Table of Contents
FOR THE LOVE OF LAUREL
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
FOR THE LOVE OF LAUREL
PATRICIA HARRELD
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
FOR THE LOVE OF LAUREL
Copyright©2013
PATRICIA HARRELD
Cover Design by Niina Cord.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-334-3
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is dedicated to
the men and women in Law Enforcement,
from the small town sheriff
to the highest echelon of the U. S. Government,
who put their lives on the line every day
to Protect and Serve.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my first “readers” whose comments and critique are worth gold: Keith Heldman, Jennifer DeSimone, and Judith Schrage. Thanks are also due to Noah Heldman for his help with computers and encryption; and to Quintin Shawk for his advice on the Drug Enforcement Administration. I’m deeply grateful to Soul Mate owner and editor, Deborah Gilbert, for her understanding. Also I’m indebted to my editor, Garrett Marco, whose suggestions and sense of humor made working with him more fun than work.
Prologue
The man sat in his car across the street from the target house. The curtains upstairs had not been drawn. He could see the woman clearly as she flung off her clothes and put on a robe. Downstairs, nothing. The husband was probably watching TV, ignoring his wife. She threw a book across the room, obviously pissed off about something.
Bob Markham watched his favorite show, L.A. Law. Normally, he’d be involved in the action, but not tonight. Gina was slamming drawers upstairs, and he could almost see her pace around the bedroom. He grimaced as something hit the wall. He’d have to be patient. Sooner or later she’d calm down.
The program then the news came and went before Gina finally stomped downstairs. Bob raised a beer in her direction.
“Jerk,” she spat.
He kept his cool. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just forget I said anything during dinner about problems at work.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. We need to finish this conversation tonight.” Gina glowered. Bob stayed where he was. When she was in a mood, best thing he could do was nothing. “When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?”
He grimaced. “I didn’t say anything. Not really.”
“Not really? Then why did Evelyn . . .?” She picked up a magazine off the coffee table and threw it across the room, so irate she couldn’t even finish her question.
“Evelyn doesn’t know what she’s talking about. What did she say to you?” He still hadn’t moved from his position on the couch as he took a confidence-boosting swig of beer.
Gina stood over him, hands on hips. “I tried to tell you during dinner, but you refused to get into it. I need to know, Bob. She said you practically accused the company of, as she put it, ‘illegal activities.’ Did you?”
He hesitated. How much should he tell her? How much did he actually say, and to whom? He wished he could remember. More importantly, if word has reached the boss’s wife, how much trouble am I in?
He stood and faced Gina. “I’m an accountant. Something in the books didn’t add up and I questioned it. It was a simple question I had a right to ask. I never accused anyone of anything. I just needed to justify a discrepancy. Doesn’t their reaction seem a little over-the-top?”
Gina sat on the arm of the couch. “Maybe,” she said. “You think there’s something funny going on? Something illegal?”
“It’s possible, I guess, but what?” He didn’t want to tell her he suspected the company he worked for, Chaber Pharmaceuticals, of moving illegal drugs under cover of their legitimate business. The less she knew, the safer she’d be.
“I just don’t want you to jeopardize your job,” she said.
Bob snorted. All she cared about was the money he made. Hell, she’d probably applaud him if he offered to help deal drugs. Accountants didn’t make that much, but the CFO had taken Bob under his wing and hinted he had big plans for his number-cruncher’s future. Would one innocent question about the books ruin everything? Gina thought so.
He sighed, suddenly exhausted. “Come on, Gina. It’s late and fighting about this won’t change anything. Let’s sleep on it.”
The man glanced at his watch. The house had been dark for more than two hours. Should be enough time for them to get to sleep. He opened his car door. He had disconnected the interior lights so chances were, even if someone looked out a window, he couldn’t be seen. He put on a pair of gloves and closed but didn’t latch the car door.
The street was quiet. Not even a dog barked. He walked quickly across the street and to the front door of the Markham house. He felt apprehension as he worked at the lock. He’d been told there was no alarm, but still, the information he got wasn’t always reliable. The door opened to silence. This was going to be easy.
He turned on a penlight and kept it toward the floor. It cast a ring of light just enough for him to find the stairs. He attached a silencer to his pistol and began to climb. Halfway up, one of the steps creaked. He froze for a moment then leaped to the top and ran down the hall.
The man hit so fast, the Markhams never had a chance. He only used two bullets—one through the center of each forehead. The click of the slide was the on
ly noise the pistol made. No need to check the bodies. He was confident of his skill. They were dead.
He took a four-ounce glass bottle from his pocket and unscrewed the lid. The odor of gasoline filled his nostrils as he trickled it on the bed. He put the lid back on the bottle, stuck it in his pocket, and then lit a match and threw it in the middle of the bed. It would take some time for fire to fully envelop the room, and if no one noticed it this time of night, the house itself.
He backed out of the bedroom and started down the hall. An unidentifiable noise stopped him. It came from another room close to the stairs. The kid’s room. When he reached the door, he listened for a moment. Slowly, he turned the door handle. The door squeaked as it opened. The man had his gun ready. Across the room, a baby sat up in its crib and looked at him. He raised his gun.
Chapter 1
Only nine people attended Gerald Avidon’s funeral, which didn’t surprise his daughter, Laurel. He didn’t have any friends. Besides herself, there was her assistant Sue Burdette, her housekeeper Marisol Hunt, Mel Chaber, Jr., Gerald’s chauffeur and bodyguard Dylan Kraft, two business associates whose names she didn’t know, and a guy she’d never seen before alone in the back row.
After a brief bio supplied by Laurel and read by a bored clergyman, the service was over. Most left without saying anything to Laurel. What was there to say?
Behind her, someone cleared their throat. She turned, puzzled someone was still there. The unknown attendee, who’d been in the back row, stood with his hands folded and a pseudo-respectful look on his face. He was about thirty, five-ten, and pudgy. He was pasty—probably didn’t get out in the sun much.
“Ms. Avidon? I’m Mike Branson.”
She stood, not out of politeness, but because she hated it when people looked down at her. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Branson. Did you know my father well?”
“I didn’t know him at all.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why are you here? You have a thing for funerals?”
“Hardly.” He handed her an envelope and his business card. “If you want to talk, give me a call.” With that, he turned and left.
She dropped the envelope and card in her purse and promptly forgot Mike Branson as the funeral director came toward her carrying the urn containing her father’s ashes. When she got home, she went upstairs and put the urn in Gerald’s office. She stared at it. Hard to believe his entire life had been reduced to the contents of an urn. Other than the urn, a business card was the only thing on the desktop. She picked it up. It was the size of a business card, but it was blank. Next to it was a dime-sized button.
She frowned at the card and pushed the button. Within thirty seconds, she was looking at her crystal clear image on the card. A camera? Not like any she had ever seen before. She wondered where her father had gotten it. She tucked the card and button in a desk drawer.
As she thought about the camera, she turned the platinum bracelet on her wrist—a habit she wasn’t aware of most of the time, but right now it made her feel close to her father. It was a college graduation gift from him. The bracelet was an inch wide and a solid circle. Around the outside were sixteen heart-shaped diamonds, one for each year she’d been in school from first grade through college. On the inside he’d had inscribed, For the Love of Laurel, June 7, 2009, the date of her college graduation.
She went to her room and took off her heels before going back downstairs. Barefoot, she padded into the kitchen. Marisol was putting the finishing touches on a quiche. It smelled good and Laurel realized she was hungry.
She poured a glass of Chardonnay and sat down at the table in the breakfast nook. When Gerald was alive, they always ate in the dining room. She thought it was silly since there were just the two of them, but it never occurred to her to argue. She’d learned at an early age not to argue with Gerald Avidon. He always knew best. Still, she preferred this nook that adjoined the kitchen. It had floor-to-ceiling windows through which she could see a large backyard filled with perfectly mowed grass. A rainbow of flowers framed the lawn. The view never failed to soothe her.
Mari glanced at her. “The service was . . .”
“Dead,” Laurel said.
“Now, that’s not what I meant.”
“Not many there. I wasn’t very happy Mr. Chaber and his wife didn’t come. My father handled all their investments and made them tons of money. Some people have no gratitude.”
Mari shook her head as if to say she couldn’t figure it out either. “They sent their son to represent them.”
Laurel snickered. “Yeah, Junior Chaber. Whoopee.”
“One of the men looked just like Mike Branson.”
“You know him?”
“Just from TV. He has a local investigative program on Tuesday nights called Who, What, When, Where.”
“Never heard of it or him. He gave me his card. I wonder what he wants.”
Mari’s face lit up. “Maybe he wants you on his show.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Laurel said.
“Well, you should find out.”
“Not likely.”
Mari looked disappointed but didn’t push it. Instead, she changed the subject. “Dylan says if you need him he’ll be at his apartment.”
Dylan Kraft’s apartment was at the back of the Avidon property as far away as a barn would be if they had horses.
Laurel finished her wine. “What am I going to do about him? I don’t need a chauffeur or bodyguard. He’s an okay guy, and I feel bad letting him go. But I guess he won’t have any trouble finding a new job. I’ll give him a good reference.”
Mari sat down at the table, across from her. “What about me? Do you still need me?”
She stared at the middle-aged Hispanic woman who’d been the only mother she’d ever known. “Are you kidding?” she finally said.
“No. I don’t know what your plans are. Maybe you want to sell the estate.”
“I’ll sell it eventually. I have no idea how much there is to do regarding Daddy’s estate until I meet with his attorney. Who knows how long it will take to sell in today’s market. I’m eager to get back to my condo. When Dad asked me to move back home and run the estate until he got well, I never thought I’d be here for two years.” She shook her head.
“I kept waiting for him to improve, but he didn’t.” She laughed. “Remember after I was here a couple of months I suggested he hire full-time nursing care? I thought he was going to have apoplexy. At least he compromised enough to let me keep my business.”
Mari removed the quiche from the oven. “I know you wanted to move back to your condo, but you felt obligated. I was surprised you even came back to San Diego once you graduated.”
“I probably wouldn’t have if Adam hadn’t dumped me. I was so set on reconciliation, but after he died in the car accident, I didn’t much care what happened. I never got a chance to live in the condo for long. Which reminds me, I have to give the tenants notice. I also have to talk to Dylan. I don’t need him. He was my father’s employee, not mine.”
“And speaking of employees, even though I never think of you that way, if I sell the house, it would impact you, too. And it embarrasses me to say how little I know about the person named Marisol Hunt, beyond what you show me every day.
Laurel poured herself more wine and poured a glass for Mari. “Come and sit down. Dinner can wait.” Mari sat and took a sip of wine. “So, you will stay, won’t you? At least for now? I can’t run this place by myself.”
“Of course I’ll stay. This is my home, too. I got no place else to go.”
“No family?”
“My parents sneaked across the border when my mother was pregnant with me. They were deported but I was allowed to stay because I was a U.S. citizen. I was adopted, which is why my last name is Hunt.”
Nobody had ever told Laurel these tidbits and, odd as it seemed to her now, she had never wondered why Mari didn’t have a Hispanic last name. “What a shame you’ve spent all these years as my father
’s housekeeper and my nanny instead of having a family of your own.”
“No regrets,” she said, but Laurel caught a sliver of sadness in her eyes.
“Maybe you should take some time for yourself to get out and meet people.”
“My adoptive parents are in their late seventies and live in Florida. I keep in touch.”
“Why not take some time and go see them? Parents don’t live forever, you know.”
“Maybe I’ll do that some day.
After dinner, Laurel said, “I’m going to see Dylan now. May as well get it over with. You want me to take him some quiche?”
Mari turned and shook her head.
Leaving Mari to her chores, Laurel went outside and walked across the huge lawn toward Dylan’s apartment. The sun had set, but the sky was still light. Birds twittered their last notes as they hurried to their nests before nightfall. Pink, purple, and white peonies and petunias were planted along the fence. Two magnolia grandiflorae were blooming, their white, fragrant flowers a stark contrast to the darkening sky.
Dylan’s lights were on, and the Cadillac limo was parked at an angle in front of a rustic wood fence separating the apartment from the rest of the estate.
Laurel knocked. A few seconds later, Dylan opened the door. “Ms. Avidon. Come on in,” he said, stepping aside so she could enter.
She had never been in the apartment. It was quite spacious and obviously decorated by a man. She didn’t see any sign of a woman’s touch. No vases filled with flowers, no potted plants, no frills, no throw pillows on the couch. Functional. Just like the man himself. The living room had a dark chocolate carpet. The couch and matching easy chair were white leather. The windows had vertical blinds but no curtains. Books filled built-in bookcases along one wall, and she could barely resist the temptation to see what he read—or, at least, what he wanted people to think he read. Along the other wall was one of those home gym sets guaranteed to tone everything but your hair.
For The Love Of Laurel Page 1
