“Thank you,” Micah said into the microphone. “But I won’t bore you with a long speech, other than to say I appreciate your support tonight, your generosity in growing my dream of bringing refugees from war-torn Africa to a better life here in the U.S. As one man I was powerless. Together we’re building dreams.”
More applause, and then he continued with, “And while it goes to show what we can achieve when joined by others of a like mind, there is one person here who deserves special thanks. Eve Sanders, the lovely young volunteer worker who managed to put my otherwise unknown documentary in the hands of the great people at A.D.E. Without her, I wouldn’t be an international phenomenon. More importantly, we wouldn’t have all of you wonderful people coming together to ensure the success of From Sticks to Bricks. Eve? Where are you?”
Scattered clapping, then Micah saying, “Ah, there she is near the book table with a group of ardent admirers.” Micah glanced to his side, where a man was working what appeared to be a sound and lighting system. “Terry, shine that spotlight over there. See her? Silver dress. Come come, gentlemen. Don’t let her walk out without the acknowledgment she deserves.”
Eve stilled as the light hit them. “What should I do?”
The gunman shoved his weapon deeper into Tex’s side, using his body to shield it from view, as he quietly said, “Extricate yourself, Ms. Sanders.”
She glanced at Tex, then down at the weapon, before turning a bright smile toward the podium. “They’d rather see you, Micah.”
“Not the men,” Micah replied, to some scattered laughter.
Now or never, Tex thought, then called out, “Would you like me to bring her up?”
“How about it, folks?” Micah said into the microphone. A thunderous round of applause, then he waved them to the podium.
The gunman leaned over and said into Tex’s ear, “Be very careful, Mr. Dalton. We still have your friends.”
Not for long, Tex thought, placing his hand at the small of Eve’s back, ushering her away from their would-be captor. As they neared the stage, he glanced back, saw the two men walking Sydney and Griffin toward the side door.
He grabbed Eve’s hand, doubled their pace.
“What are you doing?” Eve whispered.
“Improvising.”
He hurried her up the few steps to the podium, then leaned over to speak into the microphone. “Mr. Goodwin, you’re going to have to forgive me here. If we could swing that spotlight over by the front door . . . where my photographer and his assistant are trying to make a getaway . . .” He waited and the man working the lights did as asked. The two thugs on either side of Sydney and Griffin froze like deer in headlights as Tex continued, “Before they rush off, I was hoping you’d allow my photographers to snap a few photos of you mingling with the crowd. We’re talking some good front page material, courtesy of the Washington Recorder.”
“That ought to make the politicians happy,” Micah said to laughter from the audience. “Let’s get those cameras up here and sign some books!”
And like magic the crowd herded Griffin and Sydney toward the stage, and the two gunmen fell back.
“You did it,” Eve said.
“For the moment. We still have to get out of here.”
Sydney stood in the midst of the flashing red and blue lights that lit up the front of the hotel, reflecting off the plateglass windows and those of every car parked in the lot. She’d called MPDC to make sure they had a clear route out to prevent anything from happening to the other guests, should the kidnappers attempt to take them by force. Once the cops showed up, their alleged kidnappers fled and the threat was averted. “Sometimes,” Sydney said, “you have to do things the old-fashioned way.”
“Effective,” Griffin replied. “Unless you want to preserve your cover.”
“Your cover. I never had one,” Sydney countered as Lieutenant Sanchez walked up, eyeing her with a mixture of frustration, annoyance, and curiosity.
She put on her best smile, since maintaining a good working relationship with the local cops was always a plus. “Lieutenant Sanchez. Thanks so much for getting everyone here so quickly.”
“You mind telling me what’s going on?” Sanchez asked.
She drew him away from the others, conscious of where Eve was standing, even though Tex was doing a good job of keeping her out of earshot. “You recall the suicide related to the big embezzlement case we discussed last night?”
“Or didn’t discuss, if I remember correctly.”
“Right. That one. This is a follow-up to that.”
“Let me guess. You wanted us to come charging in, save the day, then pretend like it didn’t happen?”
“Not exactly. After all, we had five hundred witnesses in that ballroom, and one of them’s bound to question why you’re here. I figured you could spin it as a robbery attempt.”
“A robbery?”
“The men who tried to force us from the ballroom had guns.”
“And who was it they tried to rob?”
“The reporter, photographer, his assistant, which would be, uh, me, and that woman in the silver dress. Any chance I can use one of your interview rooms to take a statement from her?”
“You want my damned car keys to drive her to the station, too?”
“I think we have the transportation covered.”
“You know what, Fitzpatrick? When you finish digging out of this can of worms, you are going to owe me. Big-time.”
“You’re with the FBI?” Eve, her silver lamé gown at odds with the scarred and battered police interrogation room, stared at Sydney as though seeing her for the first time. “James Dalton and his photographer? Are they FBI, too?”
“No, ma’am,” Sydney said. “They’re with the Recorder. They were doing an investigative piece involving the embezzlement from a San Francisco charity. I asked to accompany them in hopes of getting to the bottom of whatever is going on. And a good thing, it turns out.”
Eve wrapped her bare arms around herself. “I can’t believe this is happening to me.” She closed her eyes, rocking back and forth. “I thought he was going to kill us. When he pointed that gun at James—” She looked at Sydney. “Is he here? This is all my fault. I should have called the police when I first saw them.”
“I can bring him in if you like.”
She looked relieved. “Please . . .”
“I’ll be right back.” Sydney left her, walked down the hall to where Tex and Griffin waited in a small seating area. “One damsel in distress asking for a mild-mannered reporter.”
Tex jumped up, a boyish smile lighting his face.
Griffin gave an exaggerated sigh. “Try not to drool, Tex.”
“Ah,” Sydney said. “New lust. It’s kinda cute, don’t you think?”
Griffin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Wake me when you’re done.”
Syd and Tex returned to the interview room. Eve stood the moment Tex entered, and with only a moment’s hesitation, threw herself into his arms.
“Easy there,” he said, patting her back, keeping his expression suitably concerned. “You okay?”
“I—I think so. I thought we were going to die. What if you hadn’t gotten us up to the stage? How did you even think to do that?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
Sydney pulled her chair out, clearing her throat. “We should really get started. It’s been a long night. Eve, why do you think they came after you?”
“It’s rather obvious, don’t you think? They want to know if I know where Dorian Rose hid this book they’re looking for.”
“What book?” Sydney asked, since this was the first any of them had heard about it.
“Accounting book? Bank book? The book that tells them where all the missing money is?”
“Had you seen these men before?”
“Not until yesterday. Right before Dorian—” She looked down, clasped her hands in her lap. “He called to say that his friend Trip had talked to some reporters and h
e was worried, because they—you, I assume,” she said, looking at Tex, “wanted him to talk about Trip. We all sign nondisclosure agreements. We’re not to talk to the press unless it’s a designated script. Micah’s very particular about his program’s image. That’s why he likes to get to his venues a few days early for prepublicity interviews, that sort of thing. Handle it himself.”
“Dorian called me,” Tex said. “Around seven last night. Any idea why?”
“To give you the book. I mean, that’s the only reason I can think of. Which was why I was so spooked when I saw the two men at the fund-raiser tonight. I think I saw the same men at Dorian’s apartment right after I got there. They were just driving off. They have to be after it, too.”
“This book?”
“I can only surmise. After all, I don’t know for a fact. What I do know is that when this much money changes hands, charity or not, people’s priorities shift and not always for the better. Back when Micah began, when I first started helping him, no one cared about him, his documentary, or his program. He’d get the occasional donation check, if he was lucky. But I’d seen what A.D.E. had done with some other similar ideas and I knew that they could turn things around for him with the proper backing. And I was right. Micah’s Sticks and Bricks fund-raisers are hugely popular since the release of his most recent documentary. He’s so personable, he makes people feel as if they’re actually making a difference. Pack a ballroom full of donors, and suddenly everyone wants to help the refugees. Who doesn’t want to be part of that?”
Tex nodded, saying, “I can see your point. But how does he get the funding to where it needs to go?”
“By running the money through A.D.E. They specialize in refugee-related charitable funds, which is how they’re able to keep their overhead down. ”
“How many of these signings have you done?” Sydney asked.
“Twenty-three, so far.”
Tex whistled. “You’re talking over a million bucks a pop.”
“Micah is big money.”
Huge money, Sydney thought. “Any idea why these men would target us at this fund-raiser?” she asked.
“None,” Eve said. “It doesn’t make sense. Unless they thought you were carrying a lot of cash? That’s the only thing I can think of.” She took a breath, looking at her watch. “Look, I know this is important, but I really have to get back. Micah will be expecting me, we have an early flight out, and frankly, I’d like to be off the road before the New Year’s revelers hit the streets.”
“Of course,” Sydney said. “I can’t think of anything else to ask.”
She glanced at Tex, wondering if he wanted to add anything, but all he said was, “I’ll walk you to your car, Miss Sanders.” He stood, and Eve followed suit, and as he walked out, he winked at Sydney.
Great. She only hoped he remembered they were working a case, not running a dating service.
15
“Something is off,” Sydney said to Tex and Griffin. Eve had returned to the hotel, where she was staying in a donated suite with Micah, certain that his personal security would suffice for protection. She, Griffin, and Tex had returned to ATLAS headquarters. “I’m still trying to figure out that interview.”
“What do you mean something is off?” Griffin asked.
“With Eve. What? I’m not sure. We were in that room a half hour interviewing her. Did she really tell us anything? Don’t you think she should have been more upset? Her friend committed suicide or was murdered, and someone pulls a weapon and tries to kidnap the both of you . . .”
“Seemed appropriate to me,” Tex said.
Griffin raised a brow.
Sydney continued with, “And what about the fact Griffin saw her seconds after Dorian shot himself?”
“True,” Griffin said. “We only have her word that Dorian didn’t answer the door.”
Tex looked aghast. “Are you saying she pulled the trigger and set up the suicide?”
“I’m just laying out the facts,” Griffin said.
Tex shoved his chair back, obviously miffed at the direction the conversation was moving. “It’s late and I want to go home. What’s your point, Sydney?”
“There’s more to her than meets the eye.”
“Damned straight there is.”
“All I am suggesting is look past her cleavage.”
“I like her cleavage,” he shot back, then left the room.
Sydney turned to Griffin, who shrugged, saying, “What do you want from a guy who thinks she looks like Jessica Rabbit?”
“Jessica Rabbit? A frigging cartoon character?”
“A hot cartoon character. Never mind the movie she’s in is his favorite.”
Sydney stood, glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. “I’m going home.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
The parking lot was deserted, theirs being the only two cars present. A light dusting of snow covered the ground, having fallen while they were inside, marred by a set of footprints, Tex’s undoubtedly, since his car was pulling out of the lot at that moment. A few snowflakes drifted down, and everything seemed quiet and peaceful.
Sydney waited while Griffin double-checked the door, making sure it was locked. When he turned toward her, he stopped, listened to the rat-a-tat-tat of fireworks popping in the distance. “I think someone jumped the gun by a couple minutes.”
They walked side by side, their footprints joining Tex’s, the snow quickly melting beneath their feet. When they reached the cars, Griffin said, “Thanks for helping out tonight.”
“I’d say any time, but I’m not sure if that’s true.”
He laughed, and they stopped, stood there for an awkward moment, and then he leaned forward, saying, “Happy New Year.” He gave her a quick kiss.
It took her by surprise, and before she could say anything, he kissed her again, this time wrapping his arms around her. It took her a moment to right herself, to realize that this kiss was the real deal, and when he stopped to look at her, it was because he was waiting, wanting to know if she was okay with this. She reached up, pulled him closer, and lost herself. Before she knew it, they were leaning against her car, the icy metal against her back, bits of snow melting against her jeans and Griffin’s warm, lean body pressing into hers.
He kissed her ear, and she heard him taking a deep breath, letting it out, and then another. “Stay with me,” he said.
She hesitated, and she could feel his heart beating, or maybe it was hers, she didn’t know, but it seemed like everything hinged on her answer. If they were going to be together, this was the time. She tried to say yes, and found her throat suddenly dry. Instead, she nodded, and when the tension suddenly left his shoulders, she realized he’d been waiting in anticipation for her answer, not sure of the outcome at all.
“At your place?” she finally said, when she found her voice.
“Yours might be a little crowded for what I had in mind.”
She smiled. “Let me pick up a couple things from my apartment and warn Carillo he’ll be babysitting by himself?”
“How about I follow you?”
“You afraid I might skip out?”
He laughed, then looked at her with a dead serious expression. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
“Not a chance. But I’d rather not parade you in front of my houseguests, should they not be asleep.”
He pulled a pen from his pocket and took her hand, writing his address on it. “This way you won’t lose it. Don’t take too long.”
“I won’t,” she said, and he kissed her once more, then opened her car door for her. It was everything she could do not to break every speed law getting home. The drive was fairly smooth. Not a lot of revelers on the road at this hour. Several minutes into the drive, she noticed a set of headlights in her rearview mirror, the vehicle hanging back just far enough to make her wonder if it was on purpose. After a minute she signaled and made a right. The car followed, and just when she figured she was being tailed, it sped past. Cop, sh
e realized, probably trying to decide if she was some drunk driver before moving on to the next vehicle. And sure enough, she saw it up ahead, lights flashing as it followed a weaving Ford Focus down the street.
The rest of her drive was uneventful, and before she knew it she was pulling into the parking lot of her apartment complex, as a limo taxi pulled out. Smart person, since this was not the night to be out driving after drinking. She parked in the underground garage and walked to the elevator, her footsteps echoing across the pavement, hoping that Carillo and company would all be asleep, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to explain to him what she was doing heading out. She’d leave Carillo a note saying where she was. Easy enough.
A quick ride up to her floor, she walked down the carpeted hallway, hearing laughter and music behind several doors as she passed. Hers, thankfully, was quiet, and she carefully inserted her key, not wanting to wake anyone.
She pulled the door open, saw the kitchen light on, heard the TV. Stepping inside, she turned the dead bolt, then walked into the living room, glad to see no one was awake. Carillo was passed out on the chair in front of the TV, his head dropped back, mouth open. Sheila was splayed across the couch, one hand hanging over the edge, a bowl of popcorn spilled across the carpet as though it slipped from her grasp as she passed out. A medicine bottle was knocked beneath the couch, and she picked it up, glanced at it. Sheila’s sleeping pills. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about Sheila waking up as she slipped out. Sydney walked over, scooped the contents back into the bowl, and set it on the table, then eyed the rest of the room.
Apparently Trip was the only one who had the sense to go to bed.
She gave one last look at Carillo, surprised, if truth be told, that he’d drink that much, and she picked up the half-full champagne bottle from the coffee table, worried that Sheila might knock it over when she stirred. She set it on the counter, then headed for the bathroom, trying to decide what she needed to take, passing the darkened spare room on her way.
She flicked on the light, took a deep breath, eyed herself in the mirror, then froze. Sleeping pills. Only half the champagne was missing. Not near enough for anyone to pass out, least of all Carillo, who had said he was going to drink apple cider. “Shit.”
The Black List Page 7
