“She could be prosecuted for aiding and abetting a fugitive, and possibly theft if the D.A. could prove she knew your father had embezzled money and she profited from it. But the real value would be to leverage her in the prosecution of your father.”
“You mean threaten to prosecute her if Randolph didn’t cooperate?”
“Yes, or threaten to prosecute her to persuade her to turn state’s evidence.”
“You mean, turn on Randolph?”
“Right.”
“What if she…wasn’t fit to prosecute?”
Jack stopped by his rental SUV and unlocked the doors. “What do you mean?”
She opened the passenger side door and climbed in. “My mother had a problem with alcohol—she could’ve gotten worse.”
Jack thought it over while he started the engine. “She’d have to be declared incompetent to be excluded. The bar is pretty high for that, though, else every criminal would be claiming they’re incompetent to be prosecuted or to testify.”
“What happens if my father…doesn’t make it?”
Jack’s mouth twitched downward. “Chances are, the D.A. will drop the charges.”
“Ah—so that’s why the feds are standing down? They think Randolph is a dead man.”
“I don’t know for sure, but I suspect you’re right.”
“So the only sure way my mother would be safe from prosecution is if my father dies?”
His non-response spoke volumes. “I’m not the person you should be talking to about it. I’m not on the case, remember?”
“Right—sorry. Since the body has been identified and the case closed, I suppose you and Coop are going back to Atlanta.”
“Coop is staying to do some hiking.” He shifted in his seat. “And since Liz is coming out, I thought I’d stay a few more days.”
“Oh,” she said to fill in the silence. “That’s nice.”
“I figure I have a few months to get used to the idea of being a father, and—” He stopped. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”
“It’s okay, Jack. For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a great father.”
“That’s worth a lot, actually. Thank you.”
They were silent during the rest of the ride back to the hotel. Carlotta was churning her thoughts, and it sounded as if Jack has plenty of butter to make, too. The glaring, pulsating lights of Vegas seemed incongruous next to their apprehensions about where life would take them next. The only certainty was it would take them in different directions.
When they got to the hotel and parked, Jack rode up the elevator with her and walked her to her room.
“Thanks again for meeting me at the station,” she said.
“You’re welcome. Don’t worry too much about Wes. He’s a big boy.”
“I know. And I’m sorry about falling apart back there. I think it’s everything piling on.”
“No apology necessary. I don’t know how you’ve held up under the pressure as well as you have. And if I’ve added to that stress load lately, I apologize.”
She inclined her head in acceptance.
“So…are we good?” he asked, gesturing between them.
She nodded. “We’re good.”
The door to the suite opened and Peter stood in the doorway, looking handsome and regal in navy silk pajama pants and a matching robe tied around his waist. “I thought I heard voices.”
“Jack and I were just saying good night,” Carlotta offered.
Peter curled an arm around her waist protectively. “Thanks, Jack, for seeing Carly back safely.”
“No problem,” Jack said with a curt nod. “Take care of her, Peter.”
“I intend to.”
Carlotta watched Jack’s receding back for a few seconds, then turned to walk inside with Peter.
Chapter 15
“YOU LOOK TERRIBLE, and you smell worse.” Liz took out a handkerchief and held it up to her nose and mouth.
Liz Fischer was tall and blond and easy on the eyes, even when her face was tinged with green. “How’s the morning sickness?” Wes asked.
“Ongoing,” she murmured, sounding stressed. “Look, we don’t have much time—your arraignment is in twenty minutes. So let’s get to it.” She opened a file. “You’re being charged with possession of a fake driver’s license, underage drinking, possession of counterfeit currency—says here that thirty-two one-hundred-dollar bills were recovered from the lining of your jacket. And last, theft by spending counterfeit currency in and around the hotel casino in the amount of twenty-one thousand dollars.” She leveled her gaze on him. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“That underage drinking charge is totally bogus.”
She sighed. “Wes, these are serious federal charges. The good thing is they’re non-violent, so if we offer the judge a decent defense, I might get you out on bail, although it could be a substantial amount.”
“Don’t worry, I have plenty of cash,” he joked.
She frowned. “This isn’t funny. Where did you get the counterfeit money?”
“I…really can’t say.”
Her eyes flashed with irritation. “You can say and you will say. To me, anyway. Where did you get it?”
If he told her he found it in the wall of the townhome, he’d be implicating his father. Although Randolph had made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with him. Wes hated that he still felt compelled to protect the man he could barely remember.
“How’s my dad doing?”
“He’s slightly better.”
“Is he going to make it?”
Her gaze dropped. “It’s still touch and go.”
He put his hand to his mouth to gnaw his nails. The tips of his fingers were ragged and bloody, but the nasty habit comforted him.
Liz put her beautifully manicured hand over his, pulling it from his mouth. “Look, I know you’re worried about your father, but right now you need to be worried about yourself. Where did you get the counterfeit bills?”
“I didn’t know they were counterfeit.”
“And that will be part of our defense. Possessing counterfeit money isn’t as bad as willfully spending it with the knowledge it’s fake. But if you tell the Secret Service where you got it and help them take it off the street, that’ll go in your favor.”
“Even if I got it in an illegal poker game?”
“Yes. But that’s not what happened, is it?”
“I didn’t print it myself, if that’s what you think.”
She leaned forward and rubbed her eyes, clearly frustrated. “Good. Because that would be a whole other set of charges. But that’s not going to cut it. Now—where did you get the bills?”
When she sat forward like that, her boobs looked huge. He was going to miss seeing those great knockers.
“Wes, if you’re protecting someone, it’s not worth it, I promise.”
She would probably right. If his father died, he wouldn’t have to worry about protecting him. But just putting that thought out into the universe made him feel sick.
Besides, the truth might set him free, but Leonard would be waiting for him. He was safer in here, flying shit and all.
She made an exasperated noise. “Wes, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me where you got the money.”
“Don’t worry about it, Liz. The time in a cell might do me some good, help me figure out what I’m going to do with my life.”
She looked as if she’d like to shake him. “God, you’re so much like your father.”
And she should know—she’d slept with both of them. “I appreciate you coming all the way out here, Liz. But I don’t expect a miracle.”
A knock on the door sounded, indicating their consultation time was over.
Wes pushed to his feet.
She reached forward and grasped his hand. “Give me something to tell the Secret Service. Is there more money, or did you spend it all?”
“I’ll see you out there.”
He walked to the
door and turned back. Liz looked distraught, and he felt sorry for being the cause of it. She was only trying to help.
“By the way, Liz…after you told me the kid isn’t mine, I never thought to ask. But…who is the baby’s father?”
“You don’t know?”
“Should I?”
“I just assumed you’d heard. It’s…Jack Terry.”
Wes scoffed. “Really? Wow, okay. I guess that explains why Carlotta has been acting so weird lately.”
The guard opened the door. “Time’s up.”
Liz stood. “You still have time to change your mind, Wes. You should save yourself. Randolph would.”
Wes pursed his mouth. “Then maybe I’m not as much like my father as you thought.” He turned and walked out, feeling an ounce lighter.
Chapter 16
“THAT WAS LIZ,” Carlotta said, ending the call.
“How did Wes’s arraignment go?” Peter asked.
She sighed. “Not well. He was denied bail.”
“That seems harsh.”
“Remember he was already on probation. Liz said things would go better for him if he’d tell where he got the money.”
“He won’t say?”
“He says he got it in an illegal poker game, but even Liz doesn’t believe him. The bills are brand new, and sequential.”
“So we go back to Atlanta Saturday, and Wes stays here?”
“Looks that way. He’ll be in jail until there’s a trial.”
She swallowed a groan of frustration. She’d been counting on Wes’s help if she were able to move their mother and sister to Atlanta. She looked at Peter—she wanted to tell him everything, to be able to rely on him, but she couldn’t shake her feeling of distrust after the overheard phone conversation. It had put a wall between them—she could feel him distancing himself from her, too.
“This isn’t turning out to be much of a vacation,” he said.
She managed a little laugh. “That’s an understatement.”
“I’m sorry I have to work again today—these clients need more hand-holding than I expected.” His mouth curved up, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He seemed on edge this morning, had checked his phone several times.
“You can say it. My father’s return has made investors nervous.”
“The market’s been crazy lately—it doesn’t take much to make investors nervous. And Walt’s illness hasn’t helped. Some of these clients of his have been investing with Mashburn & Tully their entire lives.”
“How is Walt?”
“He’s, uh, recovering.”
Like Randolph, if the reports were to be believed. It was ironic two of the founding partners of the firm were in similar circumstances, albeit on opposite ends of the spectrum where reputation was concerned. The fact that Randolph and Walt had been best friends early in their careers made the situation even more tragic.
“Peter, you once mentioned rumors of a suicide note when Walt overdosed—did you ever hear anything else about it?”
“No. And Walt Tully is such a stand-up guy, I can’t see him doing something like that to his family.”
His staunch defense of Walt surprised her. Before, Peter had insinuated he hadn’t always seen eye to eye with the partners. What had changed?
He checked his phone. “I have to go,” he said abruptly, picking up his briefcase. When he reached the door, he turned back. “If you get an update on Randolph’s condition, I’d like to know.”
“Okay.”
The door closed behind him.
“Bye,” she murmured.
How many people were monitoring Randolph’s condition?
And hoping he’d…die?
The demise of Randolph “The Bird” Wren would certainly tie up a lot of loose ends. The D.A. in Atlanta could close the case. Her mother could come out of hiding. The tension between her and Peter would be gone. Much of the tension between her and Jack would be gone. Randolph’s victims would be relieved. The people who worked at Mashburn & Tully would be relieved.
Heck, maybe Randolph himself would be relieved.
Would she?
It would certainly be nice to wake up in the morning and not feel as if her life was on hold.
But given the choice, she’d rather see her father well and on the run again than to visit him any time she wanted in the cemetery.
“So, dammit, you’d better pull through,” she whispered eastward.
Her phoned buzzed with a text from Hannah.
How did Shithead’s arraignment go?
Carlotta texted back. No bail.
So he happened in Vegas, and he’s staying in Vegas?
Wish I could laugh. Wes won’t even take my calls.
Sounds like he wants to handle this on his own. You have enough on your plate.
So right. btw, Peter left if you need to use our room to change.
Can’t. Since Wes is in jail, I’m babysitting Fat Boy.
You should come out to Chance that you’re rich and preppy.
And people in glass houses shouldn’t marry Peter Ashford.
Carlotta smirked. Her friend had a point.
A knock sounded at the door. Thinking Peter had forgotten his key, she opened it, surprised to see Jack and Coop standing in the hall.
“Good morning.” She crossed her arms over her thin gown. “What’s up?”
“Can we talk to you?” Jack asked.
“And Peter,” Coop added solicitously.
“Peter left for a meeting, but sure—come in.”
When the door closed behind them, she walked over to yank her robe from the unmade bed. Self-consciously she wondered if it was obvious that only the sides of the bed had been mussed, and not the middle.
When she turned back, Jack was looking at floor, and Coop was studying the ceiling.
“I’m getting a late start this morning,” she offered apologetically. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
More shuffling, more gaze averting.
She cleared her throat and gestured to the kitchenette. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” they chorused.
She gestured for them to sit, and poured them all a steaming cup. “What’s this about?”
Jack sipped from his cup, then nodded to Coop. “Coop is questioning the cause of death of the agent who was following you.”
She looked to Coop. “I thought it was an asthma attack.”
“Probably,” he said. “But I went back the morgue yesterday to help prepare the body to fly back to Atlanta, and I noticed bruising around the neck that wasn’t evident in the autopsy. Sometimes bruises are just below the surface and don’t fully develop until later, especially if the deceased is sitting up when death occurs. Gravity redistributes the blood.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Coop said, “he might’ve clutched at his own neck during the asthma attack…or he could’ve been strangled.”
Her pulse bumped higher. “You think someone offed the agent who was following me?”
“No,” they said in unison.
“But it’s possible,” Coop added. “Which is why we thought you should know.”
“So you don’t open your hotel room door when you’re alone and half-dressed,” Jack said dryly.
She frowned in his direction. “Why would someone strangle the person who’s following me? It makes no sense.”
“I agree,” Jack said, taking another drink from his cup. “But given your penchant for attracting weirdoes, we decided to err on the side of caution.”
Coop smiled into his coffee and gave her a wink.
“I told Coop you won’t heed the warning, but there—our conscience is clear.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Jack glanced at his watch. “I have to go. Don’t get up, Carlotta. Stay and finish your coffee, Coop.” He strode toward the door, then turned back. “By the way—sorry to hear about Wes’s arraignment. Liz said if you can get him to tell you where he got the counterfeit bills,
things will go more smoothly.”
“Easier said than done, but I’ll work on it,” she promised.
When the door closed, Coop gave her a crooked smile. “So…Wes is in trouble again.”
She sipped from her cup. “My little brother seems incapable of behaving himself.”
“How did he get his hands on that much counterfeit money?”
“He says he won it in a poker game, but Liz says that doesn’t add up. Apparently, the bills are new and the serial numbers are in sequential order.”
“You don’t think he printed it himself, do you?”
“He says no, but he doesn’t seem to have another explanation—not that he’s talking to me at all.”
Coop made a thoughtful noise. “I knew something was up at the airport. He was as nervous as a cat, and guarding his jacket like it was made of money. I guess it was.”
“What on earth was he thinking?”
“He’s nineteen. Thinking isn’t his strong suit.”
She sighed. “The thing is, I really need him right now.”
“I heard about your father. You must be worried sick.”
She nodded.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
She started to shake her head, then she smiled. “Actually…do you have plans today?”
“Nothing I can’t change.”
“Are you up for a top secret field trip?”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“I have an old friend who needs a checkup.”
He squinted. “A medical checkup?”
“You are a doctor, aren’t you?”
Coop laughed. “Yes. But I’m more accustomed to working on people who aren’t breathing.”
“My friend just needs to know if she’s well enough to travel.”
“Surely there’s someone more appropriate for the job.”
“No one she and I can trust.”
“Okay. This is getting curiouser and curiouser.”
“You can say no.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “And miss out on an adventure? Why would I do that?”
She grinned. “Do you have a rental car?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet you at the hotel taxi drop-off in an hour?”
“With bells on.”
Chapter 17
8 Bodies is Enough--for Amazon Page 11
