Kick A** Heroines Box Set: The UltimatumFatal AffairAfter the DarkBulletproof SEAL (The Guardian)

by Karen Robards

  “Les Harding was a mistake,” Evie conceded.

  “Yes, he was. If you need a distraction, concentrate on Hay. He could use fixing up.”

  “He’s dating that Susan Clemons.”

  “Not anymore. They broke up. Last Saturday night.”

  Evie perked up. “Oh, yeah? What happened?”

  “Apparently she started to get too serious for him. Now he doesn’t have a date for your costume ball. That’s all I know. If you need more, ask Hay.”

  “He needs a date?” Evie was definitely perking up.

  Ruthlessly throwing Hay under the bus, Bianca said, “He doesn’t have one.”

  “Hmm.” Evie’s expression turned speculative. “You know, you and Hay—”

  Bianca’s frown was dire. “No. No, Evie. There is no me and Hay. Don’t even start to go there. Understand?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.” Bianca stepped back and closed her door, then remembered something and called through it. “What time is that appointment with Claybourne Realty tomorrow?”

  In the wake of an assault on a local Realtor, Claybourne Realty was coming in to talk about possibly arranging security for their sales agents who were hosting open houses.

  “Leona Tilley?” Evie had a facility with things like names, times and dates that she was putting to good use on the job; Bianca was once again impressed with how well her friend had taken hold. “Nine a.m.”

  “Thanks. Good night.”

  “Night.”

  Bianca heard the click of Evie’s door closing and turned to cross the bedroom to her closet, which was a large walk-in that she loved. Like the rest of the apartment, her bedroom was decorated in neutrals. Taupe walls, white drapes and bedspread. The queen-size bed, twin nightstands and mirrored dresser were smooth walnut in a stark, clean design. The lamps and big armchair also had a stark, clean design and were graphite gray. The rug beside the bed, like the rug on the gray-tiled bathroom floor, wasn’t stark anything. It was cream-colored and fluffy.

  Because it was pretty and felt good to her bare toes.

  Bianca undressed and hung up her clothes. She never left things lying around; Evie, who once upon a time had been her roommate and was messy as all get-out, accused her of being compulsively neat. Which was an exaggeration, Bianca thought, but honesty compelled her to admit, not by much. Her closet was arranged by type of clothing, color, appropriate occasion. Accessories had their own area. Her shoes were positioned on racks, side by side, sorted by style and color and heel height.

  Wearing her bathrobe as she padded back into her bedroom to stand barefoot on the fluffy rug, she began the mindful meditation exercise that was supposed to prepare her for sleep. Staying very still, she pressed her feet into the floor until she was conscious of her own weight and placed her hands flat against the center of her chest. Clearing her mind of thought, she focused inward, on her breathing, the beat of her heart, the rhythms of her body. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her arms over her head and rose up on her toes, stretching upward—

  An image of the folder she’d tucked away in the file cabinet at the office just before Kazmarek’s arrival popped into her consciousness. Had she tucked it away, or had she left it out? Leaving it out wasn’t like her, but she’d been looking through the information it contained for what must have been the hundredth time and getting frustrated because there was so much of it and absolutely nothing in it leaped out at her. The folder contained the research she’d been doing and having Doc do into house fires and/or explosions that had resulted in the death of a woman approximately twenty-two years previously. Since she didn’t know the actual date, the place where the fire or explosion had taken place, what exactly had burned or exploded, or anything about the woman besides a few illusive recollections that might or might not be accurate, she was drowning in the sheer number of cases. A similar search into obituaries of women who had died in a fire or explosion twenty-two years ago had yielded relatively few results. Most obituaries didn’t list cause of death. And she wasn’t having any luck gleaning anything more concrete out of the memory that had surfaced on the night of her father’s death.

  For some reason, it felt vitally important that she remember.

  According to Richard, her mother had been named Ann Johnson St. Ives. She’d died after being hit by a car when Bianca was four. The framed picture he’d given her when she was little had been of a blonde, blue-eyed, smiling young woman. Bianca had never felt the slightest degree of connection to it, and as she grew older she’d put it away, never to be looked at again. She suspected the reason was because the woman had been another of Richard’s cover stories. The vague memories she had of her mother included a ruffle of black hair brushing her own little-girl cheek, a pair of laughing dark eyes and an elusive vanilla-ish scent. And a Winnie the Pooh movie. And an explosion.

  And a possible last name of McCoy or Mulloy.

  Richard and Ann Johnson St. Ives were the names listed for her parents on her birth certificate. If the name her father had given on the document was false, and Bianca was ninety-nine point nine percent sure it was, then it stood to reason that the name her mother had given was false, too. She’d seen her purported birth certificate maybe only twice in her life, and she had never before been curious enough, or brave enough, to ask questions about it. Now she was both curious and brave. She only wished her father was still around so that she could demand the truth from him.

  Then she smiled a little wryly at herself. If he’d been standing in front of her, she would have demanded answers, and he would have provided them.

  The only thing was, the answers he gave her would almost certainly not be the truth.

  Her father lied as easily and convincingly as he breathed.

  “Damn it.” Dropping her arms and coming down off her toes, Bianca said it aloud. Meditation was not, and never had been, her best thing. When her father or one of his hired minions had been around to supervise, she’d faked it, but the truth was she could never turn off her mind for long enough to get the job done. Trying to close it down just seemed to invite disturbing thoughts into her head.

  Face facts: as far as meditation was concerned, she was a total dud.

  And yes, she had put the damned folder away. Now that her mind was back to doing the whole thinking-as-usual thing, she perfectly remembered putting it back in the file cabinet before going out to greet Kazmarek.

  Ordinarily she would have tried again, but she was too tired to put the effort into it. Giving up, she went into the bathroom and turned on the taps in her big soaking tub before putting her hair up in a ponytail and brushing her teeth. Since her father’s death, she’d found sleeping difficult. Mindful meditation was supposed to help with that. For her, it didn’t. What did help, she’d discovered, was a hot bath and a big dose of NyQuil.

  Especially the big dose of NyQuil.

  At least, after that, if the nightmares came, they didn’t wake her, and she didn’t remember them.

  * * *

  Bianca was up at 5:00 a.m. As was her routine, she went for a run. On the way back she stopped for a workout in the small gym she’d set up for herself in the basement of the Dance Dreams Ballet School, which she owned and leased to the operators, sisters Lori Huddleston and Kathleen Groves, who taught ballet and other dance classes for a living. The rent she received was a pittance, but owning the school had other benefits. First, it added to her cover identity—badasses did not own ballet schools—and second, it gave her an excuse to set up a state-of-the-art private gym in a place where no one would think twice about it if she was seen going in and out on a daily basis.

  It was autumn. Didn’t matter. The day was going to be a hot one. By the time Bianca showered, dressed in navy slacks and a white linen blazer over a thin white cotton tank, and walked into Guardian Consulting with a copy of the Savannah Morning News t
ucked under her arm and a cup of coffee in her hand at a few minutes before eight, the sun was already a hazy yellow ball climbing the sky, and the leaves on the sweet gum trees in front of the office building were starting to wilt.

  Inside, the office was blessedly cool. Bianca gave the gray-walled reception area with its black leather, stainless-steel-and-glass furnishings an assessing glance and concluded that everything was immaculate. A good way to start the day.

  Hay was already there, in Doc’s office, his back turned to Bianca as he took the thick sheaf of papers that Doc was handing him. Looking professional in a white dress shirt tucked into belted gray slacks, Hay stood in front of Doc’s desk. Standing behind his desk, Doc looked even more rumpled than usual in a short-sleeved black shirt with a clip-on black tie and saggy black jeans. His curly hair was tied back in a ponytail at his nape. His forehead was furrowed as he frowned at Hay.

  Hay said to Doc, “This is a hell of a lot of paper.”

  “You asked for all the closed trucks that entered the port of Savannah on the dates in question. That’s what’s in there. You tell me a little more precisely what you’re looking for, I could maybe narrow the information down for you, you know what I mean? It’s all about the paradigm. You want different results, you change the paradigm.”

  “At this point I’m not sure how to narrow it down, but if I come up with something, I’ll get back to you.” Hay turned away with the papers in his hand. “Thanks.”

  “No problemo.”

  Hay walked out of Doc’s office. Doc settled back down behind his desk. They both spotted Bianca at about the same time.

  “Coffeemaker’s on the fritz,” Hay said to Bianca, eyeing her cup as he passed her. “Care to share?”

  “Oh, dear,” Bianca replied to the first piece of information. To the second, she pulled the cup in closer to her body. “Go get your own. You know where the Starbucks is. Straight down the elevator, two buildings to the right.”

  “Selfish. That’s two strikes. One more and you’re out.” Hay disappeared into his office. Bianca guessed he was counting last night’s “hard-ass” as the first strike and made a face at his open door.

  “Morning, boss.” From his chair, Doc beckoned to her urgently.

  Oh, joy.

  Bianca’s stomach tightened. She knew that urgent beckoning. It never meant anything good. At the very least, she was pretty sure she could say goodbye to the quiet fifteen minutes she had been looking forward to with the paper and her coffee.

  She was heading for Doc’s office when Evie pushed through the front door carrying a box in both hands. They both did their own morning thing, then made their way to work separately, so Bianca hadn’t seen her since she’d closed the door on her the previous night. Evie was looking perky and surprisingly cheerful in a seafoam-green trapeze dress with beige flats. Her shrunken, half-sleeved seafoam cardigan had chiffon roses in the same shade of green blooming all around the neckline. Not a look Bianca could ever envision wearing herself, but it suited Evie perfectly.

  “I brought coffee,” Evie trilled to announce herself. “And doughnuts.” To Bianca, she added, “I forgot to tell you, the coffeemaker broke last night after you left for dinner. I tried fixing it, but no luck. If you want, I can pick up a new one over lunch.”

  “You know where the petty cash is,” Bianca responded, holding up her own cup in explanation as Evie proffered the box, which she saw now contained coffee cups. And doughnuts, stacked in the center. She’d already had a protein bar for breakfast, so she shook her head.

  But she eyed the doughnuts covetously. They looked good.

  “Coffee?” Hay emerged from his office, spotted Evie and made a beeline for her. Grabbing a cup and hooking a doughnut with a finger, he flicked a censorious look at Bianca and said to Evie, “Why am I not working for you?”

  “Doughnuts?” Doc came out of his office with the cautious air of one not quite sure of his welcome. Evie held the box out toward him, and he took one, along with a cup of coffee. “Thanks, Evie.”

  The smile he gave her was tentative. Evie beamed at him, and his smile widened.

  “I’ll put the rest of these in the kitchen,” she called as a kind of general announcement and walked away with what was left of her booty. Hay had already retreated to his office.

  Bianca followed Doc into his. It was simply furnished: a teak-and-metal desk, a wall of bookcases crammed with books, framed black-and-white prints of some famous people who had died on the walls. Right now they included JFK in the motorcade moments before he was shot, astronaut Neil Armstrong taking the first steps on the moon, Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed emerging from the Paris Ritz on the night they died, union leader Jimmy Hoffa walking into the restaurant he supposedly disappeared from, whistle-blower Karen Silkwood inside the power plant where she worked not long before she was killed in a car crash. Not exactly the artwork Bianca would have chosen, but this was Doc’s office to decorate as he would (within limits) and he was a major conspiracy theory buff. The pictures on the walls represented the cases he was currently researching in his free time. Free being the word to remember, as Bianca occasionally had to remind him. While he was in the office, he was on the clock, and his time wasn’t free, it was expensive. As she knew, because she signed his paycheck.

  “I’m glad you were able to help Hay out,” she said. “Before you came along, he would have ended up paying off somebody at the docks to get that information. Then somebody might have talked, and somebody might have heard, and—well, it’s just better if we can keep as much as possible about what we’re working on in-house.”

  Doc shrugged. “He asked for it when he got in this morning. It took maybe fifteen minutes. I got algorithms that’ll find anything if you ask the right questions. It’s all about what you put in. It’s all about the paradigms.”

  Bianca frowned as the concept struck a chord. Maybe if she changed what she was looking for in her search for her mother and what had happened to her, she would have better luck getting the information she sought.

  “Could you do a search through newspaper archives for four-year-old girls mentioned in news stories twenty-two years ago?” she asked.

  She hadn’t told Doc why she wanted the information she’d had him help her with, and he hadn’t asked. She’d searched for Ann Johnson St. Ives herself, with no results.

  “Sure. How soon do you want it?”

  “Sometime today?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Doc settled down into his seat, they both heard a soft tap on the doorframe of the office beside his—Hay’s—followed by Evie calling out in a dulcet tone, “Oh, Ha-ay…”

  Bianca’s lips curved into a wry smile despite the serious nature of what she feared Doc had to tell her. The coffee, the doughnuts, the sugary approach: Evie was clearly turning her matchmaking efforts to Hay.

  Sorry, friend, she apologized to Hay silently.

  “So what’s so important?” She closed the door and walked behind Doc’s desk.

  He looked up at her. “The Bat Signal—we got more from those same people.”

  “We’re ignoring them, remember?”

  Doc was already punching keys. “I think you ought to see this.” He gestured at the monitor as the screen went black for a moment before going live again. “Check it out.”

  An image of her father striding across a London street hit Bianca like a fist to the stomach. It was all she could do not to wince with pain. There were too many visible landmarks for her not to instantly recognize the city: a Debenhams department store on the corner, a distinctive London taxi amid the traffic, a sign with the open red circle and blue Underground banner of the tube. In fact, she realized, she was looking at Oxford Street. She knew it well. The day was damp and overcast and it looked cold—well, it was London—and the Christmas lights
were out on the shops, which narrowed the time frame down to mid-November through early January. Her father was wearing a trench coat with a hat pulled down low over his forehead as he splashed through puddles.

  Despite the fact that his face was hidden, Bianca recognized him instantly. Everything from his tall, slim build and erect carriage to his way-too-youthful-for-his-years stride to his bespoke leather shoes made him impossible to mistake. She knew those shoes well. A derringer was concealed in the left heel and a compartment in the right heel was loaded with tear gas so if his shoes were searched whoever succeeded in opening the heel to expose the hidden compartment would be sprayed, thus giving Richard the opportunity either to run or to do whatever the situation called for.

  As she watched, a gust of wind caught his hat and blew it off. For a moment as he looked after the hat in surprise, a three-quarter image of his face was captured, the features clear and recognizable.

  Bianca’s heart contracted painfully.

  Richard chased the hat down, caught it, clamped it back onto his head and strode on toward his original destination, a café on the other side of the street just out of the frame. Bianca knew that, too, because it was a favorite of his and she’d often met him there. They would eat and talk, although rarely about anything personal. When they met, it was all about upcoming or past jobs. Still, it was time spent together, and now, looking back, she realized how much that time had meant to her. She was so caught up in watching him that for a moment after the video ended she completely missed the email message that appeared on the monitor in its wake.

  Then she regained enough focus to read the words on the screen.

  You screw with us we screw with you. Do the job or we send this to authorities who’ll get their first good look at Traveler. If we don’t hear affirmative from you within twelve hours, video will be on its way to them.