the cell phone with the pictures?”

  “In a safe place.”

  “A storm cellar is a safe place. The far side of the moon is a safe place. Where is it?” Trapper looked around the study, his eyes lighting on the painting. He strode toward it.

  “No!”

  But the admonishment came too late. Trapper had discovered the concealed hinge running vertically down the side of the ornate frame. He swung it open, exposing a wall safe with a keypad. He turned back to Thomas, eyebrow cocked.

  “No,” Thomas said adamantly. “I will not open it tonight. Tomorrow—”

  Trapper made a sound like a buzzer.

  “You convene a meeting with federal agents. Senior agents,” Thomas stressed. “I’ll hand the phone over to them.”

  “The second you clear the door.”

  “After I’m guaranteed immunity.”

  “It’ll never fly, Tom. They may hear me out tonight, say, ‘Thanks for the tip, Trapper, now get lost,’ and then drive over here and arrest you. If you don’t deliver that list beforehand, you don’t have a prayer of making any kind of deal.”

  Thomas thought it over and gave a reluctant nod. “All right. The photos on the cell phone should be sufficient to start a dialogue, but it’s still only a long list of typewritten names. I’ll hold the original with signatures in abeyance until I get my guarantee.”

  “Why not, as a sign of good faith—and the feds really get off on good faith—give me the phone now and let me use it to start the dialogue?”

  “Because, as you just said, they may laugh a
t you yet. Given your reputation as a hot-headed crackpot, who could blame them?” It did Thomas’s heart good to see how the words affected Trapper. He wasn’t as cocksure as he pretended.

  “Also,” Thomas said, “even if you do manage to get me an audience, the outcome of that meeting is uncertain.” He threw a glance up toward the second story. “Greta knows nothing of this. She’s fragile. I need time to prepare her for what could be difficult days ahead.”

  Trapper thought on that, looked back at the safe, then returned the painting to its original position. He contemplated the portrait, then came around to Thomas. “Okay, here’s how it’s gonna be. I’ll be on the phone for the rest of the night, hoping to persuade somebody that I’m not drunk dialing and that this is for real. If I can convince somebody to hear us out, I’ll call you and tell you when and where to show up with the original signature list, and the cell phone with pictures of the typed names, and a good lawyer. Maybe you should bring a battery of good lawyers.”

  “Not the original list.”

  “The original,” Trapper repeated in a tone that left no room for further compromise. “If you fail on any of these points, God help you. Because then your wad is shot. If I don’t kill you myself, Jenks probably will. The feds may put you in protective custody, but you’ll have lost any wiggle room for negotiation because you reneged on the preliminary bargaining points. Beyond all that, your secret life will be exposed. Right, Kerra?”

  “I and a cameraman will set up outside your gate,” she said. “I’ll do the first of many reports on how you’re refusing to address allegations that you planned the Pegasus Hotel bombing. After my recent interview with the man who saved me from dying in the blast, this will incite media coverage around the world.”

  “You wouldn’t break a story like that without corroboration,” Thomas said. “And Trapper is hardly a reliable source.”

  “The story would be the allegations themselves, not whether or not they’re true,” Kerra said. “In our society, once suspicion is cast, one is as good as guilty. You know I’m right.”

  Trapper said, “And pledge or no pledge, at the first hint of trouble, one or more of your signers may turn on you to save themselves prison time, disgrace, God knows what else.” Trapper squared off with him. “Face it, Tom, you’re kaput. You’re out of play. Do we have a deal?”

  Thomas hesitated, then gave a curt nod.

  “Say it.”

  “We have a deal.”

  Trapper took a cell phone from his coat pocket. “What number should I call to tell you where to be and when to be there?” He tapped in the number Thomas recited. “I’ll be in touch.” He returned the phone to his pocket, then went around the desk and replaced the pistol in the drawer.

  “What if none of your former colleagues listens to you?” Thomas asked.

  “Then you’re screwed.” Trapper shut the drawer soundly. “Which you deserve to be for all the people you’ve caused to die and all the lives you’ve made a living hell. Ready, Kerra?”

  She directed Thomas a glower of pure loathing as she walked past him and out of the study. Trapper followed her, and Thomas fell into line. He disengaged the alarm and opened the front door for them.

  No one said good night.

  Kerra preceded Trapper out. But before reaching the front steps, he pivoted suddenly and came back. He reached across the threshold, grabbed Thomas by his zippered top, hauled him out onto the porch, and slammed him back against the brick exterior wall.

  Shoving his face close to Thomas’s, he said softly but with lethal intent, “The Pegasus bombing has governed my life, and I’m sick of it. Tomorrow, I’m putting my future on the line. If you fuck me over, I’ll cut out your heart and eat it.”

  Trapper’s electric blue eyes speared into his, then as quickly as Trapper had seized him, he let him go. Thomas slumped against the wall and remained there until they’d driven through the gate and it had closed behind them.

  He pushed himself away from the wall, rearranged his clothing, and chuckled. “Ah, Trapper. You should have had a scotch.”

  He bolted the door and reset the security alarm before heading for the study to pour himself another. But as he entered the room, he stopped short. “Greta. You startled me. What are you doing up?”

  She was standing beneath Tiffany’s portrait, one hand braced on the brass andiron for support. “Is it true?”

  “You should be in bed. You look faint.”

  “Is it true? My baby was killed because of you?”

  “Greta, listen to me. I don’t know what you overheard, but—”

  “My beautiful baby.” She looked up at the portrait, tears streaming from her eyes. “My baby.”

  His voice cracking, he said, “She was my baby, too.”

  Greta glared at him through tears of wrathful contempt. “You heartless bastard.”

  Chapter 33

  As Trapper entered the kitchen of Kerra’s condo, she turned away from the stove. “Did you find the bathroom?”

  “Yeah. What’s this?”

  “Food.” She spooned scrambled eggs from a skillet onto two plates. “Doesn’t surprise me that you don’t recognize it. When’s the last time we had any?” She added slices of bacon and buttered toast to the plates and handed one to him. “Sit.”

  The aroma of hot food had caused his stomach to growl, which caused her to laugh. He carried his plate to the tiny table. She joined him and they began eating.

  “Who will you call first?” she asked.

  “In addition to Marianne, there were two or three who at least listened and didn’t dismiss my notion out of hand. I’ll start with them. Maybe one of them can recommend someone for me to talk to, either in our bureau or with the FBI.

  “But, contrary to what I told Wilcox, I’ll wait till morning. I remember calling former colleagues when I was falling-down drunk, especially soon after I got fired. I don’t want them thinking this is just another of those times.”

  When they finished the meal, Trapper carried his empty plate to the sink and rinsed it under the faucet. “That was great.”

  Kerra moved up beside him. “I don’t bake cakes, but I know how to scramble an egg.”

  “I can do without cake.” He dried his hands and took hers. “I was against you going with me to confront Wilcox. But I’m glad I lost the argument. Thanks for being there.”

  He wanted to thank her for having faith in him, believing him, standing up for him and with him. But he couldn’t think of a way to express all that without sounding like a sap, so he didn’t say anything else.

  Kerra smiled as though she knew all the things he’d left unsaid. “You’re welcome.” Still hand in hand, she towed him out of the kitchen and through the living room. One of its walls was solid glass, affording a spectacular view of the Dallas skyline.

  They continued down the hallway, past the small bathroom he’d used when they arrived and into the master bedroom that was furnished as tastefully as the rest of the apartment.

  “This place is amazing,” he remarked.

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  “But it shows how much you outclass me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true.” He took her by the shoulders. “A classy guy would thank you for the eggs, give you a peck on the cheek, and leave.” He lowered his head and nuzzled his way through her hair to the soft spot behind her ear. “Or at least lay you down on the bed first.”

  “First? Before what?”

  He backed her into the wall. “Before taking your top off.”

  “The window shades are up.”

  “See? I’ve got no class. I don’t care if somebody’s watching.”

  Assuming he was joking, she laughed.

  He pulled her top over her head, then threaded his fingers up through her hair and held her head between his hands as he plundered the hottest, sweetest, sexiest mouth he was ever going to miss.

  Because, she didn’t know it, but if things didn’t wor
k out for him tomorrow, he wasn’t going to drag her down into the muck of failure with him. He wouldn’t let her jeopardize her career by doing a story on Wilcox that nobody except him would or could corroborate. He’d tell her “so long” and mean it.

  But for right now, he was with her, and she was kissing him back for all she was worth, and, by God, he’d earned at least this.

  While holding her mouth with his, he popped the snaps on his shirt and pulled it off, then hooked his thumbs beneath the shoulder straps of her bra and pulled them down her arms until the cups fell away. He scooped a breast in each hand but only held them as he broke the kiss and looked into her eyes.

  In a low voice, he said, “They’ve had a lot of rough play already tonight.”

  “Hours ago,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

  “Thank God,” he moaned and lowered his head.

  She undid his fly, took him in hand, and began milking him from root to tip.

  “Wait.” He removed her hand, then unfastened her jeans and knelt to pull them down her legs. She steadied herself with one hand on his shoulder as she stepped out of them. He gently gnawed her through the lacy triangle of her panties, breathed her in, blew against her. She sighed his name.

  He slid the underpants down and off, then stood and replaced her hand around his cock and guided it between her thighs. He kept his hand covering hers as he whispered in her ear.

  She angled her head back and looked at him with surprise. “Use you to…?”

  “One of my many fantasies,” he said.

  He withdrew his hand and let her take over. He was afraid she would demur, but she didn’t. He watched what she did to herself with him, and in turn watched her face: the bite she gave her plush lower lip; the frown of intense feeling as the lips of her sex closed around his smooth tip.

  The slippery friction she created against her sweet spot was almost his undoing, but he concentrated on her, on the escalation of her breathing, on the increasing tension in her neck and chest, the tightening of her clasp around him, the beading of her nipples. He brushed one with his tongue, and his timing was perfect to catch her gasp of ultimate pleasure with his mouth.