by Maggie Price
"All right," Alex agreed, meeting Spurlock's gaze. "Since he's leaving in the morning."
Just then, a distinguished-looking man and woman approached. Spurlock greeted them saying, "Let me introduce Alex and Morgan Donovan, my neighbors. This is Judge and Mrs. Howard Philben."
Alex smiled as he and Morgan made polite chitchat. Five years ago he had testified on a case in Philben's courtroom. Then Alex had long hair and a full beard. The judge thought he was shaking hands with a total stranger.
Spurlock explained that he and Alex had business to discuss, and asked the Philbens to keep Morgan company.
"Happy to," the judge said, sending Morgan an admiring look.
Alex arched a brow. Taking Mrs. Philben's scowl into account, he doubted Morgan would have a problem dumping them.
He tightened his hand on hers, knowing in only minutes she would slip up the winding staircase just a few feet away. Again his instincts sent the message that something about the assignment was off. Yet he had no idea what. And it was highly possible he was simply a man letting his emotions get in the way.
Morgan squeezed his hand. "We'll dance when you get back."
"Count on it, darling."
* * *
Her fingers tense on her small evening bag, Morgan watched the two men walk away, each wearing a dark tailored suit. Tonight Spurlock looked as dashing and relaxed as usual. Alex seemed controlled and intense, yet somehow different.
She wasn't sure why. Perhaps his years of covert work made him far more expert than she at disconnecting emotion in order to do a job. Right now she wished fervently for some of his ironclad calm to quell her roiling stomach.
She accompanied the Philbens into the vast living area where a wall of French glass doors were open to the starry night. People moved around the room, out to the terrace, drifted back in, in constant motion. Morgan spied a small combo of musicians set up on the terrace and felt a tug of regret for the dance she and Alex would not share.
"Mrs. Donovan, you haven't touched your champagne," the amiable gray-haired judge observed. "Can I get you something else to drink?"
Morgan smiled. Judging by his wife's glare, His Honor was due to get an earful for not taking her drink order first.
"Thank you, no. I missed lunch, so I don't want to drink on an empty stomach," she added, setting the champagne flute aside. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go fill a plate from the buffet."
Morgan moved into the elegant dining room where an imposing mahogany table and sideboard seemed to groan beneath the weight of food-laden trays. She made a pretense of surveying the array of pâtés, meats, seafood, breads and pastries, but her interest wasn't food. It was pegging the security personnel, especially Colaneri. The last thing she wanted was another encounter with the thug.
Although she spotted several hulking bodyguard types standing apart from the guests, she saw no sign of Colaneri.
In the foyer, clusters of guests chatted while sipping drinks and nibbling from plates filled from the buffet. Getting upstairs proved no problem, as Morgan simply joined several other elegantly clad women in search of unoccupied powder rooms.
Fifteen minutes later she had used the camera hidden in her lipstick tube to snap pictures of every upstairs bedroom.
None of them were painted or papered gold.
She made her way downstairs, scouting for Alex and Spurlock, but saw neither. What now? she asked as she stepped out on the dimly lit terrace where the musicians had just ended a set and were beginning a break.
She snagged a champagne flute off the tray of a passing waiter, then moved away from the knots of guests to stand by herself. Lights tucked across the landscaped grounds illuminated the vast rose gardens. The delicate scent of the blooms drifted on the warm night air, filling her lungs as she reviewed the events that had set Alex and her on what seemed now a useless safari to find a gold bedroom.
Frankie Isom, a jockey, had been murdered. Krystelle Vander—Carlton Spurlock's lover—called retired cop George Jackson, head of the race track's security. According to the notes Jackson drafted in his computer during that call, a hysterical Vander claimed she had proof Spurlock ordered Isom's murder. Unable to safely smuggle that proof out of Spurlock's mansion, Vander hid it in the gold bedroom.
Problem was, Morgan had found no gold bedroom.
What now?
"The roses are beautiful."
Recognizing Judge Philben's voice, Morgan forced a smile, then turned. "Yes, they are. I envy Carlton's green thumb."
"Which he inherited from his grandmother."
"He's mentioned her several times." Morgan glanced across the man's shoulder, and saw no sign of his grimfaced wife. "I get the impression he was very fond of her."
"Very." The ice in the judge's drink rattled when he took a sip. "In fact, Carlton adored Goldie."
Morgan felt herself go still. "I thought Mrs. Spurlock's name was Emmaline." That's what the intel info said, anyway.
"Yes, that's right. She had masses of blond hair and a very pale complexion. Growing up, Carlton always called her Goldie. Her death three years ago hit him hard." The judge dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level. "I don't believe Carlton has fully recovered. He remodeled the mansion, but wouldn't let the decorator touch Goldie's bedroom. He still has the special strain of roses he bred for her placed beside the bed."
Morgan's already pounding pulse picked up speed. George Jackson had gotten the information wrong in his hurriedly typed notes. Krystelle Vander hadn't hidden the evidence in a gold bedroom, but in Goldie's bedroom.
Morgan's mind scrolled back to the search she'd conducted of the downstairs bedrooms. They had all struck her as obsessively neat with an unlived-in feel to them. Except the last bedroom she'd come to. The one she'd rushed through to reach its adjoining bathroom when she heard footsteps. That bedroom had felt occupied, lived in. She remembered the scent of lavender, a vase of yellow roses on the nightstand.
Smiling, Morgan met Philben's gaze. "Excuse me for running off again, Judge. I simply must find a powder room."
* * *
Seated in one of the blood-red leather chairs in front of Spurlock's massive desk of mahogany and inlaid teak, Alex glanced at his watch. Morgan had been out of his sight for nearly half an hour. The more time that passed, the hotter the spot in his gut burned that always sent out warning signals.
His gaze ranged across the elegant, dark-paneled study, lit by brass sconces. The one positive angle to being stuck with Spurlock in his lair was that Colaneri stood guard just inside the door. Studying the hired muscle out of the corner of his eye, Alex decided Colaneri's tall, wiry build mirrored that of the man who'd broken in two nights ago. Still, there was no way to know if the bastard had been the dark, skulking figure on the surveillance tape. Right now, with Colaneri in his sights, Alex figured the threat level to Morgan remained low.
Still, his gut burned and he wanted her where he could get to her in case of trouble.
He sent Spurlock a cool look across the desk. "I'm done waiting," he said, his tone low and controlled. "It's too damn bad your advisor got held up in traffic. You want an update on my business venture, I'll give you the abbreviated version right now. Otherwise, I'm going to go dance with my wife."
Just then the phone on Spurlock's desk rang. He answered it, then instructed, "Send him in."
"My associate has arrived," Spurlock said, replacing the receiver. "Again I apologize for the delay. He lives out of town, but his family resides here. That's why he's here—his son is in the hospital." Spurlock angled his head. "My advisor is a CPA, a very good one. That's why I want him to hear the details of our pending business arrangement."
Alex steepled his fingers and regarded Spurlock silently. So, he was about to meet Emmett Tool's replacement. He doubted the new bean counter knew Spurlock had turned his predecessor into a flaming briquette.
When a knock sounded on the door, Colaneri pulled it ajar, nodded, then swung it open.
Alex was seldom at
a loss; he had been trained not to panic, to maintain focus. But when Spurlock's business associate stepped into view, he felt the impact of the man's presence as if he'd been punched in the gut. A person who burned to death—and had to be identified by dental records—was not supposed to be walking around, looking as healthy as he had on the day Alex had arrested him.
He had time only to triple-click the stem on his watch to send an SOS to Rackowitz's pager before the resurrected Emmett Tool spotted him.
The man froze in his tracks, his gaunt face paling.
Spurlock gave the accountant a quizzical look. "Something wrong, Emmett?"
"Yeah, boss. Why the hell you talking to a cop?"
* * *
Hands fisted on her hips, Morgan stood in the center of the immense bedroom that smelled faintly of lavender, assessing the status of her search. She had first checked all the drawers filled with clothing that had been Emmaline "Goldie" Spurlock's.
The drawers had not offered up whatever evidence Krystelle Vander supposedly hid in the room.
Morgan had gotten the same results in the enormous walk-in closet after sticking her hands into an uncountable number of pockets, purses and shoes. She'd also checked the obvious places—between the bed's mattress and box springs, the back and bottoms of all drawers, under the cushion of the needlepoint wing chair. She'd even used a nail file to unscrew all the outlets, since sometimes dummy outlets concealed small hiding places.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
She bit back frustration. Whatever she was looking for was here. She could feel it.
Turning slowly she slid her gaze across the crimson-velvet settee with a gold silk robe draped across it, past the enormous television, then to the nightstand where a crystal vase held fresh-cut Rosea Midas Touch blooms. She and Alex had discussed what Vander's evidence might be, and the potential hiding places in a typical bedroom. Morgan had even studied pictures of furniture—modern and antique—that were known to have hidden compartments. Nothing.
She started roaming. One by one she picked up the jewel-colored bottles and boxes off the bureau, held each up to the light. All contained either oil or powder. She moved to the nightstand, flipped through the leather address book lying beside the crystal vase. Nothing out of the ordinary. She lifted the receiver on the combination phone/answering machine, listened for a dial tone, then hesitated when she got silence. Had the phone line to this room been a private one which Spurlock disconnected after Goldie died? Morgan checked the phone for a number, but the plastic sleeve that held the label was blank.
She tugged on the unit's cord, found it had been unplugged from the wall. She pursed her mouth. If the line was dead, why bother unplugging the phone? If the line was still active, on the other hand, you'd unplug the phone if you didn't want calls coming in and messages left.
She flipped up the machine's cover, nudged the micro-cassette out of its slot, turned it over. Written on the label were the words "Spurlock—Isom." Morgan's heartbeat picked up. This, then, had to be Krystelle Vander's proof that Spurlock ordered the jockey's murder. Just before she'd been killed nearly two months ago, Vander must have hidden the cassette in the answering machine, then disconnected it so no messages could tape over the evidence.
Morgan replaced the cassette, closed the cover. The Vice guys would "find" it when they served the search warrant.
She slid on the backless heels she'd taken off to conduct her search and grabbed her beaded bag off the bed. She did a quick survey to ensure she'd left nothing amiss, then turned for the door just as it swung open.
Colaneri stepped in, his dark eyes almost frightening in their coldness. "Been looking for you, blondie. You and I need to take a nice, friendly walk to the basement."
She tossed back her hair. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
He raised a hand to show her the cell phone gripped in this palm. "My boss is listening. You make a wrong move during our stroll, he'll put a bullet in your partner's brain. Got it?"
A slick, sweaty fist of fear lodged in Morgan's stomach. Colaneri had said partner, not husband. Something or someone had blown her and Alex's cover.
And Spurlock had a gun on Alex. Alex.
She gave Colaneri a curt nod. "Got it."
* * *
"Stop here," Colaneri ordered a few minutes later when Morgan reached a metal door at the end of a murky corridor.
They had left Goldie's bedroom, walking from the second floor down the winding staircase. The numerous party guests they'd passed hadn't given them a second look. Why should they? Colaneri hadn't brandished a gun. For Morgan, the cell phone he held with Spurlock listening on the other end was a much more controlling weapon.
As they'd descended into the basement, the air had gone from cool to refrigerator cold with an edge of dankness. Still, she knew the surrounding temperature had nothing to do with the icy fear in her stomach.
Colaneri reached around her, slid a key into the lock, twisted it, let his hand drop. "Open the door," he ordered.
The instant Morgan obeyed, he kicked her center back, sending her stumbling forward. Her backless heels went out from under her on the slick concrete floor; something popped inside her left ankle as she went down crashing onto her side.
She lay stunned, her lungs heaving from having the air knocked out of them. Pain ripped at her ankle in vicious spasms.
She heard a savage curse, realized it came from Alex. Raising her head, she spotted him across the small, windowless room. He was standing, his arms stretched over his head, his wrists bound to a metal rod that hung a few feet down from the ceiling. They'd stripped him of his suit coat. She checked his white shirt for blood but saw none. His eyes were locked on her, his expression set. She'd never seen anger so cold, so controlled.
Spurlock stood a few feet from Alex in front of a waist-high workbench with tools hanging on the plaster wall above it. Spurlock held a small, nickel-plated automatic in one hand, a cell phone in the other. Morgan knew he'd controlled Alex not with the gun, but with a threat to harm her, the same way Colaneri had gained her total cooperation.
Levering herself into sitting position, she bit back a whimper when the pain in her ankle intensified. Her foot had already begun to swell. Her shoes had flown off in the fall and lay just out of reach. If she could grab one, the spiked heel could make a deadly weapon.
With Colaneri standing only inches behind her and Spurlock gripping a gun, she didn't dare make a move.
"An unfortunate injury," Spurlock murmured, pulling her gaze back to him. He slipped the cell phone into the pocket of his suit coat. "Peter, was such rough handling necessary?"
"The bitch is dangerous. Gotta show her who's in charge."
"I have every intention of showing both of these police officers who is in charge." Keeping his gaze locked with Morgan's, Spurlock pointed the automatic at Alex, his finger ready on the trigger. "If you resist in any way, I will shoot your partner. Do you understand?"
With a gun pointed at Alex's heart, she had no choice but to cooperate. She knew at the first sign of trouble he would have used his watch to send Rackowitz an SOS. Both of their watches were equipped with satellite tracking chips. Their best bet was to play for time and wait for the cavalry.
"I understand," she said, keeping her voice dull, her face slack in order to project an image of weakness. Just in case backup got delayed, it would be to her advantage for Spurlock and Colaneri to think her mentally and physically incapacitated.
"Good," Spurlock said. "This type of encounter always goes more smoothly when my guests cooperate. Peter, bring her to me."
"I want her," Colaneri protested. "I got a debt to settle with her."
Spurlock arched a brow. "You may have her after I'm done. Bring her to me now."
Colaneri loomed into Morgan's view, the scars around his eyebrows and mouth making him look even more ominous. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel her pulse throbbing under her skin.
"Hear that, blondie?" he taunted. "When th
e boss gets done with you, you're mine."
Morgan wrapped her fingers around her ankle. She could move her toes, so she didn't think she had broken any bones. Colaneri was close enough that a well-placed kick would crush the inside ball of his knee. Yet, if she made a move right now, Alex would die. A tremor ran through her as she pictured the automatic aimed at his heart. Her best defense—only defense—right now was to act like a victim. She knew that was the reason Alex had voiced no further protest. He was waiting, coiled energy held in check, ready to spring in case Spurlock lowered his guard.
"Please don't hurt me," she whispered.
"That bitch, Krystelle, begged me, too," Colaneri said, his eyes lighting with a hovering cruelty. "Didn't do her no good. I had her, then I cut her. Same as I'm going to do you." He pulled a length of yellow plastic rope from the pocket of his suit coat. "Put your hands out."
With her wrists bound together, Morgan felt a cold twist of panic. Colaneri wrapped the excess rope around his fist, hauled her to her feet and dragged her across the room. She limped behind him, pain tearing at her ankle as the rope's stiff fibers cut into her flesh.
He tied a second length of rope to her wrists, led it over the opposite end of the rod to which Alex was already trussed. Colaneri jerked her arms above her head, then tied off the rope. She and Alex were now standing six feet apart, facing each other. His expression was set in savage lines, his eyes so bright they seemed to burn her. He knew as well as she they were positioned to watch each other die.
"Good," Spurlock said. He laid the automatic on the workbench, eased out of his suit coat, and moved toward Morgan.
"I overlooked your presence in my grandmother's bedroom the first time because your explanation for being there was plausible. My mistake." He raised a shoulder in elegant dismissal. "Did you find what you were looking for tonight?"
Morgan thought of the tape in the answering machine. Why hadn't she called Rackowitz when she found it? At least someone else would know the tape was there.
