Onyx Webb 9

by Diandra Archer

  But from where?

  Then Newt remembered. It was on the invitation Koda had left for him—to the charity event.

  Newt began frantically searching the strings of the web stretched about the room until—finally—he found it. Newt snatched the invitation off the string.

  He read the invitation from the top down and then he saw it:

  With your master of ceremonies…

  The Southern Gentleman.

  It was an anagram.

  S-O-U-T-H-E-R-N G-E-N-T-L-E-M-A-N

  S-E-R-G-E-N-T E-L-T-O-N N-A-H-U-M

  Newt grabbed his cell phone and dialed the number Koda Mulvaney had given him.

  The call went straight to voice mail.

  “Koda, it’s Newt. I know who the Leg Collector is. It’s the Southern Gentleman. Do not let him in the house. Do you understand? Sergent Elton Nahum and the Southern Gentleman are the same person.”

  Then Newt hung up the phone and dialed Maggie.

  7:04 P.M. EST

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  BRUCE MULVANEY STEPPED into the elevator on the third floor of the newer section of the Mulvaney mansion—the portion he added when he married Nisa—and pushed the button for the first floor.

  It was after seven and guests would be arriving soon.

  At least he was already dressed.

  The elevator door opened, and Bruce stepped out into a sea of servers buzzing about like worker bees, rolling carts of food from the rear of the house toward the kitchen, preparing the bar, and doing a hundred other behind-the-scenes tasks.

  The grand foyer and open floor plan of the first floor in the new section of the mansion was transformed into a stunning ballroom. Bruce looked at the sea of tables and plush black high-backed chairs. The table linens were entirely black, while the place settings all appeared to be sterling silver. Were those Riedel wine glasses? White tulle was draped in ghost-like fashion all over the walls and doorways. The chandeliers were just low enough to set the mood. Black-and-white candles and a massive centerpiece of roses were at every table. It was just creepy enough to match the theme of the night—and it was perfect.

  It looked like Koda was going to pull off the event of the year, and he couldn’t have been more proud of his son.

  It was obvious that Koda had the talent to achieve anything he put his mind to—he simply didn’t have an interest in real estate. Bruce couldn’t blame him.

  Bruce could rattle off a list of things he’d rather be doing. Running a vineyard. Producing movies. Owning a sports team. A dozen other things. Buying and selling land wouldn’t crack the top ten.

  “Well, there you are,” a woman said from behind him.

  Bruce turned around and saw Chloe standing there. What Bruce didn’t expect was to see Chloe’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Krissy, standing next to her. Bruce could see his and Chloe’s features in her easily. She had Chloe’s button nose but his eyes and height—like Koda.

  “You remember Mr. Mulvaney, don’t you?” Chloe said.

  “Yes, of course,” Krissy said. “The money man.”

  Bruce released a nervous laugh. “Could I have a moment alone with your mother, please?”

  “Sure. Um, can you tell me where Koda is?” Krissy asked.

  “Try looking in the kitchen,” Bruce said, pointing down the hall. “He’ll be busy. Tell him I said he should put you to work.”

  “Cool,” Krissy said.

  Bruce waited until Krissy hurried off. “What in the hell do you think you’re pulling, Chloe?”

  “What? You knew I was coming.”

  “Bringing her here,” Bruce snapped.

  “Her? In case you forgot, that her happens to be your daughter,” Chloe said loudly.

  Bruce remained silent as a server walked past, and then he leaned in and grabbed Chloe by the arm. “I know who she is,” Bruce said. “I just can’t believe you had the audacity to bring her here to the house—tonight of all nights.”

  “Relax,” Chloe said, pulling her arm away from Bruce’s grasp. “No one’s going to make a scene, except for you maybe—like you’re doing right now.”

  Bruce took a deep breath and released it. “We talked about this, Chloe.”

  “Yes,” Chloe said. “But I’ve decided the time for talk is over. You tell her that you’re her father or I will. And don’t waste too much time. In case you couldn’t tell, Krissy has a crush on her brother.”

  7:07 P.M. EST

  DOWNTOWN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  GRAEME KINGSLEY WAS peeved. First, because Koda asked him to drive into Charleston to pick up the master of ceremonies for that evening’s charity event, and second because he’d agreed to do it.

  Graeme kept his hands clamped tightly to the steering wheel of the limousine and peered through the darkness, the wipers moving quickly from side to side, slapping away raindrops as they hit the glass.

  If the temperature dropped any further, the rain would turn to snow—which could pose a problem since Graeme had never driven in snow before.

  Nor did he have a valid driver’s license.

  Nor did he have insurance.

  Or a permit to work in the United States.

  The last thing he needed was to get in an accident in a $100,000 Mercedes limousine without proper documentation and end up getting deported.

  Graeme glanced at the clock on the limo’s dashboard. He was late, but the destination was only a few blocks away. A minute later he saw the tailor shop on the right side of the street and pulled to the curb.

  Graeme saw no one. “Okay, mate, where are you?” Graeme said aloud to himself.

  Graeme turned on the radio and a rap song came on. Ugh. Graeme turned the dial again.

  Rihanna.

  Double ugh.

  He turned the dial.

  Lady Gaga. Gaga was okay, but he hated the song that was playing.

  He turned the dial again.

  Justin Bieber.

  Graeme would have loved to slap a rugby ball in Justin Bieber’s hands and give the tattooed wanker a five-second head start before driving the little Canadian headfirst into the sod.

  Graeme turned the radio off.

  The music in the states was bloody awful. Check that. Music was awful everywhere today.

  What ever happened to the music you used to be able to find on the radio by real bands, like Midnight Oil? Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds? Men at Work?

  Men at Work, now there was a band.

  There was no getting around it. Graeme missed Australia. He wanted to go home.

  As soon as he got Quinn to his weight loss goal, he was going to take his $100,000 bonus and—

  “Jesus!” Graeme yelped. Graeme turned in the seat and saw the man in the white suit standing at the passenger side window. Graeme lowered the window.

  “My apologies if I gave you a fright,” Stan Lee drawled. “I think you’re here for me. I’m the Southern Gentleman.”

  7:10 P.M. EST

  THE MULVANEY MANSION

  ROBYN STOOD AT one of three temporary prep tables, cutting lime wedges and placing them in large Tupperware bowls, wondering why she’d agreed to work the bar at Bruce Mulvaney’s charity event.

  Robyn didn’t need the money. And she sure in hell didn’t need the humiliation. There was only one explanation why she’d come.

  Robyn watched as Bruce Mulvaney stepped off the elevator and immediately became embroiled in a heated conversation with the woman who was providing the wine for the event.

  Robyn grabbed a bottle of the Krissy Vineyards Meritage from the bar and poured a bit in a wine glass. The woman had uncorked the bottle for the servers to taste, so they could answer questions about it and talk it up throughout the evening—always a classy move.

  Robyn raised the glass and tilted it, allowing the wine to roll toward the edge of the glass. The color had good depth and density, bordering on a deeply saturated purple as if it might have been a Syrah or Zinfandel. Then she gave the glass a good swirl and w
atched as the legs ran down the sides of the glass. Nice. Then she raised the glass and tested the nose, taking several seconds to identify the various aromas of the wine.

  Impressive, especially for the fifty-dollar retail price point.

  By the time Robyn set the glass down, Bruce and the woman were gone. There was no doubt about it, though—something was up between them.

  The question was, what?

  7:12 P.M. EST

  LYNCHBURG, VIRGINIA

  NEWT HEARD A knock on the hotel room door and threw it open to see Maggie standing there. It was obvious she had been crying, but there was no time to address that now.

  “I know who he is,” Newt said. “Better still, I know where he is.”

  “What are you talking about?” Maggie asked.

  “He made a mistake,” Newt said.

  Newt handed Maggie the invitation to the Restoring Savannah Foundation charity event and the most recent postcard from the Leg Collector. “What do you see?” Newt asked.

  Maggie looked at the invitation, and her eyes went wide.

  “The Southern Gentleman?”

  “Want to guess what Southern Gentleman is an anagram for?” Newt asked.

  “Oh, my God. It’s him—we know who he is.”

  “Better than that. We know where he’s going to be—this time for sure.”

  “At the Mulvaneys’ party.”

  Newt nodded. “You’ve got to call Pipi. I left Koda Mulvaney a voice mail, but I don’t know if he’ll get it in time. We need Pipi to send a team of local agents to the house. And we’re going to need a plane.”

  “A plane? Do you have any idea how pissed off Pipi is at you right now? At us.”

  Newt knew Maggie was right, and if he were being honest, Pipi had good reason. Newt talked Maggie into getting him the Leg Collector files for the three years he’d been away from the FBI—as well as Maggie’s laptop—violations of bureau regulation, not to mention federal law.

  The most egregious offense, however, was that Newt had Maggie blackmail Pipi by giving her the note with the numbers 41995 written on it.

  The numbers stood for April 19, 1995—4/19/95—the date of the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City—which Newt knew would get Pipi’s attention.

  It did.

  Pipi deployed ten agents for three straight nights to watch every bar in a two-square mile area of Savannah, where Newt’s computer program predicted the Leg Collector would strike next—a prediction that turned out to be wrong.

  Being wrong about the stakeout was one thing. People made mistakes all the time. Incorrect predictions were forgivable. Blackmailing the assistant director was something else entirely.

  They could not depend on Pipi for help.

  Of course, Maggie had no idea what the numbers 41995 meant. Even if she did figure out the numbers were the date of the Oklahoma City bombing, Maggie would have no idea why the date would strike terror into the heart of her boss—enough to cause Pipi to change her position and do what Newt asked.

  “How far is Charleston from here?” Newt asked finally.

  “Probably four hundred miles or so.”

  Newt glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes past seven. “Okay, we’ll drive.”

  “Drive?”

  “What other option do we have, Maggie?” Newt said. “We can’t just sit here. It’s night. The roads will be wide open. At eighty miles per hour, we can be there by midnight. And call Pipi anyway. Even if she won’t help, at least she won’t be able to say we didn’t try to keep her in the loop.”

  7:19 P.M. EST

  THE MULVANEY MANSION

  KODA HAD FINISHED placing the name cards at each table according to his seating chart and was on his way back toward the kitchen when he turned the corner and slammed into a young girl.

  She was about sixteen, give or take a year—a big girl. Not heavy, though. But tall. Athletic.

  Like he was.

  Like his father was.

  She had blue eyes too. Like theirs.

  “Hey, Koda!” the girl said with obvious excitement. “My God, it’s really you.”

  “Yep, it’s really me,” Koda said. “And you are—?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Krissy said, extending her hand. “I’m Krissy Archer. My mom and your father are business partners. I’ve always wanted to meet you, and—”

  “I’m sorry—what did you say?” Koda asked.

  “I said I always wanted to meet you.”

  “No—the other part about your mom and my dad,” Koda said.

  “Oh, yeah. My mom is the owner of Krissy Vineyards, which she named after me. It’s in Napa. Your dad is the money guy—like an investor or something,” Krissy said. “Your dad said you might need some help, so here I am.”

  Here she was.

  Sixteen.

  And there was definitely a family resemblance.

  Koda’s mind drifted back to the day he and Dane were home getting their stuff ready to go back to school. Koda had forgotten something and went back in the house—and accidently overheard his father speaking to someone on the phone.

  “They’re threatening to go public, Chloe,” Koda had heard his father say. “They’re sending me a message that if I throw my hat in the ring, they’ll go public that I have a daughter in California. It’s blackmail, pure and simple.”

  “Our names go together really well,” Krissy said.

  “What?”

  “You know. Krissy? Koda? They both start with the letter K, almost as if they were meant to go together. Cool, right?”

  “Yeah,” Koda said. Cool.

  7:22 P.M. EST

  BETWEEN SAVANNAH AND CHARLESTON

  MIKA FLAGLER EXITED I-95 onto Route 17 toward Charleston and immediately felt a change in mood, as if someone had flipped her happy switch to the off position.

  She realized why.

  Tomorrow was the first day of winter. God, how she hated the cold and darkness of winter. It was twenty minutes past seven, and it had been dark for two hours already. And it was freezing outside, with warnings of black ice on the roads.

  The only thing Mika hated worse than winter was being poor. Mika wasn’t poor. Poor would have been an upgrade.

  Mika was dead broke.

  Again.

  Every penny Bruce loaned her was already gone. She’d even taken a payday loan against the equity in the Audi. A payday loan for God’s sake. How much lower could a person go? She had to spend an hour in the shower scrubbing the poverty from her skin after she’d left the place.

  Add to that the stress of layering designer garments that weren’t meant to go together, and—well—it was simply too much for one person to handle. No wonder bears went into hibernation. Yes, that’s what she needed: six months of emotional hibernation.

  And to get Koda back.

  7:24 P.M. EST

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  THE GOVERNOR OF GEORGIA sat behind his desk, signing the stack of bills in front of him as fast as he could. He’d been briefed on what was in them earlier—now it was a matter of putting pen to paper. With an average expenditure of $6 million per bill, it was expensive ink.

  An aide stuck his head in the door. “The helicopter is here, Governor.”

  “Ten minutes,” the governor said without looking up.

  The aide disappeared.

  The governor signed another bill and wondered why he’d allowed himself to get roped into attending a damn fundraiser—a costume party no less. But he had to go.

  Had to.

  The fact that the Mulvaneys lived in South Carolina and not in Georgia was immaterial. They were powerful. They were connected. Most of all, they were wealthy enough to stroke a check for a sizeable donation at election time—and in politics, money was the name of the game.

  And the Mulvaneys had lots of it.

  The aide stuck his head in the door again. “The helicopter is waiting, Governor.”

  “Is it planning to leave without me?” the governor
asked.

  “No, sir,” the aide said sheepishly.

  “Then tell them to wait.”

  The governor signed the last of the bills, capped his fountain pen, and returned it to his desk drawer.

  He’d spent a lot of money over the previous six years with that pen—none of it being his, of course. OPM. Other People’s Money. That’s what made powerful people powerful. They knew how to get the most from OPM.

  The governor stood up and put on his tuxedo jacket. God, how he hated dressing up—especially as himself.

  Playing governor all day was hard enough. Now he had to go out and play governor all night, even though he really should be staying right where he was. In the office next to the phone.

  A man was going to be put to death, after all.

  And where was he going to be? At a $10,000-per-plate fundraiser, eating caviar and drinking expensive champagne.

  What a world.

  The aide stuck his head in the door a third time. “Governor, what do you want me to tell the pilots? They’re—”

  “Five minutes,” the governor said.

  The aide disappeared.

  The Mulvaneys had power because they had money. The governor had no money to speak of, but he damn well could make a helicopter wait another five minutes if he wanted to.

  At least there was that.

  Now, where in the hell had he put that stupid mask?

  7:27 P.M. EST

  RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

  DR. GERYLYN STOLLER sat in the departure area of the Richmond airport, listening to the cacophony of sounds that surrounded her. A baby crying off to the left. A husband bitterly complaining about spending another Christmas with his wife’s parents off to her right. Christmas music playing overhead. When one lived in darkness, sound of any kind was appreciated.

  An announcer’s voice informed passengers about more flight delays due to the bad weather.

  Gerylyn didn’t mind that Simon’s plane was among those forced to circle in the sky above as snowplows worked the runways enough for the planes to land.