Closer Than She Thinks

by Meryl Sawyer

  Appreciate? Gimme a break. People appreciated fine wine and art. Either she loved him or she didn’t. He didn’t know how to respond without making a bad situation worse.

  “I hope someday I’ll be in a position to have a life,” she said.

  “You will, Alyssa.” He wanted to share with her the information he’d forced out of Wyatt LeCroix. Before he could say a word, Spencer came into the office and shoved a note in front of Jake.

  Your father is outside. He’s really upset.

  “Look, I’ve got to run,” he said as he motioned for Spencer to show Max into the office. “I’m going to be tied up here until about eight. Then I’ll come over. Okay?”

  He hung up and Max walked through the door. His father stopped in front of his desk, his dark eyes troubled. He clenched and unclenched his right hand. Jake came around the desk and stood beside him.

  “What’s the matter?” Jake asked.

  “You’ve seen the papers, the television.” The bitter edge of cynicism colored each word. “This is when you find out who your friends are.”

  Jake wondered if his father had many real friends. He’d spent his life pursuing success, then his aspirations became political. It didn’t leave much time for friendship.

  “How can I help?” Jake asked.

  “Go to lunch with me at the Mayfair Club.”

  “Sure,” Jake responded although he dreaded going into the snooty club under the best of circumstances. He could tell, though, how important this was to his father. He checked his watch. It was eleven-thirty, too early for the cadre of businessmen who convened in the Mayfair’s dining room around one o’clock.

  “There are a couple of reports I’d like you to look over,” Jake said. “Then we’ll go to lunch.”

  “There’s something else …” Suddenly, Max’s voice became thick, unsteady.

  Uhh-ooh. Jake braced himself. This could get interesting.

  The door to the office swung open, and Spencer sailed in, frowning. “Duncan Thomas is outside. He says it’s an emergency.”

  Just when he thought things could not get any worse. “Send him in.”

  He ventured a sideways glance at his father. Max’s left eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch, the way it did when he was concentrating.

  Duncan Thomas, a thirty-something man with a beard already grizzled with gray, was head of overseas operations for TriTech. He stalked into the office and greeted them, his brow furrowed in a tight frown.

  “One of Duvall Imports’ ships has been seized in Singapore. Heroin was found in its container cargo,” Thomas announced in a breathless rush.

  “Yes! Yes!” Jake gave his father a high five, and they both started to laugh.

  Thomas stared at them, slack-jawed. Normally, having any ship seized was a royal pain in the butt—not to mention expensive. But having the Singapore government seize your ship was the worst news imaginable. The government had gained worldwide notoriety for publicly spanking teens for graffiti. When it came to serious crimes like drugs, Singapore had zero tolerance.

  Jake told him, “We’re laughing because TriTech no longer owns Duvall Imports. Singapore will probably keep the ship.”

  “It’s Clay Duvall’s problem,” Max added.

  “I see,” Thomas responded but it was clear he didn’t.

  “We found out Duvall Imports was pulling a scam at the docks here,” Jake explained. “We cut them loose this weekend. We have no legal ties to the company.”

  “That fast? How?”

  “It’s like a quit claim,” Max told him. “Essentially we gave Duvall back the company. I had him moved out of the building on Monday right after my attorney filed the necessary documents with the court.”

  “I guess this is good news,” muttered Thomas.

  Not if you’re Clay Duvall.

  “Someting went wrong, mon.”

  “Wrong?” Clay couldn’t believe Dante’s cavalier attitude. “I’ll never get the ship back. It’ll cost me a fortune to bail the crew out of prison. You assured me this was a foolproof plan.”

  They were sitting in the small makeshift office that Wyatt had given them when Jake kicked Clay’s business out of the TriTech building. His agent was looking for a suitable suite of offices, but it would take time.

  Dante smiled, a flash of white-white teeth in his dark face. “You blame de captain. We try again.”

  Now was the time to dump Dante and Maree. He was sick of them both. Alyssa had come back to him. It was clear that he could have her now, and he didn’t want to risk getting dragged into a drug scandal.

  “I’ve made de arrangements, mon.”

  “No!” The word exploded out before Clay could temper it with an excuse.

  Dante surged to his feet and hauled Clay out of his chair. “Don’t you be tellin’ me no. I own you.”

  Clay tried to wrench out of Dante’s grip, but he was too strong—physically. Intellectually, Clay knew he was superior. He’d had all he was going to take.

  “Dante, it’s over. No more smuggling on my ships.”

  The Bahamian threw back his head and roared, his arms vibrating and shaking Clay. When he stopped chortling, the fury in Dante’s black eyes sent a bolt of primal fear through Clay.

  “I do own you, mon.” He grabbed Clay’s crotch, his big hand engulfing his penis. A knowing smile creased Dante’s lips, then vanished as he squeezed. “All of you.”

  Dante laughed again, a low, mean snicker. “De TV in Maree’s bedroom. D’ere’s a camera inside it.”

  Shit! A hidden camera. Clay’s bowels cramped, and for a moment he thought he was going to lose it.

  “I have tapes. How you say? Insurance.” He squeezed again, harder this time. “You dump me. I dump on you.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Clay responded to keep up a good front.

  “Try me, mon. Try me.”

  Dante released him, and Clay dropped back into his chair. Without another word, the psychic walked out the door. Clay slumped in his seat.

  He could imagine what would happen if anyone found out. It had been a ménage à trois, that’s all. Who wouldn’t experiment if they had the chance? But if anyone saw those tapes, they would misinterpret them and think he and Dante had a thing for each other.

  What was he going to do now?

  He leaned back and studied the ceiling, thinking. He refused to let Dante hold his business, his life, hostage. If he did, this would just be the beginning. No telling were it would go next.

  Cheating the IRS was a national pastime, but dealing drugs was something else. He had a name, an image to protect. He’d made a critical mistake, but he could rectify it now.

  He had no choice but to get rid of Dante. If the psychic was killed, Clay would have to deal with Maree. Maybe he could arrange for it to look like an accident, then Maree wouldn’t be suspicious.

  He stood up and started to walk down the long hall to Wyatt’s office. He stopped before he left the cubbyhole where he’d shoehorned in his computer and files. He wasn’t sure he wanted to discuss this with Wyatt.

  Clay wasn’t sure how he’d explain his relationship with Dante to his brother-in-law. He might have to take care of Dante himself. A wave of apprehension swept through him as he imagined coming face to face with Dante. No way. He’d have to shoot Dante when he wasn’t looking.

  “You’re a crack shot,” Clay whispered to himself. He silently blessed his father for all the times Nelson Duvall had insisted they go hunting. It was a Southern tradition Clay had dreaded. Now his experience with guns was going to pay off.

  Thinking of his father reminded Clay that he’d promised to meet him for lunch. Afterward they were going over to help Hattie LeCroix finalize funeral arrangements. Clay couldn’t imagine what was left to discuss, but his father was a Southern gentleman to the core. Ladies always needed help.

  Alyssa walked into the Mayfair Club’s dining room and looked around the room filled with businessmen. She didn’t see Gordon. Of course, he was home wi
th Hattie. With the funeral two days away, it stood to reason he wouldn’t be out in public.

  She spotted Clay in a corner booth with his father. He didn’t see her, and she turned to leave before he noticed her and she had to deal with him. She rushed out of the building into the stifling, moist heat of a spring day that felt more like summer.

  “Alyssa, Alyssa,” a man called.

  She stopped, shading her eyes with her hand. Gordon LeCroix walked toward her. He was dressed in a gray business suit and crisp white shirt. He appeared to be oblivious to the heat, but lines of worry etched his brow.

  “I heard the police released you,” he said, his voice pitched lower than usual. “Are you all right?”

  For a moment, she was tempted to tell him the truth, but resisted the impulse. She was positive her father hadn’t murdered Phoebe, but the killer might be someone he knew. She didn’t want that person to think she was still under investigation.

  “I’m fine, really. They don’t have any evidence against me, so I’m free.”

  “Never a doubt,” he replied, but he didn’t sound upbeat. “Are you meeting someone?”

  “No. Actually, I was looking for you.”

  “You’ve heard.”

  What now? She swallowed with difficulty, then found her voice. “Heard what?”

  “Ravelle has managed to find out what I told the police. She called Hattie a little while ago to warn her. On the five o’clock news, she’ll announce you’re my daughter.”

  She couldn’t ignore the urge to put her arm around him. “Hattie was devastated. She took it out on you, didn’t she?”

  “She tried, but I walked out. I’ve had it.” His lips thinned with irritation. “Do you have time to have lunch and talk?”

  Feeling awkward, she casually dropped her arm, saying, “Sure.”

  Inside, they were told they’d have to wait a few minutes. There were no free tables. Clay and Nelson Duvall saw them, and Clay walked over, beaming.

  “Would you like to join us?”

  Inwardly, Alyssa groaned and tried to come up with an excuse. Everyone in the room was watching them.

  “Thanks, but we need a little private time together,” her father said.

  “Oh, a-a-ah, sure. Dad and I are coming over to the house later,” Clay said to her father, but his eyes were on her. He returned to the corner booth, smiling and greeting men he knew.

  “I’ve never liked him. It was Hattie who wanted Phoebe to many into the Duvall family.”

  “Do you think it’s possible”—Alyssa lowered her voice—“Clay killed Phoebe?”

  “Maybe. Stay away from him, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.” She laughed but couldn’t help asking herself where this man had been when she was growing up. Despite the past, she liked him, really liked him.

  The waiter showed them to a table that had been vacated and reset. Alyssa was aware of the people tracking them with their eyes, but her father seemed oblivious.

  “I’m getting a divorce as soon as the funeral is over,” he said when they were seated. “I should have done it years ago. Hattie is unstable and getting worse. She sees a psychiatrist, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. I can’t take much more.”

  “There’s nothing like finding someone who loves you,” she said, a catch in her voice. “You’re still young. You could be very happy.”

  “Does Jake Williams make you happy?”

  She saw no reason not to be honest with him about this. “I love him.” She shook her head, disgusted with herself. “You know, I have no idea what I saw in Clay.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Jake walked into the Mayfair Club beside his father. Whatever had been troubling Max seemed not to have been important. Since discovering Duvall Imports had a ship involved in trafficking heroin, Max had been in better spirits. So was Jake. It confirmed his suspicions. Clay Duvall was worse than a major sleaze. He was a crook, a drug trafficker.

  Jake stopped in the lobby and turned to his father. The low buzz from the dining room drifted out into the empty lobby.

  “You made a huge sacrifice for me,” Jake said. “I won’t forget it. I know it has caused you a lot of grief.”

  Max shrugged it off. “I deserved it. I was a foolish old man in love with the wrong woman. I had taken the baby. I should never have allowed Phoebe to persuade me to keep quiet. I hope your Alyssa will forgive me.”

  Your Alyssa. He wished.

  “There is one other thing I need to tell you,” Max added.

  Uuh-ooh. That hinky feeling again. Jake couldn’t imagine what Max was going to say, but judging from his taut lips and clenched right fist, it was something Jake did not want to hear.

  “I did go into the study the night Phoebe was killed. It was me Alyssa saw.”

  Anger mushroomed inside Jake. So many lies. A lifetime of lies. He hardly knew how to deal with Max, this man who was his father.

  “Why did you lie?” Jake wondered if he’d lied about anything else. Shit. How much worse could this get?

  “I didn’t exactly lie to you. I dodged the question or didn’t answer it. I was too embarrassed to admit Phoebe had dumped Clay—” his voice broke with huskiness—“but wasn’t going to marry me. She’d told me the day before, and I was trying again to talk her out of it.”

  “So you let Alyssa take the fall.” He told himself to calm down. They probably could hear his voice inside the dining room.

  “No. I told the police.” Max drew in a sharp breath. “I just couldn’t make myself tell you. I did everything Phoebe ever asked. I pushed you to buy Duvall Imports even though I didn’t think it was worth a damn. Then she repays me by …”

  Jake knew what it was like to be obsessed by a woman who didn’t love you. It sucked. He understood Max—he thought—but he couldn’t quite bring himself to forgive his father.

  “S’okay. The police know the truth. That’s what counts.”

  “I want to have a solid relationship with you,” Max said. “I don’t want anything between us. Not the past. Not a woman. Nothing.”

  Jake nodded his agreement. Talking about his feelings always made him uncomfortable. Knowing all his father had done made it hard to forgive or forget. He started walking toward the dining room.

  The beeper on his belt vibrated. “Just a minute,” he said to Max, knowing cell phones weren’t allowed inside the dining room. The message on the beeper said to call Sanchez. “I have to take this.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial.

  “I have some info on the psychic, Dante Benoit,” said Sanchez the minute he recognized Jake’s voice. “Dante poses as a psychic, but he makes his money smuggling drugs into the country. He’s a bigger player than you might think. He’s connected to Venezio and the mob.”

  He moved across the lobby to the window overlooking the street, so no one could overhear him tell Sanchez about the seizure of the ship in Singapore. “Put a tail on Dante,” Jake said, and Sanchez agreed. “One other thing. You can stop looking for a second man dressed as the devil. It was my father.”

  For a long moment there was nothing but silence. “Do you think Max could have …”

  Jake had wondered the same thing. He thought about it for a moment, then said, “No, I don’t believe he killed Phoebe. He’s guilty of a lot of things, but not murder.”

  “Something a little odd happened.”

  “What in blue blazes could be odder than this mess?”

  Sanchez chuckled. “Troy Chevalier went to pay a condolence call on the family. Hattie LeCroix lit into him and called him a French faggot who’d lured her daughter away.”

  “Okay, so? Anyone who knows Troy realizes he isn’t gay.”

  “That’s not the strange part. When I interviewed Chevalier, he was surprised Hattie knew about them. Phoebe wasn’t going to tell her family until Clay agreed to some type of a settlement and she was far away in Paris.”

  Jake thought a moment. “Clay told Hattie. Considering the trouble Duval
l Imports has, Clay enlisted his mother-in-law’s support to avoid a divorce. You’ve still got Clay under surveillance?”

  “You bet.”

  “Keep close tabs on him.”

  Jake said good-bye with Sanchez promising to get back to him with any new information immediately. He caught up with his father and went into the dining room. The maitre d’ looked at Max as if he were a dog turd on a stick and informed them there was no table available.

  Jake scanned the room and noticed Clay with his father. No help there. At least half a dozen men who knew Max well were having lunch, but they all were pretending to be absorbed in conversation or eating. No one made eye contact with them.

  Max’s quick, darting glance around the room betrayed his concern. His father had anticipated this snubbing, expected it. Still, he was here facing everyone. Jake grudgingly admitted he was proud of his father. He’d told the truth and was bravely dealing with the consequences.

  On the far side of the room, he spotted Alyssa with Gordon. Considering Max’s confession about the baby, Jake could hardly suggest joining them. Gordon looked up, saw them, and rose. He crossed the room in long strides, headed in their direction.

  Why me? Jake braced himself for the inevitable scene. A fight at the Mayfair Club was not his idea of a power lunch. Conversation had stopped just as if someone had flipped a switch.

  “Max, Jake, you’re here.” Gordon’s smile appeared genuine. “We’re saving places for you.”

  He led them to the table, talking the whole time about the unseasonable heat. Was this guy for real? He seemed to be oblivious to the tension in the room. His peers expected him to ostracize Max, but Gordon wasn’t going along with the program.

  Jake let his father sit next to Alyssa, and he took the chair next to Gordon, who hadn’t stopped smiling relentlessly like someone in a toothpaste commercial. The other diners returned to their meals and their conversation.

  Whew! At least his father hadn’t been totally humiliated. Actually, having Gordon accept them with open arms told everyone that he didn’t blame Max for taking the baby. It was more impressive than having one of Max’s so-called friends invite them to their table.