by Rachel Grant
Before talking to Lee, she’d gone through the Thermo-Con file and read every article she could find about the missing boy and his mother. She’d come to one inescapable conclusion: Joseph Talon was Ricky Guerrero. He and his mother disappeared from Fort Belmont in November 1952 and were reported missing one day before the Thermo-Con house was poured. She knew from the senator’s biography that was around the time the orphaned Joseph Talon arrived at the Indian boarding school. No one knew the exact date because when the school burned, all the records were lost.
But more important than his false background was the fact that Joseph Talon was behind the smuggling. There could be no other explanation. At first she’d worried Lee was involved, but logic ruled him out. Without Lee, they wouldn’t have raided Novak’s boat and found the money. And JT would never have set Lee to find the smugglers if he were involved. He’d have sent in someone incompetent, someone to perform a token effort to allay suspicion. JT was also clear.
She’d wanted to tell Lee everything, but his reaction to her question was sharp, vehement. He wouldn’t believe Joe was guilty without concrete evidence.
The envelope wouldn’t convince him any more than it would convince the FBI or a jury. Only she had seen the envelope in Jake’s cabin; only she knew the photos of artifacts from the Iraq museum had been inside. If she told Lee what she knew without solid proof, he’d be angry. Her accusations could be a fatal blow to their nascent relationship. And Lee was the only person in the world she had.
She could see the satellite trucks parked in front of her building from the 395 exit ramp. The press had arrived. She passed her building as she tried to decide what to do, and ended up pulling up to the curb three blocks away.
She could probably get into her building through the parking garage without being seen. Or she could go straight to the front door and stop and make a statement. Maybe then they’d go away. But what would she say? What sort of horrid questions would the reporters ask? How does it feel to fight two armed men and then watch sniper bullets blow out their brains?
She stared at the tall antennas on the vans parked in front of her building and wondered why anyone would crave media attention. She didn’t want her fifteen minutes. She didn’t want fifteen seconds.
But the YouTube clip of her fight with Jake and Marco had convinced the world she wasn’t the drug smugglers’ accomplice, and she was grateful for that, because while the FBI might have eventually been convinced of her innocence, the rest of the world, not having access to the evidence, would not have been so forgiving.
People could review the same evidence and form conflicting opinions, but they trusted what they saw with their own eyes. Just as she trusted what she knew, because she’d found the envelope.
An idea struck her with the force of a blow. She might not want her new fame—notoriety, really—but she could use the media attention to trap the senator.
THE REPORTER TOOK ERICA’S call immediately and accepted her offer of a private interview with gushing excitement. Erica met the woman in front of the fish market a few blocks from her apartment. The ambitious newswoman was even more eager than she’d been last Wednesday morning, when she stood in front of the casino and spoke of the Aztec Room and Joseph Talon.
Erica outlined what she wanted. The reporter called her producers, and within minutes, they acquiesced fully to every condition, causing Erica to marvel at her change in circumstances.
Erica Kesling wanted a camera hidden in her apartment with a live broadcast feed?
No problem.
She promised a scoop the networks would kill for?
Excellent.
How about three hidden cameras?
In the end, they agreed on two.
Thirty minutes later, Erica, the reporter, and a cameraman drove into the underground garage and parked in her usual space. She led them up to her eighth-floor apartment. The cameraman hid one camera inside a throw pillow on the sofa and the other in the living room curtains.
Everything was perfect. The reporter and cameraman left for the remote-operations van already parked in front of the building. They’d begin broadcasting when Erica gave a prearranged hand signal.
She stood in her living room for several minutes, trying to find the courage for the next part of her plan. Finally, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed the senator’s office. “This is Erica Kesling. I need to speak with Senator Talon.”
“Prove you’re Ms. Kesling,” the aide said.
“Last week the senator gave me a DNA sample. No one else knows about the sample.”
“I’ll confirm this with the senator.” She was put on hold.
A minute later, the phone was picked up. “Erica, dear, I’m glad you called.”
“Senator,” she said, “we need to talk.”
“Is Lee okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
“He’s fine. Listen, I’ve learned something you need to know about. About you and your parents. It’s vital.”
“Come to my office, and we’ll talk.”
“Reporters are lined up in front of my building. Come here and you’ll get good press for visiting me personally after what happened. Then we can talk. Alone.” She held her breath.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he finally said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Would Lee hate her for what she was about to do? If what she suspected was true, then the senator was guilty as sin. No matter what had happened to him as a child, he’d made his own choices.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
RICKY HUNG UP THE PHONE and stared at Ed with hard, angry eyes. Strange, after all these years, I still think of him as Ricky. “She knows, doesn’t she?” Ed asked.
He’d just finished telling Ricky the sordid truth when Erica called. The senator sat behind his impressive desk, looking much like the lost four-year-old Ed had left on the steps of the school all those years ago.
Slowly, as if in a daze, Ricky nodded.
“Did she mention the name Ricky Guerrero?” Ed asked.
“No. She hinted.” His voice strengthened, then solidified as Ricky sat straighter in his chair. “She wants to speak with me. Alone. I’ll explain to her that Ricky can’t be president. She’ll agree to keep my identity secret, if not for me, then for Lee.” He again pierced Ed with a glare. “After all, it’s not my fault. I didn’t even know.”
If the truth could come out without ruining his shot at the presidency, Ed knew Ricky would have called the police already. He smiled. He’d killed Ricky’s mother, but now Ricky would help cover up the crime. “She could change her mind. She could destroy everything.”
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Ricky said.
“No. I’ve been preparing for this ever since she found the bones and started researching Thermo-Con.” He pulled out a keychain. “Using a false name, I rented a parking space from a resident of her building. This electronic tag will get you into the garage and inside the building.”
He enjoyed the look of surprise on Ricky’s face. The man had no idea how thoroughly he’d been running things for the last dozen years, because, like any good puppet master, Ed had been invisible.
No more. Senator Joseph Talon had just found out who the real boss was.
“The key is for a Zipcar parked two blocks away. You’re going to drive to Erica’s building and enter the south garage and park in space 231. Using the stairs, you can get to her floor without being seen.” He pulled on a pair of gloves, then lifted a gun and silencer from the satchel at his feet. “Use this, then drop it down the garbage chute, across the hall from her apartment, and get the hell out of the building.”
LEE COULDN’T SIT IN the office for another minute. The FBI might be gutting the network, but Erica had been through hell and needed him. He was demonstrating the same screwed-up priorities Joe had exhibited twenty years ago, which had precipitated yet another divorce. He wouldn’t mess up his relationship with Erica in the same way.
He left t
he office without a word to JT or the FBI agents he’d been working with all day. Traffic was heavy, and with each minute, he felt apprehension build. He never should have let Erica leave the office alone, especially when she seemed so upset.
He saw the reporters lined up outside her building and made a choice. He found a parking spot on the street, tucked a newspaper under his arm, and boldly approached the door.
The reporters surged forward. “Mr. Scott, what can you tell us about the investigation?”
“Mr. Scott, where is Ms. Kesling?”
“Mr. Scott, does the senator approve of your relationship with Erica Kesling?”
The questions all came on top of each other, but he had to smile when he heard the last one. He turned to face the crowd and several microphones were thrust in his face. “I am not at liberty to discuss the investigation. If Erica wanted you to know where she is, she would have told you herself. And I haven’t asked Joe if he approves, because his opinion is irrelevant.”
“But what is your relationship with Ms. Kesling?”
He smiled. “Don’t you people read the papers?” He held up yesterday’s Post with its full-color picture of him ogling his own date. “I’m crazy about her.” He entered the building as more questions were called out, making him wonder how long the press would camp on her doorstep. He made a beeline for the elevator, his heart picking up speed. He felt like he’d been waiting for this homecoming forever. At last he reached the apartment door and knocked.
She opened the door immediately, then looked stunned—no, crestfallen—to see him. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Her words cut unfathomably deep. “Why not, Shortcake?” He heard the edge in his voice and cursed. He was always showing her anger instead of the hurt that churned inside him.
She grabbed his arm and yanked him inside, slamming the door behind him. “I can’t explain. He’s going to be here any second.”
Her words rocked him on his heels. “Who is he? What the hell is going on?”
“You shouldn’t be here.” She ran into the living room, her face pale, stricken. “This won’t work.” She paced the room in circles, then stopped and tilted her head toward the curtains in an odd way. “Lee’s not supposed to be here. This isn’t what I planned. It’s not what I want.”
He felt the blood rush from his body and wanted to punch something. He spun her around. “What the hell do you mean this isn’t what you want?”
There was a knock at the front door.
If possible, she turned even paler. “You’ve got to hide. Now,” she whispered urgently. “Go. Out on the balcony. With the curtains closed and the door ajar, you can listen.”
He stayed rooted to the spot.
“Please, Lee. You’ve got to hide. I don’t want you hurt.”
Too late, but he did as she bade.
The curtains were still swaying when she opened the front door. “Thank you for coming,” he heard her say.
“What’s going on, Erica?”
Lee recognized Joe’s voice, and his world tilted. What the hell was he doing here?
He heard footsteps, which he thought were Erica’s. She stopped just on the other side of the curtain. Her voice was crisp and clear. “I got the results today from the DNA tests I sent off last week. For starters, I learned you aren’t Joseph Talon or a Menanichoch Indian. You’re Ricky Guerrero, the son of a Cuban man who was trying to earn citizenship by serving in the army.” She paused for breath. “But more important, I learned you were the person who traded Iraqi artifacts with Jake Novak for Aztec ones.” Her voice hardened. “You’ve been in on the smuggling from the start.”
In an instant, Lee split the curtain and surged into the room.
Joe looked stunned to see him, but no more stunned than Lee was to see Joe reach into his satchel, pull out a pistol with a silencer, and point it at Erica.
Lee dove for her and shoved her behind him. “Put the gun down, Joe.”
Joe stared at him, pain in his eyes. The muzzle lowered, then wavered, not quite down.
“Why the fuck are you holding a gun?” If Joe flinched, Lee would lose a kneecap.
“I came here to convince her to be silent about Ricky—me.”
“You knew?” he asked, still trying to put the pieces together. He remembered the name from the old newspaper article. How the hell had Erica connected Joe to that story?
“No. I didn’t know. I learned the truth an hour ago.”
“Drake must have told him,” Erica said from behind him. “I think Edward Drake killed Regina Guerrero, then dumped Ricky at the Indian boarding school.”
“Actually, he said he dumped me first, then killed my mother.” Joe sighed but still didn’t quite drop the gun. “Erica, Lee, you can’t tell anyone. Ricky Guerrero was born in Canada. His parents weren’t Americans. He can’t be president, but Joseph Talon can.”
“Joseph Talon doesn’t deserve to be president,” Erica said. “Joseph Talon is a thief who worked with drug smugglers to launder billions of dollars from Iraq through his tribal casino. Riversong wasn’t involved at all, was he? It was all you.”
The gun rose again. Joe angled to the side, trying to get a fix on her. Lee locked his hands on her hips and pivoted, keeping himself between Erica and the gun.
“You can’t prove anything,” Joe said.
Erica tried to move out from behind Lee. “You mailed photographs of Iraqi artifacts to Jake. You licked the envelope.”
“An envelope proves nothing.”
“Erica, stay behind me! Joe won’t shoot me.”
“The envelope was addressed to Marco. Tell me, Senator, why were you sending mail to a member of a Mexican drug cartel?”
“The envelope was addressed to Marco Garcia. I didn’t know he was Marco Delgado.”
The man had just admitted he’d mailed the envelope. Christ, Erica was telling the truth.
He’d wanted to believe the gun was the result of Joe suffering some sort of temporary madness upon learning his whole life was a lie, but the man he’d worshipped for most of his life was a fraud. Anger and horror flooded him. “You intended for Erica to take the fall with Novak, didn’t you?”
Joe studied him, and Lee looked into the same sharp, clear brown eyes he’d known since he was six years old. The man wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t stupid. “I didn’t know she’d worked for Novak. Novak kept us all in the dark.”
Everything he’d achieved had been driven by the desire to earn Joe’s respect. “Why?” He nearly choked on the word.
“The money was wasted in Iraq. It was stupid to give them so much cash. I found a way to put it to use that would be good for everyone.”
“To buy the presidency.”
“We need a good president. I’m doing the world a favor.”
“You’ve always been good at justifying your actions.” Lee heard the bitterness in his voice and realized some resentments never faded.
“I believe in what I’m doing,” Joe said. “It’s necessary. And no matter how much Erica believes her pitiful envelope is proof, there’s no evidence I was part of the smuggling, and there never will be. You and JT have done an excellent job insulating me. No one will ever find a dime of the money in my campaign funds. But I can’t let anyone find out about Ricky Guerrero.” He pointed the gun at Lee’s heart. “I’m sorry, son.”
Adrenaline and fear shot through him. He tightened his grip on Erica.
She spoke in a rush. “There are TV cameras hidden in the room. You’re being broadcast right now on the national feed.”
Joe paused. “Nice try.”
“I mean it! Check the couch and the curtains. I set this up so that no matter how many millions you funnel into your campaign, no one will vote for you.”
Lee heard sirens in the distance, getting louder. The gun wavered in Joe’s hand.
“The reporter probably called the police as soon as you pulled the gun,” she said.
She was brilliant. Magnificent. If Joe didn’
t have a gun pointing straight at them, Lee would kiss the hell out of her. “Drop the gun, Joe.”
Joe moved, trying to get a clear shot at Erica. Lee shifted, preventing him.
The sirens came to a halt right outside the building. Erica threaded her fingers through his and squeezed. “Pull that trigger and you’re going down for murder, you lying, cheating, thieving, sonofabitch,” she said.
Joe looked stunned. “Christ! This is all Drake’s fault. He set me up.”
The whirr of a helicopter grew louder and louder, until it sounded as if it hovered above the building. An amplified voice said, “Senator Talon, drop the gun. The building is surrounded.”
Lee knew the exact moment when Joe’s grip on the gun tightened. The man had nothing left to lose and was going to shoot. Lee lashed out with a solid kick at the gun.
A loud thump came from the balcony.
The weapon went flying at the same moment the windows behind them exploded inward. He used his grip on Erica’s fingers to yank her to the couch, where he fell on top of her, shielding her as glass rained down.
He felt a stabbing pain in his arm, while sharp, needle-like jabs pricked his back and legs. He held her close, taking comfort from the feel of her warm body beneath his. Behind him, he heard men shouting orders to Joe.
“Mr. Scott, are you okay?” a man asked.
He lifted his head and took in the scene. A half-dozen SWAT officers had entered from the balcony. Joe was on his knees on the floor, holding his wrist, which was bent at an odd angle. Three officers had guns trained on him. He howled in pain as a fourth cuffed his broken and bleeding wrist.
Lee gingerly moved his arms and legs. He stood up. He’d been cut by several shards of glass, but that was all. He took Erica’s hand and pulled her to her feet. She was okay.
He held her and whispered in her ear, “It’s over, honey. It’s over.”
She met his gaze with a weak smile; then her eyes widened, and she gasped.
