Survival Instinct

by Doranna Durgin

  Oh, I doubt that. But Karin only smiled. And then, with the menu open but not yet perused, she asked, “Do you gentlemen prefer to separate the dining and the business, or would you prefer that I dive right in?”

  Longsford spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “Any time you’d like. It is, I believe, your treat.”

  “Definitely my treat,” she told him cheerfully. “Give me a moment with this menu…the food looks too delightful to shortchange my selection.”

  “It’s all good,” Longsford said, implying he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t.

  Karin didn’t need long. Seasonal greens with Manchego cheese and walnuts, glazed chicken Dijonnaise, and then just maybe that crema cotta for dessert. Mmm. But when the salad came, she made herself eat it in a purposeful way, not lingering over the mix of flavors or the way the strong nutty flavor of the sheep cheese hit her tongue.

  Maybe it had come from a Mad Sheep.

  And before she was done, she started talking. She told them of the real-estate situation—of their need to sell it fast and sell it all. She told them the area was zoned for several-acre parcels, and how much he could expect to get for each. She told them about the political spin, and the opportunity to make his money back while still acquiring feel-good vibes for his support of the environment.

  And then she told him of that extra satisfaction—that the development company for Ranchwood Acres had long ago declared their philosophical opposition to environmentalist buyers. Their vision was of a manifest destiny for Florida—a tamed land. No more gators, no more panthers—no more territory for either.

  “I’ve noticed that the environment is important to you,” Karin finished, about halfway through her chicken and now surrounded by the fruits of her morning’s labor—the photos, the pitches, the developer’s vision as stolen from the Web site and massaged to suit Karin. “But I’ve also noticed that you seem to enjoy letting the smug and self-assured—such as our developers—know they aren’t quite as important as they think they are.”

  Longsford gave her a tight smile over an empty plate that had recently held a pasta dish. “I see.”

  She shrugged. “It was forward of me to say so. But I did think you might find this deal particularly satisfying.”

  Until this point, Carl Rucsher had done little more than catch Longsford’s eye in a way that Karin interpreted as surreptitious approval. All she knew for sure was that neither of them had cut her short, and they’d both finished their meals and had moved on with coffee. But now Rucsher offered, “With an investment like this, you could dump that old factory on North West.”

  Longsford frowned, lifting his chin in a defiant gesture that Karin hadn’t expected. When did this man need to feel defiant? “It’s not in my name, so it has no effect on my public image. But it will when that area revitalizes and I’m one of the first to support it.”

  “It’s been years,” Rucsher observed. Karin took the opportunity to focus on what remained of her meal, turning herself into another fixture of the table as Rucsher continued. “Just because it’s by a metro station…it’s also stuck in behind that new office complex.”

  “Speculative investment demands patience.” Longsford made a dismissive gesture, tension in his voice. “In any event, it’s irrelevant to this discussion.”

  “I’d be pleased if you would discuss whatever you feel is necessary,” Karin said. She eyed her empty plate, visibly pondering dessert, and then made a point to pull her attention back to the men. Even without glancing at her watch, she knew they were pushing the front edge of Kimmer’s phone blackout. “Also, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve listed a contact for the Ranchwood development company. She’s made a point to be available this afternoon, in the event that you’d like to speak directly to a Ranchwood representative.”

  He raised an eyebrow, favoring her with a pointed expression. “Not concerned we’ll dispense with the middleman and you’ll lose your cut of the proceeds?”

  She laughed. “I’m covered,” she said, still smiling. “I’ve already done enough to earn my cut.” She tapped the paper where Kimmer’s number was located. “I’m thinking hard about that crema cotta, so take your time.”

  Rucsher caught Longsford’s eye for another meaningful look, one that Karin knew well. One of them, at least, had taken the bait already. “Everything’s checked out so far,” he reminded Longsford, letting Karin know that they’d investigated her back trail. The print job for sure, possibly the hotel.

  “It’ll all check out,” she said. “And the Ranchwood rep will be disappointed if you don’t ask the hard questions. It only means you’re serious.” She turned in her chair, looking for their server. By the time she’d ordered her dessert and an espresso, Longsford had his phone out. She plucked a piece of crispy flatbread from the bread basket and kept herself busy by applying the lightest possible film of butter before she started to nibble, hiding her anxiety that they’d missed Kimmer. But Longsford tensed slightly only a moment after dialing, taking a breath to start the conversation. Thank God.

  Longsford glanced at her frequently as he spoke to Kimmer, confirming the details Karin had already told him, asking leading questions and letting Kimmer fill in the blanks to his satisfaction.

  And then he did what she’d been hoping for. He said, so casually, “I understand the Florida Conservation Coalition has an interest in this land.”

  And Kimmer, primed and ready, apparently offered just the right response. For Longsford smiled that tight little smile of his and locked gazes with Rucsher, and Karin felt the thrill of the bait taken. The jazz.

  She had him. Oh, there were details to attend to, conversations to have, more questions to answer. But deep down, he’d already made up his mind. And she had him.

  Chapter 19

  Karin felt as if she were two different people during the remainder of lunch. Part of her ate her white-chocolate custard dessert, chatting pleasantly with her tablemates, confident that the scam was moving forward.

  Another part of her sat back and tried to put things into perspective, reminding herself that this scam wasn’t about bringing it home. It was about putting Longsford away for the rest of his life, and that meant drawing the process out in a way she would never normally consider.

  Except that in the background of it all, her life had still been wrecked. Rumsey teetered on exposing her. And Dave knew she was still alive. Knew her history. The havoc he could wreak if he chose…

  She needed to get out of here as quickly as possible, money in hand.

  And yet she still needed to linger, to soak up Longsford’s habits, find ways to use whatever advantage her resemblance to Ellen gave her. He’d obviously seen the resemblance even if he didn’t assign any particular meaning to it, and that meant she was likely to be his type. Physically, at least.

  You’d think differently if I weren’t all made over as Maia Brenner. If I was still wearing Ellen’s clothes. You’d figure out the meaning to it then.

  The resentment startled her, resentment that Longsford had failed to recognize a woman who could literally pass for Ellen’s twin. That he hadn’t paid enough attention to Ellen to see what was before his eyes, even though that failure kept Karin safe. Yes, resentment. Because Longsford had used her sister. Never truly respected her, merely acquired and controlled her just enough to establish a public perception of the couple.

  And now I’m using you.

  But not without conflict.

  For Ellen’s sake, for Rashawn’s and Terry’s sakes, Karin had to prolong her time here, exposed to this monster hidden in a politician’s clothes, the scam a distant second priority.

  But for Karin’s sake, she had to close down this con as soon as possible, grab the money and run. Literally. Away from here, maybe out of the country. With Ellen gone and her life on the farm blown, there was nothing keeping her here.

  France, maybe. Switzerland.

  “Miss Brenner?”

  Karin looked down at the tiny esp
resso cup in her hand and the empty dessert plate before her. She tried to recapture the taste of the custard on her tongue and couldn’t. But she smiled at Rucsher and said, “Please. Call me Maia.”

  “We seem to have lost your attention,” Longsford said drily.

  “Actually, I was pondering what to do about the reception. I don’t have much time to decide whether I should cancel.”

  Longsford’s face turned dark. “That’s not terribly subtle.”

  Karin laughed. “Subtle? I was clear about the situation when I spoke to you yesterday. Anyway, it’s my problem. You make whatever decision you think is best for you. Honestly, gentlemen, although I do consider you a very good match for this investment, I’m quite sure I can walk away from that reception with a handful of potential buyers. This is how I make my living and, as it happens, I make a very nice living indeed.”

  Or she once had. The real question was whether she’d be doing it again—or what she’d be doing at all.

  The only thing not in question was the need to stop this man.

  Her thoughts caught on the one moment in which Longsford had broken character during lunch, when Rucher had mentioned the building on North West. Only an instant of defensiveness, but significant. Perhaps a weakness she could exploit later.

  Yeah. Something to investigate.

  Karin licked the last taste from her dessert spoon, watching her mark with a guileless and steady gaze. “Tell you what,” she said. “Think about it. Check out what you’ve learned today, and let’s touch base tomorrow. After that, you lose your exclusive, but you’re certainly still welcome to bid against the others.”

  And either way, you’re mine.

  Karin sweated out some of her conflicting emotions in the hotel gym, working a stair stepper and cooling down on a treadmill. The shower afterward felt blissful, and she emerged from the hotel dressed down, heading to catch a bus to the library. At the library she went to work narrowing down the building question. North West Street, near the tracks, near an office complex. The city maps gave her the general area, but not potential buildings. Not until a nearby librarian saw her tapping her fingers on the map, pondering her next move, and drew her over to one of the computers.

  There, she showed Karin the new Alexandria parcel viewer online. Karin quickly zoomed in on the street in question, enabling the photographic overlay that painted in satellite photography around the big pale brick blocks of buildings. Navigation was a little tricky, but she was able to survey the buildings along the street in question. She hunted for a confluence of railroad tracks, a stand-alone building, and an office-building complex—and when she spotted it, there was no question that she’d found the correct building. Literally jammed in behind a long, complex conglomeration of offices and the railroad tracks, the small factory sat on a tiny lot of scraggly grasses, and had a hard-to-access parking area tucked in behind it. The whole parcel sat plopped on the north end of North West Street.

  When queried, the parcel viewer data bank—so eager to give out detailed information about the ownership, various sales prices, taxable value and exact address—told her merely no parcels found. Experimentation with other buildings and even empty lots gave her, at minimum, the current owner and property type. Even if it was vacant land, commercial.

  But not this one.

  Interesting.

  She played with the interface a bit, getting an idea of the area. The offices looked like they’d be nice, and the land just beyond that was in development. Not a bad area at all. She thought Longsford had a good point, that the building would become worth more in the near future. So what was the deal with his defensive behavior?

  Or maybe Karin had just misinterpreted his reaction. Maybe he’d just been impatient; Rucsher had obviously lobbied to get rid of the building before. She panned north, hunting an alternate approach by car, and stopped short at the sight of what appeared to be a giant white marshmallow squatting on many legs half a mile from the factory. A giant white—

  Water tower.

  “Cree-ap,” she breathed. She scrambled in her notes—in Dave’s notes—and confirmed what memory had told her. Rashawn had been found under a water tower. North Payne Street said the notes, and there it was on the map beside the squatting marshmallow. N. PAYNE ST.

  She closed the folder, abruptly enough to make the stiff paper slap together. Ignoring the looks she got, she leaned back in her chair and stared blindly at the screen, not seeing the interactive parcel map at all. Seeing Dave’s face when he’d heard about Rashawn. Seeing the inexplicable expression on Longsford’s face when the factory had come up in conversation.

  Seeing what she thought could be the answer.

  “Hey,” said a guy’s voice from behind her, a challenging greeting. “You done with that or what?”

  Done with—? Oh. The computer. “Sure,” she said. She flushed the browser cache and closed out the window, pulling her things together with her thoughts still fogged by what she’d seen. The young man who’d been hovering behind her plopped himself gracelessly in the chair almost before Karin had completely vacated it, but she didn’t offer him so much as the glare he deserved.

  Surely it couldn’t be that easy. Surely Dave would have figured it out by now—

  Except Dave hadn’t known about the factory. No one had known about the factory. If Karin headed to the courthouse, she had no doubt she’d find the trail that would eventually lead back to Longsford, but until now, no one had known there was any reason even to look.

  It might be nothing. It might be absolutely nothing at all.

  As Karin passed the front desk on the way out, the librarian smiled at her and asked, “Find what you were looking for?”

  Karin didn’t think twice. “Oh, yeah,” she said. Words that had come from that gut instinct of hers. Words that superceded her doubt and told her exactly what she’d be doing the next morning, exactly where she’d be.

  Now this was being on the jazz.

  She should have been exhausted. She should have been asleep as soon as she turned out the light in her hotel room. There was no way she should be staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening to her neighbors play bump-the-headboard and pondering what next.

  It’s not rocket science.

  She could tell Dave what she knew and leave it up to him.

  I don’t know anything. I’m guessing. Not to mention that she wasn’t ready to call him. Not to talk to him, not to leave him a message. Definitely not to bring him into this game of hers.

  She could check out the factory herself, and—if she found anything—delay acting on it until she’d finished out the scam. It was a beautiful scam, fully operational and well on the way to closure. Once she had funds, she’d be out of here. On her way to something new.

  No downside there. Bad guy gets caught, smart girl gets away clean….

  She could check out the factory, and—if she found anything—give Dave a heads-up on her way out of Alexandria. Shuffle her remaining funds into an account for another persona and start again on a shoestring. Or—and Karin winced, finally facing the inevitability of it—she’d have to sell Ellen’s farm. Start her life again just as she’d always intended, with a new career. Clean.

  Too bad there aren’t any more aliases left in the goody bag. But she bet pawn-shop Freddie could help with that. For a price.

  “Or,” she told herself out loud, “wait until you reach the factory and see what you find. Might be a big fat zero. Make your decisions then.” Be ready for anything. Motto of all good Boy Scouts and con artists alike.

  That sounded like a plan. Karin closed her eyes, determined to sleep. It took her somewhat by surprise when she found them open again mere moments later, staring at that same old ceiling.

  Because it didn’t really matter if she felt like calling Dave. She was a con artist, not a skulk, a thief or an officer of the law. The factory lead had too much potential to mess up…and if there was one thing she did know from her lifetime under Rumsey’s guidance
, it was not to let pride or ego get in the way of a successful finish. And that meant Door Number One: the phone.

  Smothering darkness turned to flashing lights, the background full of grief and wailing, the rural ground uneven beneath his feet. Curiosity foremost, overlaid with a child’s naive certainty that everything will turn out all right—

  Nom de Dieu de bordel de merde! The words cut through the night, unfamiliar and yet shattering his naiveté to inspire the first shard of trepidation. Endless barking, then, and the lights and noise and emotions turned to a smear of sensation. Irresistible, it drew him onward—and suddenly resolved in a crystal-clear image, a battered face, a shock of curly red hair, a stench of corruption—

  Dave pulled himself from the dream with a grunt. Only a grunt, because he’d had so much opportunity to train himself to deal with it. So many deaths…so many dreams. If only he hadn’t been half asleep by the time his father pulled into the dump site. If only he hadn’t foolishly run toward the solemn cluster of adults and the excited police dog. If only he hadn’t tripped upon reaching them, sliding forward with momentum until he met the dead boy face-to-face.

  Yeah, right. What if. Whatever. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sat up in bed, surprised when a farsighted glance at the clock told him it was only a little past midnight. Great. Could be a long night.

  Especially after a day in which the feebs had tracked him down and told him to go home. No uncertain terms there. And Dave had told them he was here with a friend and he’d damned well show her the sights if he wanted to.

  He hadn’t fooled them.

  Then again, he hadn’t expected to. But he didn’t intend to be chased away, either. Not with Rashawn’s death dogging him. Not with Karin still out there, a killer hunting a killer.

  It occurred to him then that she’d had Gregg Rumsey hanging over her head for every bit as long as he’d had his own nightmare.