“I also don’t think Frank would do anything like this to my family.” Winston sighed. “Anyway, I should go now. I need to get the computer drive from Ralph, and I want to be there early to make sure I’m not followed. I think a van might be trailing me—maybe it’s whoever broke in last night.”
“What color?”
“White.”
Apprehension shuddered up my spine. Yet if a white van was actually following me from time to time, it couldn’t be the same one trailing him.
“I thought you could be my backup,” Winston added into the silence. “Maybe call the police if anything looks odd.”
“Russo’s men are outside,” I said. “They’ve been following me to make sure I stay in one piece to look at the contract.”
His lips curled. “Then that won’t work. Can’t let Russo get ahold of the unprotected backup, even if he is my business partner.”
“Wait, I think I have an idea. It would mean a little subterfuge and ditching our cars, but it should work. I mean, it has before.”
He smiled. “Okay, I’m game.” He glanced behind him at Cody. “What about him?”
I sighed. “Unfortunately, he’s coming with us.”
“That’s not so bad. He can help keep watch. He’s probably trained for things like this.” Pulling a few bills from his pocket, he signaled the waitress for the check.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him the only training Cody had was whatever he taught himself with target shooting on his hundred acres. And maybe his skill with a paintbrush, chisel, hammer, and knife—or whatever else he used to create his sculptures.
We filled Cody in as we went outside and crossed the street. “Shouldn’t we tell the detectives?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’ll text Shannon as soon as we get to the theater. We won’t be in any danger before we get the hard drive.”
“Where are we going now?” Cody asked as we reached the jazz shop next to Autumn’s Antiques. “Back to your shop? I thought we had to hurry.”
“No, we’re going inside here. Just wait and you’ll see why.” I turned abruptly and led the way inside the jazz shop where Stu looked up smiling from his counter, his long hair covering his earphones.
“Just using your back entrance,” I said, pointing to the back so he wouldn’t have to remove his earphones.
He nodded and returned to reading the CD cover. His shop had a few browsers, but only one of them glanced our way.
“Now where’s the theater?” I asked Winston as we emerged into the alleyway. “We’ll need to call a taxi.”
Winston frowned. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
“No worries. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
We waited inside a baby clothing store, where Cody insisted on buying several outfits for Destiny. I had to laugh at the curiosity on Winston’s face.
“I’ll explain later,” I whispered, and to Cody I added even more quietly, “Would you contain yourself? Since when does a bodyguard buy baby clothes on the job?”
“Oh, right. I forgot you told ’em that.”
“Me?”
“Look, will it be okay if I have the clerk keep the clothes here? You can pick them up later. I might need my hands free.”
“To do what? Carve a log statue?”
He scowled. “Be serious.”
“Hey, you’re the one picking out baby clothes.”
Minutes later in the taxi, I started feeling nervous. Maybe because it was hot wearing shoes and gloves and being wedged in between the two men in the back seat. I lifted the material of my long skirt from my legs a few times to let in a bit of air. I was itching to take off the moccasins and gloves, to feel a connection with the earth again, but I was also afraid that I wouldn’t feel anything. Better to wait until absolutely necessary. That’s what Cody was here for.
A vibration by my feet had me scrounging for my purse. I checked the caller ID. Nicholas Russo. I wondered what he wanted. Well, I had a few questions for him of my own.
“Hello?”
“Aren’t you worried about someone taking another shot at you?” he asked without preamble.
“I take it your men took a peek inside the jazz store.”
“I need you alive to read that contract.”
“I don’t need to read it. I can tell you right now that Hamilton and Drewmore are on the up-and-up. They intend to keep their bargain with you. What I’m more interested in is Frank O’Donald. Why are you such enemies?”
The silence on the phone told me I’d guessed it in one. “How’d you know about him?” Russo said finally.
His question caught me by surprise. How we’d learned about O’Donald might bear some looking into. JoAnna Hamilton had told us, and if not for her, Winston wouldn’t have said anything. It was almost as if she wanted the police to focus on O’Donald. Did she hope it would keep him from Winston?
For some reason my mind kept going back to the break-in that just happened to occur on the day that Ralph Shatlock was supposed to be away. Was Hamilton involved? Or maybe Shatlock himself? The door to the lab hadn’t been forced, and that meant someone knew the code. Yet it didn’t make sense for them to sabotage their own company, and why would Hamilton and Winston come to me for help if they’d been involved? Unless there was more I wasn’t seeing.
“It doesn’t matter how I know,” I told Russo. “You should have been more forthcoming with the police. They know about the shooting six years ago. What happened? Is that what made you enemies?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The mobster’s voice was clipped. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll drop it.”
“You won’t tell me anything?”
More silence and then, “I still expect you to read that contract and tell me everything on it.” The line went dead.
He knows JoAnna Hamilton is hiding something, I thought. Or suspects. I had to give the man credit. But I still didn’t know how Winston’s father figured into the case.
“We’re almost there.” Winston leaned forward and spoke to the cab driver. “Pull over here.”
“You want me to wait?” The man was short and blond and young to be a cabby, I thought, and his oversized biceps told me where he spent most of his time.
Winston glanced at me as he replied, “Uh, yeah. Keep the meter running or whatever.”
The man nodded.
We climbed out cautiously into the busy street, but no one appeared to notice us, and no suspicious cars or white vans lurked nearby. We crossed to the theater parking lot that was half full with matinee goers. I felt myself relax marginally. Not likely anything sinister could happen with all these witnesses about.
“Where will he be?” I asked Winston. I’d imagined Ralph Shatlock would be waiting for us outside, but I couldn’t see anyone resembling him. I knew from the Internet that he was sixty-five, eleven years younger than his half sister. Like her, he had dark hair, the creeping gray obviously winning the battle, and he was also thin, but that was the only resemblance I’d noted in the pictures.
“Maybe inside.”
I didn’t want to text Shannon if Shatlock didn’t show. We bypassed the ticket booth and went inside the lobby, where we casually got in line for popcorn. I scanned the area, hoping he’d appear soon. No way would I eat whatever processed junk they put on movie theater popcorn, though my sister had told me dozens of times that it was food fit for kings.
Winston’s pants blurted out an obnoxious tune. “Sorry,” he said, plunging his hand into the pocket of his dress pants. “It’s the only way I can hear it in my desk at work.” He drew a pattern on the screen, unlocking the phone. “Hello? Ralph, where are you? What? Okay.”
He hung up, his brow tight. “He says he’s waiting for us in the taxi. Saw us arrive, apparently.”
Cody scowled. “Ain’t even five yet.”
“Well, come on.” I led the way outside, feeling for my phone. If Shatlock really was here, I’d call Shannon and have him meet us
wherever Winston planned to take the computer drive.
We hurried over to the taxi where Shatlock was indeed in the front seat with the driver. We climbed rapidly in the back, with me still scanning the area. Was that a white van up ahead? Yes. In fact, there were two now, but only one had that rectangular shape I dreaded.
“Ralph, why didn’t you—” Winston’s voice cut off as the older man turned toward us.
Shatlock was short and frail-looking, and freckles splattered over his rounded cheeks like flecks of mud. All the wrinkles in his face gathered around his eyes, half hidden by glasses. Half because one of the hinged stems of his eye glasses was missing, making them sit crookedly on his face. His nose was bloodied, and he had several scrapes on his cheeks and brow. His blue eyes had a wild, frightened look.
“I’m sorry,” he said. One hand snaked up to push the broken glasses up over his eyes. His fingernails were torn and bloodied.
Our driver turned around to face us—not the blond, muscled young man, but another blond man twice his age and half again his size, with a pockmarked face and a meanness in his eyes that made my stomach churn. In his hands he held a gun. With a silencer. At least a .45 by the size.
“I’m sorry,” Shatlock said again. “They caught up to us.”
Winston leaned forward. “Us? What about the hard drive?”
Shatlock’s gaze turned to one of triumph. “I tried to give it to my friend, but there wasn’t time. They almost got it.” A tiny hysterical giggle burst through his speech. “I destroyed it.” He lifted shaking hands to show us the broken nails.
“What friend?” I asked.
“Bridger. Don’t know his last name. He was trying to help. He’s been tracking these guys for years and found out what they were planning.” Shatlock’s face crumpled. “They shot him.”
“Shut up!” the driver ordered. “Now, miss, hand me your bag, slow and careful.”
Shatlock could only be talking about Bridger Philpot, which meant he was alive. But if what Shatlock said was true, he was working against these guys, not for them.
“Now!” the gun in the driver’s hand waved at Shatlock. “Or I’ll shoot him.”
“Who are you?” I asked. “What did you do with our real driver?” One of him, four of us, Cody and I both with pistols. The odds were good in our favor, if we picked our moment. I glanced at Cody, saw him begin to lean forward so he’d have access to the concealed weapon in his waistband holster.
Though directly behind the driver, his movement didn’t go undetected. With lightning speed, the gun shifted in my direction. Don’t move!” He put a hand to what must be a communication device in his ear. “Better get over here and help. All’s clear but they’re getting antsy.”
Ten seconds later, both doors on either side of us flew open and two dark-haired men appeared, one relieving Cody of his gun and the other patting down Winston.
I handed the driver my purse with a hard smile. “At least tell us who you’re working for.” Had Russo discovered what we were up to? I didn’t recognize any of the men, but that wasn’t saying much. Maybe Russo was more serious than I’d calculated about getting control of this technology. At the same time, I knew Tarragon or Print Perfect could be every bit as responsible.
“Move over,” the man standing next to Cody said, gesturing with a gun. An old scar ran the length of his arm, looking jagged as it emerged from his snug yellow polo. “Looks like we’re all about to get cozy.” He pushed inside and pulled the car door shut, making the three of us in the back seat squish together until I was half on top of Winston.
The man who had patted down Winston, slammed the other back door and climbed in the front of the taxi beside Shatlock, his weapon still ready for business. The driver lowered his gun from my face and put the car in gear.
Relief poured through me now that I wasn’t about to have my brains splattered all over the back seat. “So where is the taxi driver?” I asked for the second time. I’d dragged him into this, and I’d be responsible if anything happened to him. They couldn’t have let him go, or he’d report to the police, so where was he?
No one answered. Next to me, Winston swallowed hard, emitting a faint, despondent sound. I spared him a glance, only to see that his face was as white as Cody’s hair.
“I—I know you,” he said, staring at the thug in front of him, the man who’d checked him for weapons. “You—you’re Frank’s—” Winston stopped, apparently too stunned to complete his thought.
The man gave him a sneering grin. “That’s right. All these months of pumping and you didn’t tell him your uncle wasn’t going to be around on Friday. Guess that shows you have some sense. No matter, at least we took care of the lab, and it looks like we got your uncle in the end without your help.”
Cousin, I wanted to correct him. Ralph was Winston’s cousin twice removed. Or something. But I didn’t think anyone cared.
Winston blinked, looking like a confused little boy whose favorite dog had died. No, like a man who’d lost his father. Perhaps he had.
Reaching out, I took his hand. He clung to me so tightly my fingers began to ache.
What now? I asked myself.
I wished I’d made Cody stay at the station or given him the slip.
Had I left the GPS feature running on my phone? And if I had, would Shannon even think to look?
As we pulled into traffic, I saw something that gave me a tiny spurt of hope: an older black BMW with dings I recognized only too well.
Ace.
Chapter 18
A few minutes later, I became aware of a faint bumping sound coming from the trunk area. Erratic, but coming often enough that it didn’t seem to be something inanimate. The taxi driver? Was he coming in and out of consciousness, trying to get free? I glanced at Cody and he nodded slightly, his eyes darting to the back of the seat to indicate where he thought the sound originated, but neither Winston nor the thug next to Cody seemed to notice the noise. I hoped the taxi driver would stay quiet; it might be his only chance at getting out of this unharmed.
To my surprise, the pockmarked thug didn’t drive far, but pulled over in front of the rectangular white van. The other thug in the front seat turned to us. “We’re moving to the van,” he said. “These taxis have GPS devices, and we don’t want uninvited guests at our party. No funny business now.”
There wasn’t a chance of that. We were marched singly to the van, each of us with a gun jabbed in our ribs. The people in the cars whizzing past didn’t seem to notice, though with the car and the van blocking their view, I wasn’t surprised. Ace’s BMW was no longer in sight, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nearby. Inside the van, it felt chokingly hot, and I hoped if the taxi driver was in the trunk of the taxi that he’d be able to get out before he baked to death in the heat.
Twenty-five minutes later we were driving through the countryside, southwest of downtown Portland, where houses were spaced miles apart. Nothing looked familiar, though I’d attended at least a few estate sales in the area. Finally, the van drove up to a mansion set far back on a large forested lot. Not behind a gated entrance, but far from the narrow main road and shielded by enough trees to be completely isolated.
I’d spent the last half of the drive thinking about Bridger Philpot. If he died yet again, what would happen to his wife? Ralph said he’d been helping, and I hoped that was true because at least he’d die a good guy, though Tarragon’s missing money and Bridger’s faked death didn’t say much in his favor.
I wanted to ask Ralph all kinds of questions about Bridger, like how they met and where the supposedly dead attorney had been the past three years. I think I had some idea of how he’d supported himself, if Tarragon’s claims were true.
But why did Bridger steal money from Tarragon when he was already wealthy in his own right? It didn’t make sense, unless he’d done it knowing he was going to fake his death and didn’t want to leave his family without funds.
My head ached trying to figure it all out, though no
t as much as before I’d put on my gloves. A good sign, I hoped.
We pulled to a stop. “Out,” ordered the man in front of Winston. He had green eyes, I saw now, emphasized by his dark brows and lashes. Nice looking. Not at all like the dark-haired man squeezed in with us in the back, whose nose had apparently been broken and badly healed, or the blond driver whose face brought a moon crater to mind.
While not quite ugly, the square two-story house was nothing exceptional except for its large size, as if designed in the blandest of styles and with a minimum of color to perhaps attract a wider pool of buyers. Buyers in the multimillion dollar range.
We were hustled not into the mansion but down a flagstone pathway licked with moss, past a pool and a large flower garden, to another, smaller building. Perhaps the guesthouse. It sported the same blah design and coloring as the main house and was bigger than my apartment.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Green Eyes told us, opening the door.
Winston shook his head. “I want to talk to Frank.”
“You’ll do that soon, I’m sure.”
“He can’t keep us here!” Winston’s voice rose.
“He can do anything he wants.”
“Sit down,” Cody growled, throwing himself on a brown leather sofa. “Stop making a fool of yourself.”
Winston blinked, but his mouth clapped shut. He sat down stiffly on an easy chair. “Please tell Frank I want to see him.”
The thug nodded and turned to his men. “Stay alert. Kill them if you have to.”
I hoped that didn’t mean all of us were expendable. How many sons did Frank O’Donald have anyway?
Green Eyes left and his men stood guard, one at the front door and the other at the far end of the room where it opened onto a hallway. I sat on the sofa next to Cody, kicking off my shoes and pulling my feet up under me, wrapped in my gray skirt in case there was an imprint on the sofa, though Cody was touching it with his bare hands and didn’t seem distressed.
“Winston,” I said quietly. “What do you know about Frank’s family? Do you have half siblings?”
He stared at me blankly for a long moment before dredging up a reply. “One. You just met him. Name’s Frank Junior. They call him Frankie Jay.”
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