Carnal Vengeance

by Marilyn Campbell

  She had set out to use him for her own purposes, but he was the one who had pursued her. Had it strictly been her sex appeal, or had there been more to his dogged determination? Now that she was calming down, she replayed some of the things he had thrown at her when she first walked in. Reality dawned.

  He had been checking on her. Why? Because he had seen her go up to Erica Donner's suite while he was lying in wait in the hotel lobby.

  "It was all for a story, wasn't it?" she accused, her self-control returning by the minute. She saw the acknowledgment in his eyes, though he said nothing. "You bastard. How dare you call me a liar and act so self-righteous? I may have intended to use you, but it was for your skills as a reporter, and I was certain you would be rewarded with a good story for your efforts."

  As it all became clearer, her own anger mounted, until she could no longer remain seated. She saw him about to defend himself and cut him off. "Don't. There's no way you can justify what you did to me. I would have been satisfied if we had just become friendly acquaintances. But it wasn't enough for you to befriend me to get information on Erica Donner. No, you had to possess me, body and soul, until I couldn't withhold anything you demanded of me."

  Her eyes glittered with new awareness. "Well, congratulations. You got exactly what you set out for—my body, my soul, and a story to die for. The story was to be your reward from me. What was my reward supposed to be? A good fuck? Let me tell you something, love, no man is that good."

  She lowered her lashes and took a deep breath. When she met his gaze again, her voice was level. "We both lied, David. And we both used each other, but what you did was so much uglier. Considering the fact that you got shot and I only got my feelings hurt, I'd say we're about even." Tightly reined fury and disgust sent her marching toward the door to escape before she fell apart in front of him.

  "Holly! You can't leave."

  She froze without turning around.

  "Agent Quick will be here any minute. No matter how either of us feels right now, you have to talk to him."

  How could she have forgotten? "I'll be back in fifteen minutes," she said. As she opened the door, she pasted on a smile for the police officer and offered to get him a cup of coffee. She'd be damned if she'd let the rest of the world see how David had hurt her.

  By the time she returned, she was calm, cool, and collected... at least on the outside. Inside was going to take a lot longer, but she told herself the comfortable, emotionless void would return eventually.

  Three very average-looking men greeted her as she re-entered David's room. The FBI had apparently arrived.

  Chapter 20

  Jerry Frampton glowered at the typed message, as if by sheer willpower he could make more words appear. Something that would let him know if this was a hoax, police entrapment—or the real thing.

  I have a movie I'm sure you'd be interested in trading for something I want from you. No cash necessary. Go ALONE to the Clifton Hotel on Glades Road in Boca Raton. Register at the front desk. A room has already been reserved in your name. Wait for my call. If I am told you have not checked in by 4 AM, I will turn the DVD over to the FBI. Bring this note and the envelope with you. If you obey all of my instructions to the letter, no one will get hurt.

  That fucking prick D'Angelo! He should have had that greaseball taken out months ago, when his attorney first suggested it, but he had hesitated out of a leftover sense of indebtedness. Just goes to show what loyalty was worth these days. He glanced at his watch again—one-thirty a.m. He had to make a decision soon, and he couldn't think of anything else to do but go.

  The message had been delivered in a plain brown envelope by a private courier service at ten p.m. His personal signature had been required. Since there was no return address, he questioned its origin, but the courier only knew that he'd picked it up at the front desk of the Clifton Hotel. Jerry then called the service's night manager and was informed that they received a telephone request for the pickup and special delivery. A sizable cash payment was left for the courier in a separate envelope to guarantee prompt delivery.

  The next call Jerry made was to his attorney. Afraid of a wiretap, he ordered the man to come to the estate immediately. The attorney assured him that the cop had been well paid to destroy the DVD, but it might not have been quite enough to overcome the temptation to extort a bit more, given such a golden opportunity.

  They weighed the risks and alternatives and came to the conclusion that Frampton had little choice except to check it out. Before he left the privacy of his well-guarded estate, he reconsidered taking a gun. The attorney effectively discouraged him, however, by pointing out that if he was walking into a police trap instead of a meeting with a greedy cop, the attorney could always find a way to refute anything Frampton said to them. But if he was caught carrying a concealed weapon while he was out on bail, he'd be going back to jail and staying there this time.

  He also gave a second thought to taking a guard with him. Though this business over D'Angelo and the film was his primary concern, he hadn't forgotten about Ziegler's and O'Day's murders. But a guard could later turn into a witness and he knew it was best to handle this matter alone.

  Thus, alone, unarmed and prepared to confront a dirty cop, Jerry Frampton drove his new red Ferrari to the Clifton Hotel.

  Chapter 21

  Rachel gulped down the entire contents of her glass without taking a breath, then closed her eyes while the fiery amber liquid hit her stomach. When she reopened her eyes the tremors had calmed enough for her to dial the number.

  "Hello?"

  The rich, masculine voice confused Rachel. "Who's this?"

  "Nat Russell. Who's this?"

  "A friend of Erica's. Let me talk to her." Rachel's thoughts had been filled with bad news and warnings but hearing the country western singer's voice knocked her mind off track. She knew Erica occasionally had a celebrity escort for special functions. Their pictures often appeared in magazines and tabloids. But what was the man doing in Erica's house before noon on a Sunday, answering the private line next to her bed?

  "Rachel? I'm a little busy at the moment. I'll have to call you back."

  Rachel almost agreed until she heard Erica whisper "Stop that" and let out a light giggle. Erica never giggled. "No. This is urgent." She could tell Erica was covering the mouthpiece and saying something to Nat, and she ordered herself to give Erica a chance to explain.

  "Erica!"

  "Gawd, Rachel. What's the problem?"

  "What the hell is Nat Russell doing in your bedroom?"

  "You're the detective, darlin'. You figure it out."

  Rachel hiccupped and swallowed the growing lump in her throat. "How could you do this? I thought that—"

  "For chrissakes, Rachel, you've been drinking again, haven't you?"

  "So? I needed a drink after what just happened. Erica, I need you. Here. Now!"

  The sigh Rachel heard over the phone was one of boredom, disgust, or both, and she had to push the lump back down again. Her voice was reduced to a whimper. "I thought you loved me."

  "And I do, darlin', but I never promised not to have other... friends. Now, why don't you go sleep it off, and I'll call you later tonight?"

  Rachel was about to hang up when she remembered her reason for calling. "No! This can't wait." Her words picked up speed as her earlier panic renewed itself. "It's all coming apart. I wanted to warn you so you'd be prepared when they come to question you. Bobbi and I have both been suspended pending further investigation. I can't reach April at all. It had to be that simpering little pussy, Holly. She must have told them everything!"

  "Rachel, please calm down. I don't understand anything you're saying."

  Rachel made herself set aside her personal turmoil and behave like the trained professional she was so proud of being. Correction, had been so proud of being. "Where were you this weekend, Erica?"

  "Didn't April tell you? I was in Florida. I just got back about an hour ago."

  "Where in Fl
orida? Did you take your private jet, or a commercial flight? Do you have any witnesses that can swear to your whereabouts between the hours of one and four this morning?"

  Erica hesitated, clearly reinforcing her own professional armor before speaking. "What's this all about? What's happened?"

  "Jerry Frampton was murdered in Boca Raton, Florida, sometime before dawn. Same m.o. as the others. Bobbi and I have already been questioned, but they had nothing solid to charge us with. We can prove we were both in Washington this morning, and our other alibis should hold up. But they know everything, Erica. It had to have been Holly. It's the only thing I can figure."

  "What exactly do you mean by everything?"

  Rachel gave a dry laugh. "Webster's definition. They asked me about certain cases Bobbi and I handled, and they knew about our relationship. They wanted me to tell them about your unusual marital history." She could visualize Erica on her knees, begging forgiveness for being unfaithful, doing anything to ensure her continued protection.

  "I see. Then I suppose I should be expecting visitors soon."

  "Not necessarily. I figured if you get your pilot to fly you here immediately, we can put our heads together to firm up your alibi for the hours in question. Everything will be just fine once we're together again, you'll see."

  Erica cleared her throat, and murmured something Rachel couldn't hear. When she spoke again a few seconds later, her voice was hushed. "Listen to me, Rachel. I don't know what you think I was doing during the hours in question, but I don't need your help with an alibi. Nat and I were in Miami together. We flew down yesterday, partied in a couple of the clubs on South Beach last night. Several thousand people saw us—he's rather recognizable, you know."

  "We flew back to San Diego at dawn on my jet. Anyone can ask me anything they want. I'm innocent as a babe. The last thing I intend to do right now is go running to someone who is bound to be a prime suspect in three murders. As far as I'm concerned, honey, as of this minute, it's every girl for herself."

  Rachel tried to absorb the cold finality of Erica's words. "You can't push me out of your life this easily, Erica. I swear, if you don't come to me today, I'm going to give them some answers to their questions."

  "You can't threaten me anymore, Rachel," Erica stated in a diamond-hard voice. "You just had your power stripped, and without it you're nothing but a big lez with a drinking problem. It's your word against mine, and I'll deny everything. Who do you think the authorities will believe? A civil servant who used her position for personal gain and put an innocent men in jail by creating a crime that didn't exist? Or a leader of industry with millions in taxable dollars behind her? Good luck, Rachel. And goodbye."

  Rachel stared at the phone receiver, unable to believe Erica had hung up on her and unwilling to accept the fact that Erica really didn't care. She dropped the phone and staggered to the kitchen.

  Her power had been stripped. She would soon lose her badge, the first love in her life—she might even end up in prison—and the second love had just hung up on her.

  Erica didn't love her. She had been with a man all weekend. Rachel's brain slowly analyzed what else that meant.

  Erica didn't kill Frampton. Which meant she probably didn't kill Ziegler or O'Day either. Rachel had been certain it was Erica, since Ziegler was drugged, then cut and left to bleed to death, the same way Erica's second husband had died. Also, right after they had talked of coming up with a special punishment for O'Day, he was killed. She had been positive Erica had done it for her—a unique, very private gift. Then, when she heard about Frampton, she recalled April saying Erica was in Florida, and she had no doubts left at all. But she'd been wrong about everything.

  Knowing all the facts, Rachel had initially deduced that it was one of two women. If the murderess wasn't Erica, it had to be the other.

  She was about to pour herself another drink, but took a long swallow straight from the bottle instead.

  Erica thought she didn't need her anymore, but she didn't know about the tape Rachel had hidden in her wall safe. The night Erica became drunk enough to brag about how she'd gotten rid of her first two husbands, Rachel had had a tape recorder running under the bed.

  It had been clear to Rachel that Erica was pulling away and she planned to keep the tape as insurance that Erica would never abandon her. However, she also knew Erica would be furious if she found out, so she simply held on to it as a last-ditch measure. It had never been necessary to tell Erica about the tape.

  The necessity had now arrived, but Rachel hadn't had the guts to use her insurance. The pitiful truth was that she couldn't blackmail Erica, because she loved her too much to hold her against her will. Nor could she turn her and the tape over to the police.

  Carrying the half-empty bottle of bourbon with her, she went to the safe and extracted the tape. For a moment she considered listening to it one last time, but when she remembered the sounds of lovemaking and erotic dialogue that flowed through the confession, she changed her mind. Her heart was hurting too badly for that.

  She unwound the ribbon of tape from its plastic case, dropped it all in a steel saucepan, then lit a match. In seconds, her insurance against Erica's abandoning her was gone.

  There was only one thing left to do, she thought, taking another swig from the bottle. The real perpetrator had to be protected. Rachel owed April too much to let her suffer for such worthwhile deeds.

  She composed her thoughts as she found paper and pen to write out her confession. In perfect agency format, Rachel described how and why she had killed Ziegler and O'Day. She couldn't claim to be in Florida when Frampton was hit, but she knew who had been there besides Erica and the real murderess.

  Holly Kaufman. Rachel laughed aloud as she realized there was a way she could save April and get revenge against Holly at the same time. How ingenious of April to convince Holly to go flying to her reporter's bedside! Unfortunately, Rachel didn't have specific details of how Frampton had been lured to his death, but she figured the rest of the confession would make the last part believable.

  She claimed that the two of them had planned the murders together and that, with Holly's reporter friend getting shot, she had the perfect excuse for being in the vicinity. Rachel knew Wells was under guard and not permitted to have visitors, so Holly was undoubtedly asleep and alone in a motel room at the time of the murder. She'd have no alibi. It couldn't have worked out better if Rachel had planned it in advance.

  She considered blaming Holly for all three, but if the reporter regained consciousness, he could swear to Holly's whereabouts during the O'Day murder. It was safer this way.

  When she was finished with that chore, she went to her bathroom closet and removed several containers of the antidepressants April had prescribed for her. She had been saving them up for this moment—an event she had thought about often over the last twenty years. A moment that her job and her passion for Erica had managed to postpone.

  As previously planned and mentally rehearsed so many times, she prepared the stage. Her alarm clock, set to go off in four hours, was placed on the coffee table in the living room next to her final report. The front door of her apartment was left unlocked.

  When the alarm continued to sound without being turned off, some neighbor would come to complain and, finding the door unlatched, should investigate further. Otherwise, it could be days before anyone might come to check on her and she wanted to make sure her last words were found quickly.

  She sat down on the couch, dumped all ten containers of pills on the table, then one handful at a time, washed them down with the rest of the bourbon. At one time she had thought about eating her gun, in the more traditional law enforcement manner, but that was such an unattractive way to go.

  Settling back to wait for it to take effect, however, she thought of something that had never been in the plan before. She stumbled into her bedroom, pulled off the tailored, mannish clothes she was wearing, then slipped into the black lacy nightgown she had bought yesterday as a gi
ft for Erica.

  At least she would die feeling pretty.

  * * *

  "Holly Kaufman?"

  She looked up at the man who had stepped in her path just as she was entering the lobby of her apartment building. As soon as she acknowledged her name, he flashed his badge and photo identification.

  "Agent Thackery, FBI. Would you come with me, please?"

  Holly's brows rose in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'd suggest you come along peaceably." His face was expressionless.

  "May I see your identification again, please?" Holly asked just as politely. He held on to his badge case as she compared the picture with the man. "All right, but where is it you want to take me and why?"

  He put his case away and said, "FBI headquarters. Senior Agent Quick from Miami asked me to bring you in for questioning immediately."

  "Agent Quick is here? In Washington?"

  Agent Thackery nodded curtly. "He arrived a short while ago."

  Holly thought he didn't sound too pleased about it. She couldn't imagine what other questions she could possibly answer, but she didn't seem to have any choice. She left her overnight bag with Pete, then left with Agent Thackery.

  Upon arrival at the FBI building, she was taken to a room furnished with a rectangular table and eight chairs. Recording equipment was set up at one end of the table. On impulse, she tested the doorknob after she was left alone.

  Locked! Instantly, panic set in. What was this all about? Was she under arrest? Had Rachel already found out that she had talked and made good on her threat? Why was Agent Quick in D.C.?

  As if on cue, Quick entered the room with Agent Thackery and a woman who was just as physically generic as her male counterparts.