Dead By Morning

by Beverly Barton

  Cursing under his breath, calling himself every kind of fool, he stomped across the carpeted floor and went outside on the patio. After taking several deep gulps of fresh nighttime sea air, he sat down in one of the lounge chairs and looked out over the ocean.

  Time for some hard truths, buddy boy.

  He was attracted to Maleah. Not just her pretty blond looks or her hourglass-shaped body. He liked that she was smart and independent and aggressive. Hell, he even liked the way she stood up to him, challenged him, and wouldn’t let him get away with anything.

  Maleah was her own woman. She wasn’t waiting for some man to come along and make all her dreams come true. She didn’t expect a future husband to provide her with everything his money could buy. Not like Happy, who had married his father for his family’s vast wealth and proceeded to make the man’s life a living hell. At least that’s the way he remembered his parents’ marriage. And not like his sister Diana, who had jilted the guy she had really loved in order to marry the man Happy had chosen for her. A man with the right pedigree, social standing, and bank account.

  Maleah was nothing like his mother or his sister. And maybe that was the reason he liked her so much. Too damn much.

  You’ve got to let this thing go. You may want her . . . hell, she may even want you . . . but it just won’t work. Not for either of you.

  Okay, so things would be a bit awkward in the morning, but if they both just pretended it had never happened . . . But could they? Could he forget what it felt like to have her in his arms, how much he wanted far more than just a heated kiss? Even now, his body still wanted her.

  How would Maleah feel about having sex? No strings attached. No deep, long-lasting emotions involved. Just screwing until they worked “it” out of their systems.

  It? Primitive desire. Animal hunger. Lust. Call “it” whatever you want.

  Maleah sure as hell wasn’t the first woman he’d ever wanted that way and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. But . . .

  But Maleah wasn’t just any woman and that was the problem.

  Derek mumbled a few self-loathing obscenities as he got up, went inside and undressed for bed.

  The Inn Steinhof, located in downtown St. Jakob, possessed the old world charm one associated with rural Austria. The three-story white building provided spacious, comfortable en suite rooms. Breakfast was provided and dinner was available for an additional charge. There were tables outside for shaded summer seating and a small bar and grill was located on the main floor, just off the lobby area. Upon arrival, Luke had done as Henri Fortier had instructed and left a message for Aldo Finster, whom Luke had been told was away hiking and would return the following day.

  Long ago, Luke had learned the value of patience.

  And so he had waited for Finster to return to the hotel. Half an hour ago, one of the maids had delivered a note from Finster, inviting Luke to meet him in the lobby in an hour.

  When Luke arrived in the lobby, he casually scanned the area, and in less than a minute, spotted the person he assumed was Finster. He was a small, plump, balding gentleman in his late forties, his blue eyes appearing quite large behind a pair of thick bifocals.

  Luke approached the man. “Herr Finster?”

  “Yes, I am Aldo Finster.” He smiled. “And you are Mr. Sentell.” He held out his hand.

  Luke shook hands with Finster.

  “You are enjoying your stay in St. Jakob?” Finster asked.

  Luke nodded.

  “Will you be here long?” he asked.

  Finster’s command of the English language was excellent, although his accent was quite pronounced.

  “Long enough,” Luke replied.

  Finster nodded. “I know an excellent restaurant just down the street. A short walk. Shall we go now?”

  Luke nodded again.

  Once they exited the hotel, Finster said, “You know Henri Fortier, I believe.”

  “Yes, I know Henri.”

  “He suggested you ask me to put you in contact with a tour guide, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know someone who would be perfect for you, Mr. Sentell. He has an excellent reputation for providing tourists with whatever they want.”

  “Then you can arrange for me to meet this tour guide.”

  “Most certainly. There will be a small fee, of course.”

  “Name your price.”

  “Sixty-two thousand euro.” Finster continued walking, his smile widening as he glanced at Luke.

  “This guide must be exceptional.” Luke paused.

  Finster stopped and looked squarely at Luke. “I can assure you that his knowledge of Austria is priceless.”

  “Then by all means, make the arrangements as soon as possible.”

  “You understand that this will be a cash transaction,” Finster said.

  “I’ll have your money for you in a couple of hours.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” Finster began walking again. “Perhaps we should forgo lunch today while we each attend to business.”

  Maleah had ordered coffee, cold cereal, and fresh fruit for breakfast and her meal was served promptly at eight. She was already dressed and ready when the waiter delivered her food. So far that morning, Derek hadn’t gotten in touch with her. She suspected he was putting off the inevitable, just as she was.

  Grow up, will you. It was just a kiss.

  Yeah, but what a kiss.

  As she sipped on her second cup of coffee—she had practically inhaled the first cup—she eyed her phone lying on top of her packed suitcase alongside her shoulder holster.

  Go ahead and call him.

  And say what?

  Say good morning. Ask what time he wants to leave the hotel. Suggest that we should drive straight back to Vidalia, Georgia, to prepare for my next interview with Jerome Browning.

  There was no reason to mention the kiss. Derek probably wouldn’t say anything about it. No doubt he wanted to forget that it had happened just as much as she did. But the problem was could either of them ever forget?

  You overreacted. That kiss wasn’t as incredible as you thought it was.

  She marched over to the bed where she had placed her suitcase.

  Just pick up the phone and call him.

  She reached down, grasped the phone and held it in her hand.

  Aggravated with herself for hesitating, she said aloud, “Put on your big girl panties and do it.”

  She hit the preprogrammed number and held her breath as she waited for him to answer.

  “Good morning, Blondie,” Derek said.

  “Good morning. I . . . uh . . . was wondering—”

  “I’m ready to hit the road whenever you are,” he told her. “I had my breakfast delivered half an hour ago. Have you eaten?”

  She glanced at the untouched cereal and fruit on her breakfast tray. “I just now finished. I can be ready to leave in about ten minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll knock on your door when I’m ready to go.”

  “Sounds fine. That will give me time to check in with headquarters.”

  Everything was going to be all right. Derek sounded like his usual self. Apparently, she was the only one with a problem, the one who had stammered and acted all morning-after stupid.

  “Derek?”

  “Huh?”

  “I think we should head straight back to Vidalia. I really want some prep time before I go back to the penitentiary for another interview with Browning. I’m going to need your help.”

  “We’re thinking alike,” he said. “I’ve already called the Hampton Inn where we stayed and reserved rooms for the next three nights. And while you’re driving today, I’ll start putting my thoughts down on paper and we can discuss strategy.”

  “Thanks, Derek.”

  “You’re welcome, Blondie.”

  Poppy didn’t go to church except when she stayed with Grandmother in Savannah. Her mother wasn’t a religious person. Actually Vickie didn’t believe in
God. She said religion was for idiots and senile old fools like her grandmother. But Grandmother wasn’t an idiot nor was she senile. And Poppy actually enjoyed Sunday morning services at the First Presbyterian Church. Aunt Mary Lee was Episcopal now, having converted when she married Uncle Lowell. The Dandridges had been Episcopalian for generations, just as the Chappelles had been Presbyterian.

  “I thought we’d have lunch out here,” Grandmother called to Poppy from the sunroom. “It’s just the three of us today. I told Heloise not to worry with anything much. No sense heating up the house on such a warm day when we aren’t expecting company.”

  “I made chicken salad before we left for services this morning.” Heloise came out of the kitchen carrying a tray that held a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses. “And there are teacakes left over from yesterday. I thought they’d be good with ice cream and some fresh sliced peaches.”

  “What can I do to help?” Poppy asked.

  “Why don’t you set the table,” Heloise said. “The everyday dinnerware will be fine, won’t it, Miss Carolyn?”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Grandmother waved her hand in dismissal as she sat down in one of the big wicker chairs.

  Although the Chappelles were no longer wealthy, Grandmother continued to live a comfortable lifestyle. She still played bridge with her snooty friends, still maintained a membership at the country club, still resided in the home where she had raised her family, and still kept a housekeeper, although after all these years, Heloise was as much friend as servant.

  “The old bat has no idea that if it wasn’t for Saxon putting money in her bank account on a regular basis, she’d be living from hand to mouth,” Poppy’s mother had told her. “The crazy fool thinks she’s still rich.”

  Sometimes her mom wasn’t a nice person.

  Poppy often wished she could live with Grandmother all the time, not just during the summer. But when she had mentioned the idea to her mother, she’d gone ape-shit and threatened all sorts of things, including telling Grandmother the truth about her finances—that she was actually flat broke and living off her son’s charity. When she turned twenty-five and had full access to her trust fund, she would help Uncle Saxon take care of Grandmother.

  Sometimes Poppy hated her mother.

  Luke paid Aldo Finster in cash. In exchange for the sixty-two thousand euros, Luke was escorted to a parked car outside his hotel that evening around eight o’clock. The driver got out, opened the door for Luke and waited while Luke slid into the backseat.

  “Good evening, Mr. Sentell,” the car’s backseat occupant said.

  “Jurgen Hirsch, I presume?”

  “As good a name as any other and one I use on occasion.”

  “I understand from Herr Finster that you’re the ideal tour guide for me.”

  In the shadowy darkness of the car’s interior, Luke’s eyesight adjusted, enabling him to see more clearly. Jurgen Hirsch, blond, muscular and probably no older than he, studied Luke, his gaze focused on Luke’s face.

  “There is someplace in particular you wish to go, someone you wish to see?”

  “I’m looking for a man who calls himself Malcolm York.”

  Dead silence.

  Luke waited, his gaze riveted to his companion’s.

  And then Jurgen Hirsch’s lips tilted upward in a cold, calculating, unemotional smile. “I, too, have heard the rumors about a man by that name. But it is my understanding that Malcolm York is dead and has been for sixteen years.”

  “Then there is nothing you can tell me about him that I don’t already know, but perhaps you can tell me more about these rumors.”

  “You are very persistent, Mr. Sentell.”

  “I’m fifty thousand dollars persistent, Herr Hirsch.”

  Hirsch laughed. A look of amused curiosity glimmered in his icy blue eyes. “Have you ever heard of Anthony Linden?”

  “Who hasn’t heard of Linden, the infamous former MI6 operative who went rogue. What does Linden have to do with Malcolm York, other than both men are dead?”

  “Ah, but that is what makes their association so interesting,” Hirsch said in his lightly accented English. “Rumors are that Anthony Linden is alive and well and has been working as a professional assassin for the past ten years.”

  “And?” Luke knew where this was going, a gut feeling he didn’t like.

  “Rumors abound, of course, but the most recent rumor circulating among my associates is that Linden is working for York.”

  “An interesting rumor, especially since both men are presumed dead.”

  “Sometimes rumors have a basis in facts. I have no proof that the billionaire Malcolm York who lived on the Pacific Island of Amara is alive, but I know for a fact that Anthony Linden is very much alive because I had drinks with him six months ago, the night before he left for America.”

  Griff took Luke’s call at 2:30 Eastern Time that afternoon. When their brief, private conversation ended, Griff called Sanders into his study and then closed and locked the door.

  “Do you remember a man named Anthony Linden?” Griff asked.

  “A former SIS agent, I believe. He was permanently terminated ten years ago.”

  “It seems that Linden may be alive and well and is reported to have been in the U.S. for the past six months.”

  Sanders didn’t react, didn’t even blink. “And did Luke ascertain what the presumed dead Mr. Linden is doing in the U.S.?”

  “It seems Linden is now a professional assassin.”

  Sanders’s eyes widened. He clenched his jaw.

  “Luke was told that Linden is working for Malcolm York,” Griff said.

  Sanders’s nostrils flared as he released a deeply inhaled breath. “How reliable is Luke’s source?”

  “As reliable as fifty thousand dollars can buy. It seems that the source claims to have had drinks with Linden the night before he left for America. Luke assumes that his source and Linden are in the same business.”

  “If Anthony Linden is alive and if he is in the U.S., sent here in his profession as an assassin, you and I know that the man who hired him is not Malcolm York. York is dead.”

  “Is he?” Griff asked.

  “You know he is.”

  “Yes, of course I know he is. He was dead when we left him on Amara. No one could have survived what we did to him, not even an inhuman demon like York.” Griff looked at Sanders for affirmation, needing to hear him say the words, to vanquish the ghost that haunted him. Malcolm York was dead and yet . . .

  “What York did to us, and to many others, lives on in each of us, like an incurable disease,” Sanders said. “But York is dead. He was dead long before we chopped off his head.”

  Chapter 21

  The trip from St. Simons Island to Vidalia took close to two and a half hours. Maleah drove straight through without making any stops. When they arrived at the Hampton Inn that Sunday afternoon, they went to their separate rooms. Although they had both acted as if last night’s kiss had never happened, that singular event stood between them, an invisible wall of uncertainty. After making a concentrated effort for months to persuade Maleah to like and trust him, why had he done something so monumentally stupid? Any fool would have known that by kissing her, he would alter their fragile friendship.

  If he could take back the kiss, would he?

  Maybe.

  But when he had kissed her, she had kissed him. Crazy thing was that he suspected she had enjoyed the kiss as much as he had, that it had affected her as strongly as it had him.

  As he settled into his room, he tried to stop thinking about Maleah as anything other than his partner on a Powell Agency case. He unpacked his suitcase, hung up his clothes, and placed his shaving kit on the bathroom sink counter. He picked up the ice bucket and took it with him when he left the room in search of the refreshment center. He returned to his room with a full ice bucket and four canned colas, two in his jacket pockets and two balanced atop the bucket.

  After placing three colas in
the mini-fridge and the ice bucket on the desk, he upended a glass from the paper coaster, filled the glass with ice and popped the tab on his Coke. Then he removed his jacket and shirt, as well as his shoes and socks, stripping down to his T-shirt and bare feet. After setting up his laptop, he grabbed the glass of cola, along with a pad and pen, and relaxed on the sofa. Kicked back, sipping on the cold drink, he propped his feet up on the coffee table.

  On the drive from St. Simons Island, he and Maleah had avoided any mention of last night. She had focused on driving; he had checked e-mails and text messages and given his full attention to the copycat killer case. They hadn’t talked much and when they had, their conversation had been limited to strategic planning for tomorrow.

  Maleah had a ten o’clock interview with Browning in the morning. She understood that the first goal was to find out if Browning knew that his visitor Albert Durham was not the real Durham, the real biographer. If the fake Durham had fooled Browning, then it might be possible to coax him into betraying any confidences the two men had shared. But he wouldn’t give the info to Maleah without equal payment in return. He would want his pound of flesh. And he would want to strip it off Maleah himself, inch by inch.

  If Browning knew that his visitor had been a fraud, his knowing that would change everything. That could mean the two men were co-conspirators, working together, each getting something they wanted from their alliance. If that were the case, then Browning wouldn’t be inclined to offer any info to Maleah. Not unless she could up the ante and offer him something that the fake Durham couldn’t.

  Derek could only imagine what price Browning would demand.

  Would Maleah be willing to pay the price?

  Would he let her?

  Listen to yourself, Lawrence! Would you let her? How the hell do you think you could stop her, short of knocking her out and tying her up?

  While he jotted down first one thought and then another, anything and everything that came to mind, he finished off the first Coke. Just as he got up, refilled his glass with ice and reached into the fridge for a second can, someone knocked on his door.