White Hot

by Sandra Brown

  “Your interest in the outcome of my trial is foolish and three years delinquent. You were welcome to return home when the case was being tried. You could have observed it all firsthand. I would have seen to it that you got a front-row seat in the courtroom. But, Sayre, it’s over,” he said, breaking the last word into two distinct syllables.

  “You killed him, didn’t you? Just like Huff killed Sonnie Hallser.”

  “No and no.”

  “Does anyone except me know that you saw Huff do it?”

  His focus sharpened. “What are you talking about?”

  “You sneaked out of the house that night, Chris. I caught you, remember? You threatened me within an inch of my life not to tell Mother. You said you wanted to surprise Huff at the foundry and stay with him until he came home.

  “I remember being envious of your courage to walk all the way there by yourself after dark. And even more envious that Huff would be glad to see you. I knew he would think you were brilliant for having done it, that you wouldn’t get into trouble for it.” Lowering her voice, she said, “What did you walk in on that night, Chris?”

  “How old were you?”

  “Five.”

  “Right. So how could you possibly remember? I often sneaked out and went to the plant so I could ride home with Huff. You’re getting your nights mixed up.”

  No, she wasn’t. Some childhood memories were too sharp to confuse, and the days following the discovery of Sonnie Hallser’s mangled body were one of them. It was also starkly fixed in her mind because it was the only time she remembered Chris behaving as though he was frightened.

  “I believe Huff killed that man,” she said. “And you killed Gene Iverson decades later over the same argument. But you learned from Huff’s mistake. You disposed of Iverson’s body so it would never be found.”

  “No one knows what happened to Iverson. Maybe Huff had put the fear of God into him, he got cold feet, and ran away.”

  “Leaving everything he owned behind?”

  “Maybe he was kidnapped by aliens.” He snapped his fingers. “I know. Colonel Mustard got him with the lead pipe in the library.”

  “This is no game of Clue,” she said angrily. “How can you joke about a man’s murder?”

  “Which brings me to the next point. We don’t even know that Iverson is dead, much less that he was murdered. My guess is that he’s walking around hale and hearty, laughing up his sleeve at all the shit he threw at the fan for the Hoyles to clean up. What I know with absolute certainty is that I didn’t kill him.”

  Unswayed, Sayre said, “You and Huff didn’t trust a jury to acquit you, so you took matters into your own hands. Calvin McGraw admitted to me that he bribed those jurors.”

  “He has dementia!” Chris exclaimed. “If you had asked him if he’d blown up the Golden Gate Bridge, he would have confessed to that, too. He doesn’t know which end is up. Sayre, for godsake, be reasonable. Why would you believe an Alzheimer’s patient with limited mental capacity over your own brother?”

  She left the bed and went to stand in front of the bureau. She set her untouched cup of wine on the chipped laminate top and looked into the mirror above it, barely recognizing herself.

  Was this the interior design guru for the Bay City’s rich and richer? Haute couture had been replaced with jeans and T-shirts. She’d given up trying to iron her hair into compliance and had let it do what it wanted to do in the humid climate, which was to swirl and curl in confusion.

  Who was this person looking back at her, and what was she doing in this pathetic room, dressed like this, playing cloak-and-dagger games for causes that seemed to matter only to her? What business was it of hers if Clark Daly slowly killed himself with drink and despair? Why should she care about a labor strike and the future of Hoyle Enterprises, when, for decades, the people who worked there had tolerated maiming accidents, deaths, and deplorable working conditions?

  If Chris had committed murder and gotten away with it, why not leave him to the devil? It seemed to bother no one except her that he and Huff had thumbed their noses at justice being done. Why had she taken up this mantle?

  As for Danny’s phone calls to her, they could have been about something major or something trivial. Statistically, people seriously contemplating suicide are rarely talked out of it. Had she taken one of Danny’s calls, the inevitable might have been postponed, but that was all. It was egotistical of her to think that she could have been the one to keep him from doing it when his own fiancée couldn’t.

  Then she caught Chris’s reflection in the mirror. He was watching her, as though he knew she was second-guessing not only her resolve but herself. Drawing herself up to her full height, she turned to face him.

  “You asked a straightforward question, and that’s how I’ll answer you, Chris. Why would I believe even an unreliable source over you? Because Huff spoiled you rotten, and it shows. You’re consummately selfish. You’ve acted on every self-gratifying impulse you’ve ever had.

  “When you’re caught doing something wrong, you rely on your charm or Huff’s influence to spare you any backlash. You’re self-absorbed, hedonistic, and amoral. You lie, sometimes simply for the fun of it, just to see if you can get away with it. You take what you want when you want it. You’ve never been denied anything in your life. Except, possibly, a divorce, which I’m sure you and Huff will find a way to obtain by fair means or foul.

  “Do I think you killed Iverson?” she asked rhetorically. “Yes. You got away with it. But if you killed Danny, you will pay, Chris. I swear to you that I’ll see to that.”

  He set his glass of wine on the nightstand. “Sayre, sit down. Please.”

  It was so unusual for him to say please that she returned to the edge of the bed and sat down, albeit reluctantly. He reached for her hands and held on to them tightly even when she tried to pull them back.

  “Think about the way Danny died,” he said quietly. “In order for me to have murdered him, I would have had to have taken down that old shotgun, loaded both barrels, pushed them into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  “Now, despite all the character flaws you’ve enumerated, do you really think I could do that to my own brother?” Without waiting for an answer, he declared, “I did not kill Danny. I did not. To even consider that I did, you’re making a fool of yourself.”

  “What difference does that make to you?”

  “None whatsoever. I just don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

  His nonchalant explanation was so transparent, she saw straight through it. “No, that’s not it, is it, Chris? I’m stealing his attention away from you, aren’t I?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Huff. I’m causing a stir, and even though it’s making him mad, his focus is on me, not you, and you can’t handle that.”

  His eyes became shuttered, reflecting only an image of her in their ebony depths. The lips that had smiled so facilely moments ago were now compressed and barely moved when he spoke. “Go back to San Francisco where you belong, Sayre.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’d like that.”

  “Not for my benefit, for yours.”

  She laughed and laid a hand on her chest. “I’m supposed to believe that you’re thinking of my well-being?”

  “That’s right. You said it yourself, Huff’s attention is on you these days. And do you want to know why? Do you want to hear what he has in store for you?”

  His lips broke a smile then, but it was actually a triumphant sneer.

  chapter 25

  Charles Nielson’s office was in a bank building on Canal Street in downtown New Orleans. He shared the twentieth floor with two dentists, an investment brokerage firm, a psychologist, and an entity of undetermined enterprise that went only by initials. His was the last office on the left at the end of a carpeted corridor. The name was stenciled on the door in unpretentious black block lettering.

  The anteroom was small and furnished with basic waiting room issue—a p
air of matching upholstered armchairs with an end table and lamp between them. Seated at the reception desk was a pretty, middle-aged woman.

  She was in conversation with Sayre when Beck entered the office.

  It would be difficult to say who was the more stunned to see the other there.

  Peering around Sayre, the receptionist greeted him with a cordial “Good afternoon.”

  “Hello.”

  “I’ll be with you in a moment. Please have a seat.”

  He didn’t sit down but remained where he was, curious to hear what Sayre, who upon seeing him had become as wooden as a cigar store Indian, had to say.

  The receptionist said to her, “Apparently there’s been a breakdown in communication. Sometimes Mr. Nielson makes appointments and forgets to tell me so I can put them on the calendar.”

  “He didn’t forget . . .” She stopped, cleared her throat. “He didn’t forget to tell you about an appointment. I don’t have one.”

  “Oh, well, what is the nature of your business with him? I’ll be happy to pass along a message.”

  “My name is Sayre Lynch. My last name used to be Hoyle.”

  The receptionist’s smile faltered. “Of Hoyle Enterprises? That Hoyle?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t believe you do. I’m not here as a representative of my family.”

  The receptionist folded her hands on top of her desk as though ready to hear an explanation. “I’m sure Mr. Nielson would be interested to know that.”

  “When you speak with him, please impress upon him that I want to offer him my assistance.”

  “Yes, well, Mr. Nielson—” The receptionist was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She held up her index finger, signaling for Sayre to stay put while she took the call. “Charles Nielson’s office. No, I’m sorry, he’s presently unavailable. May I relay a message?” She reached for a notepad and began jotting down information.

  Sayre turned toward Beck. “Did you follow me here?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Unlike you, I have an appointment.”

  As soon as the receptionist concluded her call, he stepped around Sayre and approached the desk. All smiles, his voice like melting butter, he said, “You must be Brenda.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’ve spoken on the telephone several times. I’m Beck Merchant.”

  She reacted with obvious distress. “Oh, my goodness. You didn’t receive my message?”

  “Message?”

  “Mr. Nielson was called out of town unexpectedly. I left word on your cell phone that he was unable to keep your appointment this afternoon.”

  Beck withdrew his cell phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and checked the LED. “So you did,” he said. “Obviously I failed to retrieve it.”

  “I had hoped to catch you before you drove all this way.”

  “I wish your employer had paid me the courtesy of a meeting before he rushed out of town. When will he be returning?”

  “He hasn’t informed me of his plans.”

  “Is he reachable by phone?”

  “I can give you his hotel. He’s in Cincinnati.”

  “I suppose a cell phone number is—”

  “Out of the question,” she said. “Unless I want to lose my job.”

  “I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

  “When Mr. Nielson calls in for messages, shall I reschedule your appointment, Mr. Merchant?”

  “Please. If I don’t answer, be sure to leave the date and time on my voice mail. I’ll adjust my schedule accordingly. And this time, if you would be so kind, call my office and home numbers, too. I’d like to prevent a mix-up like this from happening again.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Merchant.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry you were inconvenienced. Both of you,” she said, including Sayre.

  “I would also like to see Mr. Nielson at his earliest convenience,” she said.

  “I’ll let him know that, Ms. Hoyle.”

  “Lynch.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  Sayre gave the receptionist her cell phone number and that of the motel switchboard, then turned to leave.

  Beck was standing at the door and held it open for her. “Good-bye, Brenda,” he said over his shoulder on his way out.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Merchant.”

  They moved down the corridor in tandem. They waited together for the interminably slow elevator. They rode it down to the lobby level. When they stepped out of the elevator, he headed straight for the exit. Sayre followed the signs to the ladies’ restroom.

  All of this was accomplished in complete silence.

  • • •

  He was standing on the sidewalk in the shade of the skyscraper talking on his cell phone when Sayre emerged from the building five minutes later. She wasn’t glad to see him, having given him ample time to disappear.

  It was five o’clock, and the downtown sidewalks were crowded with people eager to get home. Motor traffic was already snarled. Exhaust fumes were trapped by the humidity and had nowhere to go, making the air even more cloying and difficult to inhale.

  Beck looked frazzled. To block out the city noise, he had a finger poked in one ear while he squinted to concentrate on what was being said into the other. He’d removed his suit jacket and draped it over his arm, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirtsleeves, looking much as he had the first time Sayre saw him at the cemetery.

  When he spotted her, he ended his call and swam upstream of other pedestrians until he fell into step with her. “Nielson hasn’t checked in yet,” he said. “Save yourself a call to his hotel.”

  “I’ll try later.”

  “You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw you in his office. What prompted you to come?”

  “As I told his assistant, I was there to volunteer my support. Why did you?”

  “To meet Nielson in person,” he returned smoothly. “I wanted to show him that neither I nor the Hoyles have horns and cloven feet and hopefully to negotiate a peaceful resolution to our differences and avert a strike. I wanted to impress upon him how detrimental one would be, particularly to the foundry workers who depend on a weekly paycheck.”

  “You’re all heart,” she said, being intentionally droll. “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  She nodded down at his briefcase. “How much of a cash bribe did you bring with you?”

  The light changed, and she rapidly crossed the street. When she reached the other side, Beck nudged her out of the tide of other pedestrians and forced her to stop. “Enough cash to cover dinner.”

  “You want to have dinner?”

  “Customarily you insist on picking up your own tab, but I’d like to buy this time. Unless you eat too much, in which case I might need you to chip in.”

  His smile was teasing, his green eyes mischievous. But rather than feeling the desired effect, she was repelled. Instead of being swept off her feet by his flirtation, she was wondering how he could be so disingenuous. Oddly, she was crushingly disappointed in him.

  “Chris told me about Huff’s plans for you and me.”

  His heart-melting smile slipped.

  “I’d hate for you to waste all that charm on seducing me when you don’t stand a chance in hell of succeeding. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another errand.” She stepped around him and continued down the sidewalk. But he wouldn’t be deterred and kept in step with her.

  “Asking you to dinner has nothing to do with Huff’s matchmaking.”

  “Get out of my way, Beck,” she said when he stepped in front of her. “I’m going to be late.”

  “For what?”

  “Visiting hours. I’m going to see Billy Paulik.”

  That took him aback, which gave her time to step around him.

  “Wait, Sayre. I’ll drive you.”

  “I’ll drive myself. Besides, I don’t think yo
u’d be welcome.”

  “Actually, I’ve got something to deliver.” He patted his briefcase. “Where’s your car?” She told him. He said, “My truck’s closer.”

  • • •

  He’d parked his pickup in a ground-level lot nearer than the garage in which she’d left her car, and she was under a deadline to reach the hospital before visiting hours ended.

  It wasn’t that far, but because of rush-hour traffic and a shortage of parking places, it took them almost half an hour to get to the ICU floor where Billy Paulik was still recovering from surgery. During that time, they didn’t exchange a word.

  Alicia Paulik was in the hallway conferring with a young man in a white lab coat when Beck and Sayre alighted from the elevator. Spotting them as they made their way toward her, she glared at Beck with unmitigated hostility. “What are you doing here?”

  “We came to see about Billy,” he replied evenly. “This is Sayre Lynch.”

  She eyed Sayre up and down. “Lynch, huh? You’re Huff Hoyle’s daughter. Can’t say as I blame you for going by another name.”

  “How is your husband?”

  Mrs. Paulik hitched her thumb at the young man in the lab coat. “This is his shrink. Ask him how he is.”

  The doctor introduced himself and shook hands with them. “Naturally I can’t divulge what Billy confides to me during our sessions. Suffice it to say, he’s extremely depressed. He’s trying to heal physically, while also mentally and emotionally adjusting to the idea of living without his arm. Even with a prosthesis, he’s facing difficult challenges. He’s also fretful about the welfare of his family.”

  “I’ve told him we’re gonna be fine,” Mrs. Paulik said. “Better than fine. Because I’m gonna take your rotten company for every cent I can get.” She addressed this threat to both Sayre and Beck, seeming not to draw a distinction between them.

  The young doctor awkwardly interceded. “All of Billy’s reactions are typical of patients who suffer traumatic injuries. It’ll take time for him to come to terms with the permanent effects of it.”

  “Continue your sessions with him for as long as you deem necessary,” Beck told him.