Midnight Rain

by Dee Davis

  He deserved that. She deserved that.

  And Jason Pollock deserved to be strung up by his balls.

  Chapter 22

  “Hey, bro, not exactly the Savoy, huh.” Danny’s attempt at humor elicited a small smile, despite the circumstances. “I thought I ought to check in and see how things were going.”

  “I’ve been better.” John watched his brother enter the cell. Comrades in arms, at least for the moment. “Phones ringing off the wall?”

  “About as you’d expect. Jason is handling it. How’d the meeting with Carabello go?”

  “Lawyerly. Basically he told me to hang in and keep my mouth shut.”

  Danny walked to the hole that passed for a window, making a play of looking outside. “It doesn’t look good, John.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m going to have to resign. I don’t see any way around it. You all can’t fight my battles and keep the company alive at the same time. If I distance myself, maybe you can still salvage something.”

  Danny’s expression was grim. “I guess it can’t be helped, but I don’t have to pretend to like it. Guardian is your company.”

  “Yours, too, and that’s why I’m trusting you to take care of it for me until I can work this thing out.”

  “No worries. You can count on me.” Danny’s smile was halfhearted, but well meant. “Along those lines, I need to get some passwords from you. I’m restructuring the computer system so that I have administrative access.”

  “There’s a list of passwords in the safe in my study.”

  Danny shook his head, frowning. “They’re not there. I looked this morning.”

  John repressed a smile. “You had my combination?”

  “For a hacker you can be a bit obvious, Jonathan.” He shrugged. “You always use Mom’s birthday when you need a numeric password.”

  “I might be predictable, but I’m not stupid. There’s another safe. Hidden inside the first one. And the password isn’t mother’s birthday.”

  “So what’d you use? Dad’s birthday?”

  “Converted to hex.”

  “You converted Dad’s birth date to hexadecimal?” His brother’s expression had changed to astonishment. “Very James Bond.”

  John shrugged. “It made sense at the time. Anyway, the lock is behind the metal backing. It just pushes aside.”

  “Right.” Danny was all business now. “I’ll get the passwords and get to work. I’m assuming all the account passwords are there?”

  “You should have everything you need.” John’s head was beginning to pound; he hadn’t really slept since finding Flo.

  “You look tired. I wish to hell I could get you out of here.”

  “I know, Danny. But right now there’s nothing we can do. Just keep things running and help Carabello.” He stood up, stretching his muscles. “He’s going to find the truth.”

  “Even if it implicates you?”

  It seemed to be the question of the hour. Frank last night, and now Danny. “Yeah. Even if it proves I’m guilty. I didn’t kill Flo, Danny. Not with a gun anyway. But if I had something to do with it, then I want to know. She deserves that.”

  Danny shook his head, his expression back to grim. “You’re a better man than I am, Jonathan.”

  There’d been a time when he’d actually believed that was true, but if he was honest, he’d have to admit that he just wasn’t certain anymore.

  And not knowing was far worse than whatever the truth might be.

  “I don’t see how this changes anything.” Roswell eyed her with something akin to the way a man looked at an imbecile, the overdrawn patience in his voice making her want to scream.

  “Are you kidding?” She fought to keep her tone on an even keel. “This changes everything. If this book is right, Jason Pollock was operating one hell of an embezzlement scheme.”

  “But it doesn’t prove he murdered Florence Tedesky, and we’ve got Brighton dead to rights for that. Miller, too.”

  Katie fought against her anger. “But if Pollock was behind the money, then wouldn’t it follow that he was behind the killings?”

  “Not necessarily. I told you we think this involves industrial espionage. It seems to me that what we’ve got here is two different crimes. Simple embezzlement, and treason. Let’s see . . . treason or embezzlement? I’ll take treason for five hundred, Alex.”

  “You’re a bastard, you know that don’t you?”

  “I’m good at what I do. And I’m a month from retirement. So are you asking if I lead with my heart? Hell no. I’ve learned that fucking lesson more than once. Give it up, Cavanaugh. There’s no such thing as an innocent man. Everyone has his demons. And it’s our job to find them. If that doesn’t sit well with you, then perhaps you’re pursuing the wrong profession.”

  She narrowed her eyes, wishing once again that she had the courage to deck him, but leveling him wouldn’t solve anything, and quite frankly it was likely to land her in jail. For the moment, she figured one of them in jail was enough.

  “I’m fine. I’m just not into witch hunts. No matter how it affects my career.”

  He glared at her a moment, but when she didn’t continue with anything more pointed, he obviously chose to ignore the barb. “The indictment stands. As far as I’m concerned, Brighton killed the woman. The evidence supports it.”

  “But what if it doesn’t? What if the gun registration was forged?” She waved the stamp at him for effect.

  Roswell frowned. “It wouldn’t explain the fingerprints. Or the left/right manipulation. You’re whistling in the dark, Cavanaugh.”

  “Inquiring minds want to know.” She strove for intimidating, but based on Roswell’s smile she wasn’t getting the job done.

  “Fine, we’ll look at the application. Anything to get you off my back. Just so happens D’Angelo sent over the files a little while ago.”

  “So let me see it. Let me see the signature.” She grabbed a pad of paper and stamped it, John’s signature stark against the white sheet.

  Roswell reached for a manila folder and handed it to her. “It should be in here.”

  She flipped through it, resisting the urge to read. There’d be time for that later. She found the registration and laid the signature line alongside the stamped paper.

  Roswell’s smile cranked up a notch, and her stomach sank. Although the signature was similar, it wasn’t a match. The registration signature was larger, loopier, and quite obviously blue. Clearly not a stamp at all.

  “Well, I guess that shoots your theory to hell, sugar.” Roswell’s tone was just this side of taunting.

  “Not necessarily. What about the money Jason paid Miller? Surely that’s reason enough to suspect him of Miller’s murder?”

  “Possibly.” Roswell fingered the file, his eyes glittering with self-satisfaction. “If we didn’t already have the killer in custody. Give it up, Cavanaugh, you’re trying to make the facts fit your theory. It’s a rookie mistake and you know it.”

  He was right and it really didn’t sit well with her. She’d never been good at taking direction, trusting her own instincts more. Still, she couldn’t argue with the facts in front of her, but that still didn’t make John guilty. Despite the evidence.

  “I’m trying to save an innocent man. I’d think you’d be interested in seeing that justice is done.”

  “You’re trying to justify the fact that you’ve taken a personal interest in the man, sugar. And I’m telling you that’s the fast road to failure. The fact is that Jonathan Brighton is guilty, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s just where I want him. Or have you forgotten that?”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything. But it seems to me you have. Our job is to make sure that we have the right man, but all that matters to you is your precious record.” She’d tried to keep her disdain private, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “You’re missing the big picture, Cavanaugh. We’re interested in something more important than Jonathan Brighton. And if he takes a fall t
o get us there, so be it.”

  “God, you’re a sanctimonious son of a bitch. Any means to justify the end? Roswell, we’re talking about a man accused of a murder he didn’t commit. I’ve just brought you supporting evidence, and you’re blatantly ignoring it. I’m telling you, John didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Wishful thinking, Cavanaugh.”

  “If you won’t listen, I’ll take this over your head.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits, sparks there threatening to ignite into full-blown rage. “If you do, I promise you’ll regret it.”

  They were standing face-to-face, her anger matching his in tenor and velocity. “What I regret is standing here talking to you.” She reached for the black book, but Roswell was faster.

  “I’ll make sure this gets into the right hands.”

  “Buried, don’t you mean?” It was the first thing that popped into her mind, and she immediately regretted it.

  His face turned an angry red, a vein throbbing in his temple. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t make that remark, Cavanaugh. I don’t know how y’all handle things up in Boston, but down here in Texas, we don’t accuse each other of misconduct unless we’re pretty damn certain we’re right.”

  “I didn’t mean it.” There was a code in law enforcement, and she’d just stepped over the line. “I was angry. I’m sorry.” She choked on the last words, the apology bitter.

  Roswell studied her for a minute, his own anger fading. “Fine. But you’d better work on that temper, sugar. It’s going to get you in some serious trouble one of these days.”

  She nodded, feeling all of about twelve. Her father had spent most of her childhood telling her exactly the same thing.

  “From here on out we’ll proceed on the facts of the case, Agent Cavanaugh. Are we clear on that?” There was a touch of sarcasm in his voice, but also a note authority she couldn’t ignore.

  So she nodded again, admitting grudgingly that Roswell’s logic was solid. She’d counted on the information about Jason clearing John, but it hadn’t. If anything, it had only muddied the water more, and despite her instincts, the notebook didn’t negate the ballistics findings, or the gun registration.

  Which left them with nothing but John’s word, and considering his state of mind, she wasn’t sure a jury would buy it.

  A tough spot if ever there was one.

  And damned if she knew how they were going to get out of it.

  “I won’t let this happen. Do you understand me, Jason? I won’t.” Valerie wasn’t happy. She’d made that abundantly clear, but Jason wasn’t certain she realized that she didn’t have the power to do anything about it.

  They’d planned for this, been ready to take advantage of it, but they’d made a crucial error in calculation. Danny Brighton was standing with his brother. Which meant their shares carried the day. More importantly, it meant that Danny was head of the company. Their attempted coup had amounted to nothing.

  “I think you’d do best to go with the flow, Val. There’s not a lot we can do about it. And there’s no sense in pissing Danny off.”

  “I don’t care who I piss off, Jason. I want control of the company. I deserve it. Danny Brighton couldn’t run a taco stand, let alone a business. Who the hell do you think has been keeping things going all these months?”

  Actually, if he had to call it, he’d say Frank had been the one holding things together. The guy was a little odd, but he knew his stuff, and without his organizational skills they’d have been stuck with Danny’s and Valerie’s posturing, none of which had resulted in anything tangible as far as business was concerned.

  Not that he was going to share that thought with Valerie.

  “It’s not about what you deserve, Val. It’s about how the company is structured, and whether you like it or not, Danny is the legal heir to the throne, so to speak.”

  “Wonderful.” She threw up her hands, eyes flashing behind her glasses. “This is all Frank’s fault anyway.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “He was supposed to make certain Danny was on our side.” She sat on the edge of her desk, crossing one long leg over the other. “Face it, he fucked up.”

  “It wasn’t Frank, Val. It was Florence. Her death united Danny and Jonathan in a way that never would have happened if she’d stayed alive.”

  “Then that makes him even more guilty. He said he was going to do something about Flo. Remember?” Valerie glared at him, stabbing her finger into the air to underscore the point.

  “You don’t mean to imply that Frank killed her?” Jason tried but couldn’t keep the shock from his voice. The idea was ludicrous.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Frank is always trying to prove himself. And he did say that he’d take care of things.”

  “He meant he was going to talk to the woman, not blow her brains out.”

  “You don’t know that. Frank walks a fine line. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out that he has sociopathic tendencies.”

  “You’re spouting garbage. Frank wouldn’t know the butt end of a gun from the barrel.”

  “It’s pretty straightforward, Jason, you just point the thing and pull the trigger.” She demonstrated the action with her hand, her index finger pointing at him. “Bang. You’re dead.”

  “I still don’t buy it. Killing Florence wouldn’t accomplish anything except what it did—uniting the Brightons. Strategically, it would have been a colossal mistake. Frank may be desperate at times, but he isn’t stupid.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Besides, even if I could accept the idea of Frank as the shooter, he couldn’t possibly have managed to frame Jonathan. And then there’s the whole issue of Derek Miller. The same gun was used to kill him, which, if you’ll pardon the pun, shoots a hell of a hole in your theory.”

  “I suppose so.” Valerie’s eyes were narrowed in thought. “But if Frank didn’t kill Flo, then what do you suppose he was planning to do? I know he had something. He was too certain about his ability to solve our problems.”

  “I haven’t a clue. And the truth is, I don’t think it matters anymore. The game has been played and we lost. The thing to do now is to try and work with Danny to keep Guardian viable.”

  “Wonderful.” She stood up, her sigh filling her room. It was the first time he’d ever seen her look defeated. “Business as usual.”

  He held back a smile. “Something like that. Has Danny given you any of the new passwords?” His hand tightened on the arm of the chair as he worked to keep his voice casual. “I’m trying to tie up a few loose ends and I need to access some files that aren’t on my computer.”

  “I’ve only got access to my stuff. He’s still working on everything else. I think there was a problem with getting around some of Jonathan’s safeguards. Danny’s gone to see him.”

  “Well, I hope he hurries. I don’t like having my hands tied.”

  Which was the understatement of all time. Someone out there had his book, and he needed to find it before things got any further out of hand. Despite the fact that Jonathan was in jail, he had the feeling this thing was far from over. If he wasn’t careful, he was bound to be caught in the backwash.

  And that simply wouldn’t do at all.

  Police stations were all alike. Voices mixing together in a cacophonous symphony as people tried to argue their way out of the mess they’d made of their lives. There was even a particular smell. Antiseptic mixed with stale coffee and human fear. A heady combination.

  One she’d been attracted to since she’d been old enough to go with her father to work. She’d sat at his desk more times than she could count, watching humanity filter in and out like ocean water on sand.

  And she’d known right then that this is where she belonged. Chasing the bad guys, avenging the good ones. Making the world a better place. Noble crap like that. Except that the line between good and evil wasn’t always discernible. There was bad in good people and good in bad people. The tri
ck was to measure the degree, and sometimes the difference between black and white got all mucked up.

  Which left one in a hell of a mess.

  Case in point. She tightened her fingers around the manila envelope she held in her hand, and, shoulders squared, walked up to the desk sergeant. “FBI, Agent Cavanaugh.” She flashed her badge. “I’m here for John Brighton.”

  She needed to explain things to him, and to let him know about Jason Pollock. Then she was going to give a copy of the notebook to D’Angelo. It wasn’t exactly proper procedure, but she didn’t trust Roswell to expedite the matter, and she couldn’t just sit around and wait. It wasn’t her style.

  “Sign here, please.”

  She took the clipboard the sergeant was offering and scribbled her name, her thoughts still centered on John. Everything was happening so fast. As far as Roswell was concerned, John was already convicted, and as much as she despised the man, she couldn’t completely discount his logic. The evidence was damning. Without something more, even the best of lawyers wasn’t going to be able to get him off.

  She needed time, and that’s exactly what she didn’t have. Maybe, if she was lucky, D’Angelo would take an interest in the Pollock case, but even if he did, she wasn’t certain it would necessarily translate to John.

  It was a conundrum, and since she couldn’t access John’s computer files, she wasn’t certain there was anything she could do to help. Truth was, she needed John. Needed his knowledge of his system, and, quite possibly, his hacking abilities. Somewhere in the Guardian computers there had to be a clue, but the way things stood, they had a ice cube’s chance in hell of finding it.

  She slid the clipboard back across the counter, pushing away her fears. It wouldn’t do for John to see her like this. He had enough problems without her adding to them. She was supposed to be helping him. Not increasing his burdens.

  A noble thought. Despite the severity of the situation, she bit back a smile. The door to her left opened and a uniformed officer led a handcuffed John into the room. He looked up, his gaze meeting hers, his expression anything but welcoming. “You.”

  “Me.” Her answer was automatic and not particularly enlightening. Still trying to sort out this newest development, she shot a look at the sergeant, who was examining papers on the clipboard.