The Assassin

by Rachel Butler

  Did William know he’d brought a woman to stay at the guesthouse with him? He’d been upset with her two years ago for inviting Marland in—not because she could have been raped or worse, not because she’d been forced to kill the man, but because it had violated his privacy, caused problems for him.

  What if all that had been an act? In truth, what problems had that night caused William? He’d had to get someone to clean the blood and dispose of the damaged rug. But the other hassles he’d claimed—disposing of Marland’s body and the other evidence, covering up a murder—none of that had been necessary because the murder had never happened.

  What if it had been a setup from the start? If William had instructed Marland to befriend her, take her out, assault her, all so he could blackmail her when the opportunity arose?

  The thought made her sick. She closed her eyes tightly, swayed unsteadily, catching a branch to steady herself, and forced shallow, even breaths until the shakiness passed and her stomach settled. This was no time for weakn—

  “You look a little green there, Selena. Or would you prefer Gabriela? That was the name you were using the first time we met.”

  Slowly she opened her eyes and found herself looking down the barrel of a .45. On the other end, Marland was looking grim, without a hint of the charm that had captivated her that first time. He backed away, then gestured for her to stand. She did so slowly.

  “Which is it? Selena? Gabriela? Or something new?”

  “Selena’s fine. Are you still using Greg?”

  “Actually, that was just for your benefit. You can call me Damon. Damon Long. Henry’s right-hand man for the past twenty years.” With his left arm in a sling, he sketched a parody of a bow. “Get your hands in the air and come on out of those bushes.”

  She obeyed, hands raised shoulder high. He backed up one step for every step she took forward; when she reached the driveway, he was well out of striking range. Stopping near the open gate, she faced him. “You look pretty substantial for a ghost.”

  “How long have you known I wasn’t dead?”

  “Since last night.”

  “So it was you who broke into the house.”

  She shrugged.

  “It didn’t sit well with Henry. Your being here today isn’t going to sit well with him, either.”

  “ ‘Henry’?”

  “Aw, come on. Surely you’ve figured out that William is really Henry Daniels, chief of police.”

  She responded with another shrug. “William or Henry, or whatever he wants to call himself, doesn’t rule my life.”

  “Since when?”

  Instead of answering, she considered her options. Running was out of the question; there was no cover near enough to be of any use. Disarming Long was a possibility, but a slim one. If she so much as twitched a muscle, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her. That left cooperating for the moment and hoping for a better choice in the near future.

  “Are you going to turn me over to him? Earn a few points for yourself?”

  He gestured for her to turn around, then slowly approached. “Inside,” he commanded. After they’d cleared the gate, he began talking in a conversational tone. “You’re a problem, Selena. Always have been, always will be. Henry knows you went to the Ceolas’ house yesterday, and he suspects that you broke in here last night. He doesn’t trust you anymore, and you know what that means.”

  He would order her killed. She swallowed hard. “He’s not going to turn the business over to you just because I’m out of the picture.”

  “I don’t expect him to.”

  She didn’t believe him. He’d worked half his life for William, had helped him build the business, had killed for him. That kind of service demanded reward, and most likely, in his mind, she was all that stood in the way of that reward.

  As they approached the garage, she looked around. If only she could appeal to the security guards . . . though after last night’s incident, the chances they would intervene on her behalf were nonexistent. She could make a break for it, using the garage as cover, get to the guesthouse, then make for the fence behind it. Scaling the fence without a rope would be a problem, but it was one she was willing to face.

  Or she could make Long think she was going for the fence, and use the distraction to disarm him. She could make her captor the captive, and use him to get off the estate to safety.

  As she drew even with the near corner of the garage, she gauged the distance between them the best she could without looking, then subtly lengthened her stride as she passed each of the doors. At the fourth, she lunged for the corner, reaching it as a bullet splintered the wood mere inches from her. She stopped short as the gun muzzle came in contact with the back of her head.

  “It would be so easy to kill you, Selena,” Long said softly. “And so easy to get away with it. Woman breaks into police chief ’s house, making threats, and security chief has to kill her. No one would care, except for your detective, and he won’t be around long enough to raise a stink.”

  She stared at the fence, so far out of reach, as she slowed her breathing to normal.

  “Put your hands on top of your head. If you move even your little finger, I’ll pull the trigger. Now head for the house.”

  She did as he ordered, crossing the parking area, waiting at the back door for him to open it. Inside the cool, quiet house, he directed her up the servants’ stairs and to William’s study. The door was closed; he pushed it open, then motioned her inside, but she couldn’t take that step, couldn’t move at all. Someone was going to die in that room, and Long seemed pretty sure it would be her.

  But he’d made the mistake of not searching her. He didn’t know she was armed, didn’t know she was just as willing to kill as he was. One way or another, this whole mess was going to end right here, right now.

  Dear God, she hoped she survived it.

  Only one tree at Anna and Joe’s house had fallen in the storm, but that was one too many, Tony decided as he cut the last section of trunk into manageable pieces. He shut off the chain saw, stacked the wood at the curb, then straightened in time to see Lucia pull into the driveway.

  She climbed out, took a good look at him, and grinned. “You must be slowing down in your old age.”

  “Screw you, brat. What’re you doing, all dressed up?”

  She struck a pose to show her red dress at its best, then came closer. “Mom and I are taking Daddy to church this morning.”

  “You in church? The walls will be trembling.”

  She reached out to swat him, then drew back, her face screwed up. “You’re a mess. What have you been doing?”

  “It’s called ‘work.’ You should try it sometime.”

  “Hey, I work. I just prefer not to wallow in it.”

  She walked with him as he set the chain saw inside the garage, but when they reached the front door, she stopped him before he could open it. “Can I ask you something?”

  “As long as it doesn’t have to do with Mom, Dad, and nursing homes.”

  “It doesn’t. And the places I suggested aren’t nursing homes. They’re assisted-living facilities, and—” When Tony scowled at her, she drew a breath, then started again. “It’s about Damon.”

  When she didn’t continue, he asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Damon Long.” Her manner was expectant, as if the name was supposed to mean something.

  “Who’s that?” Tony repeated.

  “My boyfriend. He’s a cop.”

  “You’re dating a cop?” What a joke. No way a lowly cop could ever afford to hang on to Lucia, not unless he was on the take.

  “Yes, I’m dating a cop,” she said impatiently. “I just want to know what you know about him.”

  “I don’t know him. Never heard of him.”

  “Of course you know him. He was with you last night.”

  Tony stared at her. “What do you know about where I was last night?”

  She picked a few dead leaves from the plant hanging next to her, her
gaze darting his way when she finally answered. “Damon’s kind of, uh . . . private about things, so last night, I, uh . . . followed him when he went to work. And a while later, some other cops came, including you. That’s why I assumed you knew him.”

  He didn’t know every officer who’d been at the warehouse the night before, but he’d heard their names, and none of them was Damon Long.

  “Even then I wasn’t completely sure he was a cop, but after this morning . . . I mean, Uncle Henry knows him well enough to invite him to his house, so he has to be a cop, and he’s probably working undercover, which would explain why he’s so secretive, right?”

  Tony stared at her, barely able to make sense of what she was saying. “Wait a minute. Back up. You followed your boyfriend last night. Where did he go?”

  Lucia sighed impatiently. “To that building downtown that has the big horse painted on it. The same building you were at.”

  “Was he . . .?” This couldn’t be real. Lucia’s lousy taste in men was legendary, but this was too much even for her. She couldn’t be dating the vigilante killer.

  He blew out his breath, then tried again. “Was he on a motorcycle?”

  “Yes! A Ducati. That’s an Italian racing bike. Cool, huh?” Without waiting for a response, she went on. “So you do know him. Not that I don’t trust him, ’cause I do, but like I said, he’s kind of secretive, and I just want to know—”

  “And he was at Henry’s this morning?”

  She wasted a moment pouting over the interruption before explaining. “That’s what I said, isn’t it? Actually, he was there all night. He got hurt last night—like you—and Uncle Henry let him stay in the guesthouse. He must be pretty high up if he reports to Uncle Henry at home, huh?”

  What if the vigilante is a cop? It was a question that had been sneaking into Tony’s thoughts for days now. He’d laid out an argument in favor of it to Simmons, had even intended to talk to Henry about it today, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Cops were supposed to be decent, honorable, and law-abiding. They were supposed to hold themselves to a higher standard than regular citizens. They couldn’t enforce the law for everyone else and twist, trample, and pervert it for their own benefit.

  “You’re sure he was at Henry’s house?”

  Her smile was too sexy by half for his kid sister. “Of course I’m sure. I spent half the night with him. He and Uncle Henry were talking business when I got up this morning.”

  Talking business . . . Tony dragged his fingers through his hair as he searched his memory for that phrase in connection with Henry. It came to him when he gazed into Lucia’s familiar brown eyes, darkened with confusion at his behavior. Joe. Several weeks earlier he’d escaped Anna’s watch and made it across town to Henry’s house. A frequent guest in better times, he’d gotten past the guards with nothing more than a friendly hello, and the butler had let him in and sent him on up to the study without announcing him.

  When Tony had gone to pick him up a short while later, Joe had been agitated and confused. That’s not Henry, he’d insisted. What is he doing in Henry’s house, talking drug business with that man? What has he done with Henry?

  At the time, Tony had written it off as the disease talking. Obviously, Henry was Henry, there had been no one else around, and Henry’s only connection to the drug business was in stopping it. Tony had been embarrassed for his father and upset that Joe couldn’t recognize his friend, and he’d dismissed the entire incident. Henry had been eager to do the same.

  Too eager?

  Dear God, Henry couldn’t be perverting the law for himself. He was the freakin’ chief of police—Joe’s goddamn best friend!

  “Christ, Lucia . . .”

  Her expression darkened. “You don’t like Damon, do you? Why? What’s the problem? I mean, yeah, he’s kind of cocky, but so are you, and—”

  Taking her by the shoulders, he gave her a gentle shake. “Listen to me—I’ve got to go, but I want you to stay here with Mom. Don’t go anywhere, and don’t talk to anybody, especially Henry and Damon. Promise me.”

  “But, Tony, what about church—”

  He shook her harder. “Damn it, promise!”

  “Okay, okay, I promise. But you have to tell me—”

  Ignoring her, he opened the door and went inside. When he found Anna in the kitchen, he kissed her cheek. “I’ve got to go, Mom. Listen to me—you can’t go to church this morning. Stay here, and don’t let Lucia or Dad out of your sight until you hear from me, okay?”

  Looking as confused as Lucia, Anna nodded.

  Henry wasn’t involved in the vigilante killings, Tony insisted as he backed out of the driveway. He could no more commit cold-blooded murder than Joe could. There must be a logical explanation. There were all those security guards at the estate, plus a full staff of gardeners. Maybe this Long guy was one of them, and that was why he’d gone there. Or maybe he had a legitimate job along with the illegitimate one, and that was what had taken him there—a delivery or a repair. It must be something like that.

  Henry was a good man. He’d devoted his life to law enforcement. He’d been the best friend possible to Joe and Anna, and practically a second father to their kids. There was a reasonable explanation. All he had to do was go to Henry’s and ask for it.

  Then the two of them could get down to figuring out who the vigilante killer really was.

  15

  “What the—”

  Damon interrupted William as he shoved Selena through the door into the study. “Look who I found sneaking around outside.”

  Slowly William rose from the desk, wearing a look that was part regret and part tautly controlled rage. Selena realized that she wasn’t the only one in their relationship struggling between love and hate.

  “Selena.” Those few syllables were rife with disappointment. “I can’t tell you how very sorry I am to see you here.”

  As she walked to a space in front of the desk, she glanced at Damon. What were the odds she could talk her way out of this? Claim that Damon had attempted to involve her in a conspiracy to seize control from him? That his right-hand man wanted him dead? Probably good enough that she would get them both killed instead of dying alone.

  She smiled coolly. “Uncle— What do you prefer I call you? William or Henry?”

  “Whichever is more comfortable for you.”

  She considered that, and decided on Henry. She felt less connected, less in debt, to Henry, and it had the advantage of being his real name. “Why are you sorry, Uncle Henry? You know I broke in here last night. You should have expected me to return.”

  “And why have you returned?”

  She held up the small camera. “For proof.”

  “Of what?”

  “That Greg Marland is alive and well. That you’ve blackmailed me with evidence of a crime that never happened.” She hesitated, then deliberately added, “That William Davis is, in fact, the respectable Henry Daniels.”

  “You took a huge risk, coming back here.”

  “Everything in life comes with risks, Uncle.”

  “You want to be free of me badly enough to risk death?”

  “I want to live my life as I see fit.”

  He considered that a moment, then dismissed it as meaningless. “What do you plan to do with this proof? Show it to Tony? Try to convince him that his beloved godfather— his mentor and friend—is a criminal mastermind?” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “Do you think he would believe you, Selena? Tony loves, admires, and trusts me. Does he love you? Trust you? Or merely use you for sex?”

  She smiled thinly. She could always count on Henry to go straight to the heart of her insecurities. “Tony’s a good detective. Sentimentality doesn’t interfere with his work. No matter how much he loves you, if he has evidence that you’ve committed a crime, he will arrest you. You can’t deny that. It’s why you want him dead.”

  He acknowledged that with a nod. “I’ve worked too long and too hard to go to prison now. If I thought I c
ould buy him off, I would . . . but of course, I can’t. Unlike others I’ve worked with, his honor isn’t for sale.”

  Taking a few steps to the right, Selena sat down in the chair there and crossed her legs. “You’ve been best friends with Joe Ceola for more than forty years. How can you even think about killing one of his children?”

  “Joe’s mind is gone. He won’t even understand what’s happened.”

  “But Anna will. The other children will.”

  “And, as their dear friend, I’ll be there to help them cope with their grief.”

  Obviously, appealing to his own sentimentality was pointless—he had none. Selena changed the subject with a bold statement. “So you’re the vigilante killer, righting wrongs outside the law. Pardon me if I fail to see the righteousness in what you’ve done.”

  “The religious motif was a nice touch, wasn’t it?” Henry chuckled. “I wanted to expand my market, and the only way to do it was to remove the obstacles in my way. As for the vigilante idea . . . it was merely part of the challenge of dealing with the authorities. It’s easy to kill five people using five different methods and get away with it. Damon and I have done that more times than I can count. The challenge is in tying them together, giving the authorities plenty to work with, and still staying a dozen steps ahead.”

  He talked as if it was a game—and to him, it was. Multiple murders for fun and ego gratification.

  Some hint of dismay must have shown on her face because he gave her a chiding look. “Remember back in Jamaica, when you were earning your living stealing? You started out sneaking around, relying on someone else to create a diversion, taking only when you were assured of success. As you became more skilled, you created your own diversions, and before long, you had no need of them. You had developed your talents to the point that you could look your mark in the eye and take everything he had. Isn’t that true?”