by Dee Davis
“I live here, Frank.” He was surprised to hear exasperation in his voice, although he supposed it was par for the course.
“Not down here.”
“I was going through Flo’s things.” He sat down, his leg throbbing from the exertion of creeping down the hall. “I thought maybe there’d be something to help.”
“I see.” Frank leaned back against the desk, his stance far from relaxed.
“You haven’t told me what you’re doing in here. Last I checked, this was still my office.”
“I was trying to find a file.”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning. You expect me to believe that?”
Frank stared down at his shoes as if he were memorizing the laces and then looked up, his expression regretful. “I was looking for some sort of evidence.”
“To incriminate me.” John knew he ought to cut the man some slack. If the situation were reversed, he’d probably be doing the same thing.
“Yeah.” Frank was kicking at the ground now, resembling a schoolboy caught red-handed doing something wrong.
“And did you find anything?”
Frank’s head jerked up, a flash of anger cresting in his eyes. “No. There’s nothing in here. But you know that.”
“I don’t know anything anymore.” He ran his good hand through his hair, feeling suddenly tired. “If you find answers, I wish you’d share them with me.”
“Even if I find something that hurts you?” It was a test, and John immediately recognized it as such, grudgingly admiring Frank his fortitude.
“Even then. I just want to get to the bottom of whatever is going on and put a stop to it.”
Frank frowned, studying his face. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“I do. I don’t remember what I did the months before I was shot, but if it was something that started all of this, then I want to know about it.”
“Are you going to step down?” There was no segue, but John didn’t pretend to misunderstand the man.
“I think I have to. At least until after all of this dies down.”
Frank nodded. “It’s what’s best for Guardian.” “Yeah. And for all of you. I owe you that much, Frank.”
The other man looked away, staring out the window. “I believe you, Jona . . . John. And I’m sorry I didn’t trust you from the beginning.”
“No harm done.” He forced a smile. “I wouldn’t have trusted you had the situation been reversed.”
Which was more than the truth. Because he wasn’t all that certain he trusted the man now, and although he thought Frank was basically harmless, he wasn’t certain he was capable of resisting temptation if it were placed within his grasp.
Hell, he wasn’t certain anyone was.
Which led him back full circle to the question that frightened him the most. Had something fallen into his path he couldn’t resist? Something that had led to Miller’s death? And more importantly, to Flo’s?
There was no answer. At least not yet.
But before he was done, he was going to find the truth.
No matter who it hurt.
Frank pounded on Valerie’s door, the Hyde Park bungalow rattling from the pressure. He knew she was home. Her car was in the driveway. And despite the fact that is was barely after dawn, he needed to talk to her. To tell her what he’d discovered. She hadn’t seen fit to respond to his call. And he wanted to know why.
The world was coming apart and no one seemed to care.
He walked across the porch, framing his eyes with his hands so that he could peer into the front window. The living room was empty, Valerie’s perfectly appointed furnishings mocking him.
Where was she?
Angry now, he stalked toward the back of the house, his feet crunching against the gravel driveway. This was not the time for a disappearing act. Things were happening fast, and he needed to talk to her. Devise a plan.
They’d figured John all wrong. He was going to do the right thing after all. Which meant everything was different. At least he thought it did. Truth was, he was confused. But at least he still had his ace in the hole. He just had to figure out how best to use it. Which, frankly, wasn’t his strong suit. So he needed Valerie.
And he needed her now.
The back of the house wasn’t quite as pretty as the front. The paint peeling in places, the old detached garage threatening to tumble down. Sort of like Valerie herself. He peered into the back window. Valerie’s bedroom was all pink and mauve, like an overtrussed valentine, but worse still was the fact that her bed obviously hadn’t been slept in. Despite the car in the driveway, Valerie obviously wasn’t home.
The hum of tires against asphalt alerted him to the car in the alley behind the house. The engine faded as the car rolled to a stop, and Frank ducked back behind a yew tree, straining to see through the hurricane fence that surrounded the property. Probably nothing to do with Valerie, but best to be certain.
Besides, he didn’t relish the idea of being caught trespassing.
A car door slammed and then the back gate creaked as it opened. The hairs on his arms stood up as Valerie and a companion came through the gate, lips locked in obvious seduction.
He pushed back against the wall of the house, shifting the branches of the tree with one hand to better hide himself. He certainly didn’t need to be caught hiding in the bushes like some lecherous voyeur.
He started to step back, to head for his car and forget the whole thing, but curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned forward instead, determined to catch at least a glimpse of Valerie’s latest paramour. Her laughter rang out as the couple turned, the pale morning light hitting Jason Pollock square in the face.
Frank fought against a wave of nausea. Jason and Valerie. The thought was almost more than he could handle. She’d played him for a fool. Used him to get what she wanted, all the while laughing about it with her lover, and he’d fallen for it like a lovesick idiot.
Inching sideways, he managed to duck around the corner, out of sight, the thorns of a rosebush ripping across his face, clinging to his clothes. With a muttered oath, he tore himself free and ran for his car, clutching his side. Sliding to a stop, he yanked the door open as he fumbled one-handed for his keys, his only thought escape.
Once again he’d let himself be manipulated, and once again he’d chosen the wrong woman. But he still held his trump card, and he’d be damned if he’d play into their hands. He wasn’t out of the game yet. He just needed to think, and to do that, he had to get the hell out of there.
John stared at the computer screen, willing it to tell him something. Anything. But it remained stubbornly unhelpful. Just like the answering machine and Flo’s office. Every step forward, two steps back. Meanwhile, someone out there was watching. Knew his moves. His thoughts. Which was more than he could say for himself.
And to top it all off, his own employees were beginning to watch him, too. Frank had driven that point home nicely. He honestly believed that John had killed Flo. Believed it strongly enough to have been searching for evidence.
John closed his eyes, fighting against exhaustion. His body couldn’t handle much more. He knew that, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to push onward. Everything in him urged him forward. He owed it to Flo. He owed it to himself.
His glance fell again to the answering machine. Why hadn’t he listened to the message when he’d first seen it? If he had, Flo might still be alive. But she wasn’t—she wasn’t. And nothing he could do was going to bring her back. So it was up to him to avenge her death.
But good intentions weren’t enough, he needed evidence, something tangible that could provide answers. And what he had was nothing. He slammed his hand down on the desk, the gesture testimony to his frustration. He’d checked Flo’s office after Frank had left, searching through her things for something to explain why she’d called him.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary. He’d even done a cursory search of her room, again coming up empty-handed.
So the only thing he had left was her computer. But so far, he’d found nothing that seemed unusual. Nothing that pointed to why someone would want her dead.
She’d said she’d wanted to talk. In and of itself, that could mean anything. But taken in consort with the fact that she was murdered only hours later, he had to believe that she’d discovered something.
He studied the computer screen, the log from Flo’s computer taunting him. There was nothing here that he didn’t already know. For the last few days, Flo had spent the bulk of her time examining financial records. At his request. The rest of her time had been spent dealing with routine Guardian business. The only thing at all of interest was the fact that for most of the day yesterday her computer had been out of commission.
According to the log, it hadn’t been put back on-line until sometime just before her death. He pounded the keyboard in frustration.
“You don’t look so good.” Katie stood in the doorway, her concern obvious.
“Surprise, surprise.” He narrowed his eyes, glaring at her. “You may not have noticed, but I’m the primary suspect in a murder investigation.”
“I’m aware of that.” Her voice was soft, cajoling. “But there’s no sense in putting yourself back in the hospital.”
“Oh, come on, Katie, you can give up the playacting. I know Roswell left you here to spy on me.”
“I don’t give a damn what Roswell wants, and you know it. I’m here to make sure you’re safe. In case you’ve forgotten, someone out there wants you dead.”
“I haven’t forgotten. It’s just getting a little hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.”
She flinched. “I guess I deserve that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m on your side.”
“Well, you’ve certainly got an odd way of showing it.” Despite himself, he felt his anger dissipating. There was something disarming about her. He supposed it was what made her good at her job.
“So have you found anything?” she asked, obviously trying to change the subject.
“You expect me to tell you?” The words were out before he could stop them, exasperation mixing with indignation.
“If it helps you, yes, I do.” She sounded earnest now, and he almost believed her. Or maybe it was just that he wanted to believe her. Everything was so damned confusing.
But she was right about one thing. He did need help. And quite honestly, there was nothing damning in what he’d found, and there was always the chance she’d see something he’d missed. There might be an emotional gulf between them, but that didn’t mean she was out to railroad him.
He sighed, resignation replacing confusion. “Flo left me a message. On the answering machine.” He tipped his head toward the offending black box. “I’d forgotten about it, with everything that happened. But when I came in here to check it, it was gone.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Someone erased it?”
He nodded. “And if I had to call it, I’d say it was someone here at Guardian. No one else would know there was a machine up here. Much less that Flo would use it.”
“Unless she told them.” Katie frowned, her eyes narrowed in thought.
“Either way, we still have nothing.” He tried but couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I searched her office last night, while you were sleeping. Ran into Frank while I was down there.”
“What was he doing out that late?”
“Trying to prove I killed Flo.” He was used to the idea, or at least he thought he was, but saying the words out loud made it seem so irrevocable.
“Oh, John.” The compassion in her eyes was almost more than he could bear.
“I’m fine. Really. I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about me. All that matters right now is finding Flo’s killer.”
“So what did you find when you searched her office?”
“Nothing. Hell, I even searched her computer, but according to this,” he tapped the monitor, “it was down all day. It wasn’t back on-line until shortly before her death.”
“Wait a minute. Maybe I have something.” She moved toward the desk, frowning in concentration. “On my way out of the building last night, I saw her. She was working in the office next door—Frank’s office.”
Despite everything, John felt a surge of excitement. “Which means anything she did would be in his log, not hers.” He started to type, his good hand moving faster than his bad one, making a jumble of the effort. He forced himself to calm down, typing one-handed instead.
Katie had moved to stand behind him. “But if it’s Frank’s computer, you won’t be able to tell the difference between what he was doing and what she was doing, right?”
He shook his head, intent on the files he was pulling up. “No. Each computer in the system is password protected. Only the principal user knows the password.”
“So she’d either have to have the password or she couldn’t get on. Same problem.”
Again he shook his head, moving down the file list, selecting the log. “I’m the administrator. Which means my password overrides everyone else’s.”
“And Flo had your password.” She leaned closer, her hair brushing against his shoulder. “But I still don’t see how that would allow you to differentiate between activities of the user and the administrator on the same computer.”
“I set up the system so that it tracks users by individual password.” He clicked again, then waited while the computer whirred into action. The file opened, a string of new files displayed. “Got it.”
“Let’s hope it’s something to prove your innocence, Mr. Brighton. Because from where I stand, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”
John looked across the desk to meet the chilly gaze of Edmund Roswell, and automatically reached over to turn off the computer. Whatever was there, he had no intention of sharing it with Roswell. He didn’t like the man on principle. No matter who he worked for.
Eric D’Angelo strode into the room on Roswell’s heels, his expression grim. John fought against a shiver of dread. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good. “We got the ballistics report back.”
“What did you find?” He choked out the words, not certain he wanted to hear the answer.
“The gun we found on the scene is the same one that killed Miller.” D’Angelo’s gaze collided with his, and John wished it hadn’t. There was recrimination there. Recrimination and disgust. In all his years of business dealings, no one had ever looked at him with disgust.
“And it only gets better.” Roswell’s smile was slow, totally devoid of humor. “You see, we ran the serial number on the gun, and guess what, turns out it’s registered to you.”
“But I don’t own a gun.” John fought against his anger. This was a setup, he could smell it coming. And Roswell was enjoying himself entirely too much.
“The records don’t seem to agree with that.” D’Angelo handed him a report.
He scanned the paper, his anger dissipating, replaced with a drowning sense of inevitability. He felt Katie’s hand on his shoulder, and looked up at her, needing something, anything, to hold on to. Her eyes were on Roswell, her face a mask, emotion locked tightly away. But he knew her well enough to recognize the taut line of her shoulders, the tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth. She was angry. More than angry, she was furious.
And in some absurdly surreal way he felt comforted.
He returned his gaze to D’Angelo, Katie’s hand still warm on his shoulder. “So what happens now?”
“We take you in.” D’Angelo lifted a pair of hand-cuffs, his gray eyes unreadable. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Florence Tedesky and Derek Miller.”
Chapter 21
“Come to gloat?” John watched her from a corner of the cell as the guard let her in, the door clanging shut ominously behind her.
“I thought we had a truce.”
His laugh was dry, not much more than a hiss of air. “I think, considering the circumstances, all bets are off.”
She crossed over to him, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. “On the contrary, I’d say they count now more than ever.”
He waited a beat before pulling away, and Katie counted it a small victory.
“So what’s the situation?” John looked out of place in the jail cell, like a cartoon version of reality, and she wished she could reassure him, but the news wasn’t good.
“Besides ballistics and the gun registration, they’ve got prints.” She sat down on the cot, tipping her head back to look at him.
“I picked up the gun. Of course there are prints.” He sounded angry and hopeless all at the same time.
“There’s more.” She sighed, realizing there wasn’t anything to do but tell him the truth. “The first shooting, Miller’s, was right-handed.”
“And the second?” She could see in his eyes that he already knew what she was going to say.
“Left-handed. It’s circumstantial, but considering you were right-handed before Mexico and left-handed afterward, it fits. And when you combine that with the prints and registration, it’s pretty damning.”
“I didn’t kill her.” The words were low, almost forced.
“I know that, John. But unfortunately they’ve got a lot against you.” She stood up, searching for words. Things were strained between them at best, and his arrest only amplified their differences. At least for the moment, they appeared to be on opposite sides of the fence.
Literally.
But she wasn’t letting him go. And she wasn’t letting him take the fall for something he hadn’t done. “How’re you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess. In light of my condition they expedited the arraignment. Fat lot of good it did me.” His bitterness was raw, almost a tangible thing.
“No bail.”
He shrugged, the gesture telling. “They seem to think I’m a flight risk.”
She struggled for something more meaningful to say. But there simply weren’t words. “You’ve got an attorney?”
“Yeah. Anson Carabello. He’s supposed to be the best. Not that it seems to matter. He pretty much said what you did.” He walked to the tiny window, leaning his head against the bars.
