The Killing Game

by Nancy Bush

  That reporter looked like he’d sucked on a lemon, and Andi found herself smiling. The onscreen view returned to the earnest-looking man outside the courthouse, who concluded, “Ex-homicide detective Lucas Denton, who turned in his badge over his anger at the way his partner was treated, has turned to private investigation. Meanwhile, Ray Bolchoy awaits a hearing on whether there’s enough evidence to charge him with a crime.”

  Once more the blond newscaster took over. “And that hearing’s today. Stay tuned to this channel and we’ll keep you posted.”

  Talk of the Carreras sent Andi’s thoughts to the ten cabins on Lake Schultz’s north shore, not far from the lodge construction, that ninety-year-old Mr. Allencore had sold to the Wrens. The Carreras had made a play for the self-same cottages and had both been coldly furious when stubborn Mr. Allencore had gleefully refused them flat out. He’d died several weeks after the final papers were signed, and sometimes Andi wondered, in a small, secret, paranoid spot of herself, if the Carreras had contributed to the old man’s death. The brothers weren’t above intense pressure, and she suspected they’d been none too happy when the cottages were outside their grasp. A few well-placed threats and the old man’s heart could have given out, although by all accounts it had simply been his time.

  The Carrera brothers . . . There were stories and stories about them. Though neither had done anything strictly illegal yet—that they’d been caught at anyway—one of the twins had definitely contributed to a fatal car accident he had walked away from but that had resulted in a young woman’s death. That was Blake Carrera, she believed, and his cavalier attitude had infuriated the public to the point that he’d been compelled to issue an apology, though he’d sworn it wasn’t his fault. No alcohol or drugs were discovered in his system. It was just an unfortunate driving error when his wheels had locked on a slippery road and he’d spun around and slammed into her car. No criminal charges were filed and, as ever, the Carreras had slipped away from the long arm of the law.

  Someone changed the channel and, as if her thoughts had wished it, a brunette woman newscaster popped on the screen with another picture of Ray Bolchoy’s grizzled, glowering face. The newscaster was talking about the upcoming hearing as well. “Detective Bolchoy’s scheduled court time is nine a.m. today. The expectation is that he will not go to trial, that the evidence against him isn’t strong enough. We’ll see.”

  “Thank you, Pauline,” a smooth male newscaster said in a tone that suggested he didn’t think much of his coanchor. Though he opened his mouth to say something further, someone once again switched the channel to a different station, this one airing a morning program on which the hosts were learning how to incorporate kale into every dish.

  Ray Bolchoy. The seasoned Portland Police Department homicide detective had gone after the Carreras hammer and tongs, seeking to pin something on them. He was connected to the woman Blake Carrera had inadvertently killed somehow, Andi thought. Andi slowed her treadmill. She dabbed at her moist face with the towel around her neck. Normally she could go much farther, but these were not normal times. And where was Trini? Andi had saved the empty treadmill on her right by throwing her jacket over one of the arms, but now she swept it off, though no one seemed interested in working out on the machine. She decided she would wait around for a few more minutes, then hit the showers and get ready for the conference meeting with Carter and Emma.

  Should you tell Trini about the baby?

  She wasn’t sure. Trini had been no fan of Greg’s. A free spirit, she’d objected from the get-go to Greg’s stiff, linear thinking. Though she’d been there for Andi when he’d died, had been shocked and sorry he was gone, she hadn’t been able to completely disguise the fact that she was also relieved Andi was unshackled.

  Someone switched the television station yet again; there appeared to be a war going on between two out-of-view club employees on what should be shown. There again was Bolchoy, looking grim and slightly belligerent. The fiftysomething detective was walking beside his lawyer toward the courthouse. A bevy of reporters followed after them. Andi could appreciate the fact that the detective had tried to do something to make the Carreras pay for their crimes, even if he’d failed. The fact that the brothers had been able to steamroll their agenda time and again made many people question whether they had someone helping them on the planning commission. Andi would bet on it. But that person was still in the shadows, and Bolchoy was on his own.

  Reaching for her water bottle, Andi shot a glance at the huffing runner beside her. He was lean and long-limbed. She could just see his profile.

  Without turning toward her, he asked, “Wha’dya think of all that?” He lifted a chin toward the screen in between huhs.

  Andi took a drink from her water bottle, her gaze still fixed on the television. She didn’t want to engage with him or anyone else. The picture had changed to a view of Schultz Lake. The reporter was explaining how the lake, which sat on the westernmost edge of Winslow County, just outside the Laurelton city limits, had always been a mecca for outdoor sports enthusiasts—camping, canoeing, kayaking, hiking—but over the past few years its rustic cabins and winding trails had been undergoing a change to more high-end housing and full-time residents. The area wasn’t that far from Portland’s city center and it was even closer to the Nike campus. Its main drawback to full-time living was the winding two-lane access road that took at least twenty minutes to connect with Sunset Highway, the artery that ran from Hillsboro, Laurelton, and all points west into the city center. Still, people liked living on the lake and the extra twenty minutes of commuting was a small price to pay. Consequently, the values of the lots were skyrocketing.

  Andi had tuned out. She knew all this information backward and forward. But then the latest newscaster said, “Wren Development is building a lodge at the northernmost point of the lake and they plan to keep the ‘summer camp’ feel of the cabins closest to the lodge. To quote deceased CEO Gregory Wren, ‘We want to keep the architecture and nostalgia, just with modern amenities. Our competitors, Blake and Brian Carrera, have a different plan in mind. Their mow-down mentality doesn’t take public input into account. I haven’t seen their design, but take a look at their Portland developments and see for yourself. They’re constructed of chrome and glass, not shingles and timbers.’”

  The man on the treadmill next to her snorted his disgust. He’d turned his machine off as well, and his steps were slowing with the belt. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him wipe his face with his towel. He was still breathing hard, but his huhs had disappeared when he’d stopped running.

  She considered heading for the showers without waiting for Trini.

  “. . . brothers Blake and Brian Carrera have filed suit against Detective Roy Bolchoy for falsifying evidence, along with other members of the Portland Police Department, Detective Opal Amberson and former Detective Lucas Denton.” Another picture of Bolchoy, looking dour and cranky. “... among others the brothers believe were all part of a smear campaign against them and their development company, Carrera Limited,” the newswoman reported.

  There followed more shots of Detective Opal Amberson, slim, black, and fierce-looking, and more of Lucas Denton. Andi assessed Denton thoughtfully. He was rangy, dark-haired, with a slight smile that probably invited a lot of confidences. He looked capable. More than capable. Andi had seen lots of photos of both Amberson and Denton. They’d been and still were Bolchoy’s staunchest defenders. Denton had left the force, switching to private investigation, she’d heard, over what he believed was the department turning its back on one of their own.

  The newswoman finished with, “More later after we learn whether Ray Bolchoy’s case is headed to trial.”

  “Bolchoy’s guilty all right,” the man now standing on the treadmill said. “Tried to frame us and it blew up in his face.”

  Andi turned to stare fully at the man. Curly dark hair and a scar across his chin. Oh God. She’d seen his picture a hundred times, too. “You’re Blake Carre
ra.”

  “It’s Brian, actually. And you’re the Widow Wren.”

  Her heart lurched. “You know me?”

  “Sure. You’re the beauty with the cheating dead husband. I hear you ended up with the lion’s share of the company.”

  “You ... planned this?” She could hear the thread of fear in her voice as she indicated their side-by-side treadmills.

  “Let’s just say I knew you came here,” he said around a cold smile.

  He was too thuggish to be called handsome. There was something cold about him, and his dark eyes were black, emotionless pits. Why? she almost asked, but she knew the answer. “Schultz Lake.”

  He held out a sweaty palm. “Right the first time.”

  She ignored his outstretched hand. She almost asked him how he’d known when she would be here, but the answer was evident: he knew her routine.

  “My friend Trini is meeting me,” she heard herself say.

  “Good for her,” he said.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “So soon? We’ve barely had a chance to talk.”

  “All talking should be done through our lawyers.”

  “Sure, sure. But maybe you can pass on some information to your brother- and sister-in-law. Tell them they should be more reasonable. That lodge you’re building? It doesn’t look like it’s safe, y’know? Anything could happen to it.”

  Andi gazed at him in shock. She had to resist the urge to cradle her abdomen. “Did you just threaten me?”

  “I’m just saying, all of you should be more reasonable.” He spread his palms. “Given a chance, we could really be good friends. We have common interests, after all.”

  “Our tactics are vastly different.”

  He flipped his towel over his shoulder. “Friendship’s your best bet. You don’t want us for enemies.” He winked at her as he strolled away.

  Andi’s heart was climbing up her throat as she stared after him. With an effort, she jerked her eyes from his retreating figure and back to the newscast, but it was over. She glanced again at his retreating form as he sauntered nonchalantly away, probably whistling. Her knees quivered and she wanted to sit down, but just then Trini came rushing in, her short, tough, gymnast’s frame a hard bundle of muscle as she jumped onto the treadmill Carrera had just vacated.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, pushing up the speed so in seconds she was running as fast as Brian Carrera had been. “Why aren’t you jogging?” she asked, her almond-shaped eyes giving Andi a sidelong look.

  Andi wasn’t sure she was ready to explain to Trini what had just transpired. She wasn’t certain herself, but it sure as hell felt like he’d threatened her. “I just finished a workout.”

  “Oh, come on. Just a few more minutes. I’ve got news!”

  “Go ahead. I’ll hit the shower in a few.” She didn’t want to chance running into Carrera again anyway. Her heart was still galloping.

  “How’re things going with the project?” Trini asked.

  “What project?”

  “The lodge, silly. The big project.”

  To date Trini hadn’t shown the least bit of interest in anything the Wrens were involved in. She’d not only been against Andi’s marriage to Greg but she’d taken off on a long hike with friends through the Himalayas about the time of Andi’s wedding, missing the event entirely. And she’d never asked about anything to do with the company.

  “You really want to talk about the lodge? That’s your news?”

  She smiled. “Not really. I want to tell you about my new guy.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Well, he came to my Pilates class. Not my usual type. Much more buttoned-down . . . kinda like Greg. I can’t believe it myself. It’s crazy!”

  Andi didn’t know what to say. Her head was full of her confrontation with Brian Carrera. Now that it was over, she was feeling shaky with reaction. She finally squeezed out, “Wow.”

  “I know, right?”

  Trini was a Pilates instructor. A gymnast in her youth, she’d majored in health and fitness and had always leaned toward physical fitness and sports. She also had a healthy sexual appetite but couldn’t seem to settle down with one guy for long. She went for bodies over minds, where Andi, a business major, had been attracted to men with smarts and senses of humor. Physical attractiveness definitely played a part, but it wasn’t the top attribute that drew her in. Greg had been smart and good-looking, maybe not with as refined a sense of humor as some, but she’d been attracted to him. Trini’s interest in Jarrett had been more true to form; Andi’s brother was a far cry from the buttoned-down type.

  “I want you to meet him soon,” Trini said, unaware that Andi’s mind was elsewhere.

  “Sure.”

  “Not yet. Some things have got to work out first.” She laughed, a breathless catch in the back of her throat that was totally unlike her. “You know, one little thing where we’re total compadres? He doesn’t like shellfish of any kind. Not allergic, like me, just doesn’t like the stuff. So happy. Even Jarrett was always ordering shrimp, and I was always freaking out that he’d try to kiss me.”

  Andi nodded. Trini had told that story a hundred times.

  Trini woke up to Andi’s distraction. “Where’s your head, girl?”

  “I’m just tired. Mind if I head out? I’ve got some things to do.”

  “Whatever works. But I want you to meet him. Maybe this weekend?”

  “Okay, but I’m moving.”

  “Right, right, right. And I’ll help you. I told you I would. And anyway, you still have to eat, so maybe we’ll catch a meal together.”

  “I’ll text you,” Andi said. Trini had a tendency to promise all kinds of things and then seldom ever came through.

  “You’re really going to like him,” she called as Andi headed for the locker room, her eyes searching for any sign of Carrera. “I’m telling you, he’s more your type than mine.”

  She seemed to be alone. At least she didn’t meet anyone as she slipped into the women’s room. There was no one about, so Andi went to her locker and pulled out her bag of clothes, then took a quick shower and redressed.

  Her mind was a jumble of images, her emotions raw. She thought about the baby and the note and those tense few moments with Brian Carrera, and Ray Bolchoy and Lucas Denton . . . private investigator.

  Determinedly, she set her jaw. She had to protect her baby and herself. And who better to protect her than the man who’d quit his job with the police in solidarity with his friend, who believed the Carreras had literally gotten away with murder?

  At her SUV she reached for her cell and made a quick search of Lucas Denton’s Internet information. His office was in Laurelton, close by. She flexed her fingers over the steering wheel. She had some errands to run, and there was a good chance Denton would be at the hearing this morning. Putting the vehicle in gear, she backed out of her spot at SportClub Laurelton, feeling better for having a plan.

  Chapter Three

  Early Thursday morning Luke Denton slowly surfaced and immediately realized he was gonna have one helluva hangover. He was lying on his back, on his bed, and he cracked one eye open at the same time his hand encountered warm human flesh lying beside him. That got him awake. He inched his head around enough to see the bare back and arm of Iris Holchek, his ex-girlfriend.

  Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants.

  She didn’t appear to be wearing much of anything. He did a quick tactile survey and was relieved to discover he was shirtless but still in the aged denim jeans he’d worn the night before.

  The. Night. Before.

  See, this is the problem, Denton. When she broke it off, you should have been an asshole and refused to talk to her anymore. You know you never wanted the relationship. And during those first few weeks of hell after Bolchoy’s screwup, she gave you the perfect out. But, oh no, you had to be nice to her. Too polite. Now what the hell are you gonna do?

  As if hearing his thoughts, Iris turned over and opened her coo
l blue eyes. “Hey, lover,” she said.

  Uh-oh.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to sleep it off, so we could . . .” Her fingers started trailing along his arm and slipped under the covers, tippy-tapping their way down his abdomen toward . . .

  He reached down and clamped a hand over her wrist. “Might I ask what you’re doing here?”

  She smiled that cat-and-cream smile that had once heated his blood but now sent every nerve ending on red alert, and not in a good way. “You were way friendlier last night.”

  “Last night I was strategizing with friends about Bolchoy.”

  The chill was immediate. She yanked her hand back and regarded him coldly. “The man’s going to jail. I just don’t see how you can throw your career away over him.” Flinging back the covers, she got out of bed and angrily picked up a scrap of black lace thong underwear that she stepped into, her back to him. Then she shimmied into a tight black dress that he remembered had cost such a fortune he’d thought it was a joke when she’d told him the price. It was her money, so his comment was out of line, but her anger over his disbelief had made him see how the gap between them was expanding, not contracting.

  “He’s got to go to trial first, and that might not happen.”

  “I told you. Corkland is putting him away. Gleefully. Bolchoy is a black eye on the department, and no one at Portland PD can save him. That’s the mood of the country, lover. Police do bad things, they go to jail, just like everyone else.”

  “Whatever Bolchoy did wasn’t a bad thing.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” She stepped into tall pewter heels and searched around for her bag. “Meanwhile, my boss is dropping the hammer on him.”

  She was referring to T.J. Corkland, the district attorney who had a serious hard-on to put Bolchoy away. Iris worked in the DA’s office and she was just as eager to put Bolchoy behind bars as her boss, though her reasons were slightly different. Corkland thought it would look good politically to prove that the police weren’t above the law; Iris just wanted Luke to see what kind of a scumbag his ex-partner was. She blamed Bolchoy for Luke quitting the force, when in actuality, Luke had already been pretty fed up with the powers that be above him who made all the decisions. Bolchoy had overstepped his bounds, allegedly manufacturing evidence that proved the Carrera brothers’ guilt—he’d probably done it, too, Luke thought with a grimace, knowing his ex-partner’s penchant to run around the law—and the wrath of the department had descended upon him. No one had Ray’s back except Luke and Opal Amberson, and they’d been warned against picking the wrong team. The result was Luke quit, and Opal damn near did.