Dangerous Passions

by Brenda Harlen

  But then Garcia read aloud, “Alysia Eleanor Jacobs Peart.”

  Alysia Jacobs.

  A.J.

  “She’s actually Conroy’s half sister. Different fathers,” he explained. “Conroy’s father was involved in some smuggling operation overseas, left his wife alone for a couple of years. When he came back and found out that his wife had a child by another man—he was furious. Even more so when he realized she’d given the girl her real father’s name. It was a blow to his pride, a smear on his reputation. In a fit of rage—he killed her. That’s the story, anyway.

  “The murder was real,” he continued. “That was proven in court—Zane Conroy saw the whole thing, testified against his father at trial. But the motive is speculation.”

  Shannon wasn’t concerned about an old killing but about the more recent attempts on her life.

  “What do you know about A.J.?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Too little,” he admitted. “Our best information is that he joined the organization only three or four years ago, but rapidly proved himself indispensable to Conroy. He salvaged projects that others had jeopardized, allowing Conroy to save face and millions of dollars.

  “In the process, he’s proven himself to be ruthless and relentless. One night he took out four of our undercover operatives with a long-range rifle and without ever being seen.”

  She frowned. “Then how do you know it was A.J.?”

  “Because after they’d been shot, he carved his initials into their skin—A on one cheek, J on the other.”

  Shannon shuddered at the mental image. At the same time, this gruesome revelation confirmed her suspicion. “You keep referring to A.J. as ‘he,’” she said. “Have you ever considered the possibility that A.J. might be a ‘she’?”

  Garcia frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, no doubt to point out the ridiculousness of her suggestion. Then he looked at the scattering of pictures and closed his mouth, nodding slowly. “There are a lot of women who move in these circles, but they’re wives or mistresses, not players.”

  “But Alysia appears in quite a few of your photos.” She selected those images and set them aside. “And in each of these, she’s with a different man.”

  “And most of them hold key positions in the organization,” Garcia admitted. But then he shook his head. “There’s still a major hole in your theory.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Zane Conroy did everything he could to shield his sister, to conceal the truth about his business from her. He would never have allowed her to get involved.”

  “Not knowingly.”

  Garcia was silent for a long moment, considering. “You think Conroy’s sister could have assumed an alias and infiltrated his organization, to the point of becoming not only one of his most trusted employees but his successor to power, without Conroy ever knowing who she was?”

  Maybe it wasn’t the most obvious scenario, but Shannon couldn’t shake the feeling it was the right one.

  “What you described—the carving of the assassin’s initials in the victims’ flesh—was an act committed by someone who craved attention and recognition,” she explained. “Someone who had something to prove to Conroy.”

  Garcia looked at Michael, as if to ask if he was buying in to this theory.

  “She has a minor in psychology,” Michael said.

  The detective shook his head. “Damn, I hate to admit this, but in a twisted way, it almost makes sense. We’ve been running in circles for the past three years trying to get a handle on this guy—because we were looking for a guy.”

  Michael picked up one of the photos, stared at the woman for a long moment. “Do you really believe Alysia Peart could be A.J.?” he asked skeptically.

  “I believe it’s worth looking into,” Garcia said.

  “Then there’s something else you should know.”

  Chapter 14

  Garcia had ordered round-the-clock security on Andrew Peart. Not just to prevent a possible escape attempt, but to protect him. A trusted employee in A.J.’s organization, it was unlikely he would reveal any useful information to the police. But there was always a possibility, and others in the organization would want to eliminate that possibility.

  The only visitor so far had been Peart’s wife.

  When Garcia arrived at the hospital to ask her a few questions, he was advised that she’d gone down to the chapel about half an hour earlier.

  He headed down to the chapel.

  A few minutes later a pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed nurse showed up at Peart’s room pushing the pole-mounted blood pressure monitor.

  She smiled at the officer seated outside the door. “I’m on the last hour of a twelve-hour shift.” She sounded grateful at the prospect of ending her long day. “How about you?”

  “I’m here until six o’clock tonight,” he told her.

  “Not a very exciting job.”

  He shrugged. “Could be worse.”

  “I suppose.” She smiled again. “Well, I’ve gotta check on the patient. Dr. Rawlings expects that he’ll be coming around soon.”

  “My boss will be happy to hear that. He’s been chomping at the bit to talk to this guy.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” she said, moving past him and into the room.

  The patient was, in fact, starting to come around.

  His head moved restlessly on the pillow, his eyelids fluttered.

  She attached the blood pressure cuff to his arm. “Just want to make sure everything’s still in proper working order,” she told him.

  His eyes flickered open. He seemed confused, disoriented at first. She knew the wig and contact lenses contributed to his confusion, but she was confident he would recognize her voice.

  “I’m here to take care of everything,” she told him.

  Some of his tension seemed to ease as he sank deeper into the pillows.

  She removed the cuff, set the BP monitor aside and took the syringe from her pocket.

  She didn’t hesitate, refusing to let her personal feelings interfere with what needed to be done. He was the only one who could identify her, and right now that made him a liability.

  Just a little injection into his intravenous tube, and it would all be over in minutes.

  She bent to press her lips to his and whispered softly.

  Till death do us part.

  Mike was glad when Garcia finally left, although he knew the detective’s departure wasn’t likely to put an end to the inquisition. He was more surprised than relieved when Shannon didn’t say anything at all.

  “I can almost see the questions scrolling through your mind,” he said.

  She only shrugged. “I can’t deny I’m curious about some things. But I figured if there was anything you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”

  “Is that why you’re upset—because I didn’t tell you I thought Alysia was Lisa?”

  “I’m not upset.”

  He didn’t believe her denial for a moment. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t believe it myself, not until Detective Garcia revealed her last name was Jacobs.”

  “You don’t owe me any explanations,” she said, in the same infuriatingly level tone.

  “I wasn’t deliberately hiding anything from you, Shannon.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does.” He put his arms around her, kissed her gently. “Because you matter to me.”

  She didn’t exactly melt, but she didn’t push him away, either. He figured that meant he was on his way to being forgiven.

  “Do you really think Alysia is Lisa?” she finally asked.

  “I know it seems like an incredible coincidence, but the more photos I look at, the more I’m convinced,” he said. “Then again, I haven’t seen her in almost six years, so I could be wrong.”

  “You never saw her again after you left Righaria?”

  He shook his head. “I made a half-hearted effort to find her once, but she seemed to have disappeared and I
didn’t really pursue it because I didn’t want to be reminded of that time and place in my life.”

  “Now this is bringing it all back for you,” she said softly.

  “Not really,” he denied. “A lot more time has passed since then, everything is different now.”

  “Why was Lisa in Righaria?” she asked.

  He’d wondered the same thing—why a young American college student would be spending her summer vacation in a politically unstable country most people couldn’t find on a map. When he’d asked Lisa the question, she’d told him that her brother was in town on business and she’d come with him so they could spend some time together.

  At the time, Mike hadn’t thought to ask any questions about the nature of that business. Of course, he hadn’t known then that her brother was Zane Conroy.

  But even if Conroy’s reasons for being in Righaria were suspect—as they undoubtedly were—his sister could hardly be blamed for something she’d known nothing about.

  Or had she?

  That was a question he couldn’t answer with any degree of certainty. Because as much as he wanted to believe Lisa was an innocent bystander, he just didn’t know.

  Still, it was too much of a leap from an awareness of her brother’s illicit activities to becoming a hired assassin and infamous crime boss.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Shannon reminded him.

  “I don’t know why Lisa was in Righaria,” he admitted.

  “I’m not making accusations,” she said. “I’m trying to find answers.”

  “So am I.” And yet there was a part of him that dreaded what those answers might be.

  “If Lisa is Alysia,” Shannon said, “and Alysia is A.J.—”

  “I don’t believe Lisa is A.J.,” he interrupted.

  She frowned. “You were the one who made the connection.”

  “Lisa isn’t A.J.”

  “I can understand why you don’t want to believe—”

  “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Shannon.”

  He caught the flash of emotion in her eyes, but it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Now she did pull away from him.

  He hated knowing that he’d hurt her. He hated even more the way she continued to distance herself from him, to deny her own feelings.

  “I was only trying to help,” she said stiffly.

  He sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  She turned back to him. “I’m not sure this is a question I should ask, but I need to know—do you still have feelings for her?”

  “No.” His response was immediate and definite. “I might have doubts about her knowledge of Conroy’s business, but there are no doubts about that. Whatever was once between us was over a long time ago.”

  “I wonder if she feels the same way,” Shannon said.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated again. “I was thinking that there have been too many bizarre coincidences since we met on the beach that night. So many that maybe they aren’t coincidences at all.”

  “Lisa isn’t A.J.,” he said again. “But even if she was, do you really think she had some master plan to bring us together before she killed us?”

  She shook her head. “No. I think maybe she decided to kill us because we were together.”

  “Huh?”

  “When I came down to Miami with Jack, it was because Conroy was making threats against my sister, and Natalie was concerned about her son. You admitted yourself that there was never any real belief that we would be in danger here. In fact, Conroy didn’t even seem to know that I existed. He never so much as mentioned my name to Natalie.

  “But if Conroy was keeping tabs on Jack and he sent someone—Peart or anyone else—down here, that someone might have realized we were being watched from both sides. Since you made no attempt to hide your identity, it’s not such a stretch to think that Conroy knew you were here. And if Conroy knew, A.J. did, too.

  “Then Dylan took Jack back to Fairweather, but I stayed, making a convenient target for A.J. with the added bonus of her former lover thrown into the mix.”

  He shook his head. “That is the most convoluted logic I’ve ever heard.”

  “It is convoluted,” she agreed. “But it’s also more logical than all of this just being some big coincidence.”

  He shook his head again. “It sounds like highly imaginative fiction.”

  “Maybe you’re right to be skeptical,” she said. “But if I’m right, you can bet that A.J. has one heck of a finale planned for all of us.”

  Shannon awoke the next morning to the welcome smell of fresh coffee and the not-so-welcome sound of banging.

  She sat up in bed, pushed her hair away from her face. “This was not how I planned to start my day,” she grumbled.

  Michael pressed a cup of coffee into her hands. “It’s not what I had planned, either,” he said. “But it doesn’t sound like something we can ignore.”

  She indulged in a long sip before setting her cup aside. “I guess I need to get dressed.”

  “You can go next door to do that while I see who’s at the door.” He kissed her softly, briefly. “If it’s my sister, I’ll kill her quick so we can get back to other things.”

  But when Shannon returned to his room a few minutes later, she found it wasn’t Rachel who’d interrupted their morning but Detective Garcia.

  “Andrew Peart is dead,” he told them.

  Shannon was stunned by his pronouncement. “Yesterday you said his prognosis was good.”

  “Yesterday his prognosis was good. Last night, he was murdered.”

  “How?”

  “An injection of succinylcholine chloride into his bloodstream.”

  “What does that do?” Michael asked.

  “It’s a paralyzing agent,” Shannon told him. “Commonly used to facilitate tracheal intubation in emergency rooms or provide skeletal muscle relaxation during surgery.”

  Garcia nodded. “That’s exactly what they told me at the hospital. Except that the dose given to Peart could only have been intended to kill him.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “A.J.—Alysia—whoever the hell she is—tops my list,” Garcia said. “There was a bag found beside the garbage bin in the ladies’ bathroom. In it was a dark wig, colored contacts, hospital scrubs, running shoes and the empty syringe. It was as if whoever killed him wanted everything to be tied up in a neat little package for us. The only thing missing was a freaking bow.

  “Alysia Peart hasn’t been seen at the hospital since, and no one has been able to reach her to notify her of her husband’s death.”

  Shannon shook her head. “It was somehow easier to accept that she’d done all those other things than to believe she would kill her own husband.”

  Garcia’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “It happens a lot more than you want to know.”

  “Do you have any evidence that ties this to A.J.?” Michael asked.

  “CSI has the package. They’re looking for something to link the items to our suspect. One of her own hairs left inside the wig, DNA off a contact lens, a fingerprint on anything. If there’s something to be found, they’ll find it,” he said.

  Shannon nodded, mentally crossing her fingers that this development would be the break the police needed, that A.J. would be found and this nightmare would end.

  “We appreciate being kept up to date with the investigation,” Michael said, “but I get the feeling there’s another reason you’re here.”

  “There is,” Garcia agreed. “The killer’s hospital identification read Lillian Baines.”

  Shannon’s blood chilled as he recited the alias on her hotel registration.

  Michael slid an arm around her and pulled her close to his side in an instinctive gesture of protection. “She knows we’re here.”

  A.J. was a firm believer in the value of knowledge and the benefits of careful planning. It was why the file with Michael Courtland’s name on it contained thorough an
d detailed information about every aspect of his life. From his exclusive prep school to Harvard, from his stint in the army to his partnership at Courtland & Logan Investigations. There were the names of friends and business acquaintances, the phone numbers and addresses of women he’d dated. A general outline of his daily routine, notes about his usual hangouts.

  And there was information about his family—extensively and meticulously researched, if not very interesting.

  He wasn’t close to either of his parents. Martin Courtland was a third-generation hotelier and a single-minded workaholic who’d had little time for either of his children. Barbara Price Courtland was a typical socialite who liked Armani, diamonds, and gin martinis—all of them in quantity.

  It was Michael’s sister, A.J. had known early on, who would be the key. He would do anything for his sister.

  Family loyalty was an admirable and respectable trait, and one that was easily exploited. For that reason, there was also a file on Rachel Courtland, her schedules and routines tracked and noted.

  Michael’s sister was a creature of habit. She worked out in the hotel gym on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays—a strenuous weight-lifting and grueling cardio routine that kept her in top physical condition. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she left the sanctity and security of the resort to run along the beach. Early, before the sun was high in the sky, from Scenic Drive to Oceanview Park.

  The only time the routine varied was if it rained.

  A.J. pulled off to the side of the road, peered through the windshield into the cloudless sky and smiled.

  Something was wrong.

  Mike awoke suddenly with his heart pounding and knots in the pit of his stomach. He exhaled a slow, unsteady breath when he saw Shannon still sleeping beside him.

  She was safe—and he was going to ensure that she stayed safe. But the uneasy feeling persisted, forcing him out of the warmth of the bed, away from her comforting presence.

  He scrubbed his hands through his hair and fervently hoped he was mistaken. Crossing to the window, he peered between the curtains. It was early, but the sun was already bright in the sky.

  “Michael?”