Once they were gone, Yates asked, “What are you going to do about Taylor?” When she merely looked at him, he rolled his eyes. “You know he operates in Philadelphia. The guy who set up the hit is from Philadelphia and used to work for Taylor and probably still does. You can put two and two together.”
“I certainly can.” And in this case, four was no likelier to be right than wrong. “What about the guy who set up the hit? Where is he?”
Yates’s mouth opened, then closed.
“I asked you to find the person responsible. You brought me a man who knows a man who was hired to hire somebody else. Where is this mystery man? Who hired him? Who did he hire?”
His expression turned stony. “I don’t know.”
“But you’re looking.” She smiled condescendingly. “Always looking.”
It was the smile, she thought, that made the color flare in his cheeks while the rest of his face went pale. “You think it’s so goddamn easy to go out and find an amateur hitter, go ahead. See how far you get.”
“I don’t think it’s easy at all, Mr. Yates. I just didn’t think it would be this difficult for you.”
“I told you forty-eight hours. I’ve still got more than thirty left. I’ll bring him in.”
Before Selena could respond, Long moved forward from where he’d been lounging next to a window. Bending until his mouth was just above her ear, he murmured, “Tell him he’ll have to bring him to Tulsa.”
Ignoring the goose bumps that formed on her arms, she glanced at him, wondering why, and with a grin, he leaned close again and gave the only answer that truly mattered. “Because you can.”
Because I can. How many times had William uttered those words with that supremely smug smile she’d hated so? Why had he turned to a life of crime, why had he murdered and stolen, why had he used her, why had he ordered Tony’s death . . . So many questions and only one cold answer. Because he could.
She’d hated that answer because of its arrogance, because of the power it implied. Yates would hate it for the same reasons.
Still grinning, Long stepped back, and she refocused on Yates. “You do have more than thirty hours left, Mr. Yates. But if you don’t find this man in the next few hours, you’ll have to bring him to Oklahoma, because I’m going home as soon as arrangements can be made.”
Robinette was surprised. Yates was nothing less than hostile. “I told you, I can’t leave—”
“We’re not partners yet, Mr. Yates. I’m still your boss, and you’ll do what I say.” She held his gaze a long moment, watching as the clenched muscles in his jaw worked. “I’m returning to Tulsa, and I expect to see you there Tuesday. That’s another forty-eight hours. I’ll have a preliminary partnership proposal ready for you then, though, of course, what happens in the meantime will influence that.”
Wearing that amused grin, Long stepped forward. “Clock’s ticking, Sonny boy, and you’ve been dismissed. Better get going.”
The room was utterly still as Yates looked around at each of them. When he abruptly took a breath, it was noisy. His hazel gaze reached Selena again, and he nodded, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak, then left the room. Devlin and LeRoy followed.
No one moved until the click of the front door closing echoed in the foyer, then Robinette gestured for her to precede him from the room. She went into the kitchen, where Gentry waited with the stranger. “Have someone take him to the hospital,” Robinette instructed.
With a nod, she followed the man from the room.
Selena leaned against the counter, hands curved over the edge. Robinette watched the door until it stopped swinging, then slowly turned to face her. She wasn’t sure what to expect—annoyance, irritation—but his expression was blank. “That was a quick change of heart. What happened to getting personnel records, suppliers, distributors, the identity of his hit man?”
“It was Long’s suggestion. I thought it was a good one. Enough time has passed since the last murder attempt that it won’t look as if we’re running scared, and forcing Yates to come to us will remind him who’s in control.”
“What if he refuses?”
“He’ll suffer the consequences.”
His expression turned sardonic. “What consequences? You can’t kill him.”
“No, we can’t,” she agreed, then smiled William’s deadliest smile. “But we can make him think we’re going to.”
The ring of the doorbell was distant, easy to ignore, but not so Mutt’s sudden frenzy of barking. The dog raced to the door, barked, then raced back, leaping onto Tony’s stomach and making him grunt. “Okay, okay, I’m awake,” he mumbled, shoving the dog to the floor and sitting up. His joints ached, and his vision was bleary—because he’d spent most of the night on the computer, he remembered as he eased to his feet, and the rest of it on the couch. And he hadn’t learned a damn thing except that he preferred sleeping in his bed. With Selena.
He reached the door just as the bell rang again. Dragging his fingers through his hair, he shut off the alarm, then opened the door.
Marla’s ready smile faded, and her pert little nose—a description she hated—wrinkled. “Eww. Tough night, huh?”
The bright light made him squint, and the morning’s heat made him yawn. “Yeah.” Combing his hair again, he took in her appearance—blue dress on the modest side, heels on the low side—and asked, “What’re you all dressed up for?”
“We’re on our way to church.”
He followed her gesture to the car idling behind his in the driveway, where her husband scowled from behind the wheel. Tony lifted one hand in greeting, and he did the same, even managing to get all five fingers into the air instead of the one Tony was sure he would have preferred. “No, really,” he said, turning back to Marla again. “What’s the occasion?”
“I do go to church sometimes. It’s important to Richard’s mother.”
“You in church . . . or caring what Dickless’s mother thinks. Now, there’s an image that won’t form.”
She slapped his arm playfully with a rolled-up file folder, and he self-consciously pulled back. Her husband was a captain in the department—though not in Tony’s chain of command, thank God—and he was a jealous man. Marla liked giving him reason to be. Tony didn’t. “A little church from time to time wouldn’t hurt you. Here. This is for you.”
He took the folder and flipped it open.
“We stopped by the lab this morning, and I found this response to the prints I submitted yesterday. Your boy Heinz used to work for the IRS until he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s all in there.” She smiled breezily. “You can thank me later, when Richard’s not around.” With a flirtatious wink, she touched his hand, then sashayed down the steps and to the car.
Tony watched her go, then turned to the folder as he shuffled back inside. Like the driver’s license photo he’d sent to Savannah, this photograph showed the sort of person people routinely overlooked—thin, studious, a mousy little guy. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, but that wasn’t unusual in a booking photo. His real name was Charles Hensley. He was in his early fifties and had worked as an auditor for the Internal Revenue Service assigned to the Philadelphia office.
Another connection to Selena’s enemies. Henry had set up his second drug operation in Philadelphia—an operation still in business and in the FBI’s sights. Who else had Hensley known there besides Henry and Long? What were the odds he’d gone back there to hide out?
Making a mental note to contact the Philadelphia PD in the morning, Tony scanned the rest of the information. Hensley’s career with the IRS had been unremarkable until his sideline had come to light. In cases with particularly large tax liabilities, he had proven willing to guarantee the subject a favorable outcome, asking only for a little consideration of the cash kind. Ten percent here and fifteen percent there had added up to a small fortune over the years, until an unhappy client, nabbed on other charges, had given him up. He’d been arrested, charged, and faced certain conviction and
years in prison . . . but then he’d disappeared.
To resurface in Tulsa with a new name and a new career, working for the venerable chief of police. Had Henry known he was a fugitive? Of course. Knowing things about people was his job, his passion. He’d known Tony couldn’t just let the vigilante murders go, had known eventually the pieces would fall into place for him, had probably even known that he wouldn’t be able to resist Selena. As if any living, breathing man could.
Damn his soul, Henry had known everything about everyone.
Except Selena. The one person he’d thought he knew best, and she’d surprised him.
Tony wasn’t happy to find they had that in common.
He tossed the file on his desk, then took the stairs two at a time to shower and dress. He should go visit his parents, but he wasn’t in the mood for mass and Anna and Joe never missed it. He wasn’t sure what he was in the mood for as he left the house. Not when he drove past Utica Square. Not when he turned off Twenty-first into the St. John parking garage. Not even when he took the elevator to the intensive care unit, where Henry had been a patient for the past three weeks.
Just off the elevator, he stopped. He hadn’t once considered visiting Henry—hadn’t been tempted when he was a patient there himself, or when he’d brought Selena in for treatment, or any of the countless times he’d driven past. He hadn’t cared whether Henry lived or died, hadn’t wanted anything to do with him now that he knew the truth. Some things were unforgivable, and Henry’s sins surely fell into that category.
But Henry had been Joe’s best friend for more than forty years. Had been godfather to all seven Ceola kids. Had been Tony’s mentor, advised him, and treated him fairly, affectionately, respectfully. Next to Joe and his brothers, Henry had been the most important man in Tony’s life for thirty-four years. Didn’t all that count for something?
Something . . . but not much. They couldn’t balance the wrongs Henry had committed.
He was about to turn back to the elevator when a woman approached. “Are you—You’re Detective Ceola, aren’t you?” Well dressed, Southern accent, probably in her late fifties. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place her until . . . He glanced down the hall in the direction from which she’d come—the direction of Henry’s room— and remembered old portraits in the Daniels estate, casual mentions of a sister in Alabama.
She knew his name, somehow knew his face. Did she also know he was the one who’d shot her brother?
Uncomfortably he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“I thought so. I’ve met your father a number of times, and you look just like him when he was your age.” She extended her hand, diamonds glittering on her fingers. “I’m Kathryn Hamilton. Henry is my brother.”
He didn’t want to take her hand, didn’t want to touch her, talk to her, or even acknowledge that she existed, but his mother had raised him too well. Unwillingly he offered his own hand, and he didn’t even flinch when she took it. “I, uh . . . I’m sorry . . .”
Her smile was weary and added years to her face. “Aren’t we all?” She gave his hand a maternal pat before releasing it and folding both arms across her middle. “Henry often spoke of you and your father. I’ve been hoping for the chance to see one of you, to talk, but I didn’t want to intrude.”
Talk. About Henry. In those first few days, Tony had talked about the man until he was sick—to the deputy chiefs, the chief of detectives, the shooting review board, the FBI. To his family, to Simmons and their fellow detectives. He didn’t want to talk about him anymore, and he damn sure didn’t want to talk about him to his sister. He didn’t want to know what she believed, whether she blamed him, how she grieved.
But he couldn’t walk away.
“Could we go someplace private?”
His gaze jerked down the hall again, toward Henry’s room, and she smiled. “There’s a family waiting room over there.”
With a reluctant look at the elevator, Tony followed her into the room, closing the door as she seated herself on the couch. She was a lovely woman, about his mother’s age, but where Anna was aging naturally, Kathryn had chosen the artificial approach. There wasn’t a hint of gray in her hair or a line on her face. Even her hands, clasped around a tissue, looked as if they belonged to someone ten years younger.
“Henry talked about you Ceolas a lot. It meant a lot to him to be considered part of the family.” Her unsteady smile slipped and discomfort crept into her expression. “Though, in the end, he had an odd way of showing it. What happened to him?”
That was the million-dollar question. What had turned straight-and-narrow Henry into a drug-dealing murderer? The best guess he could make was greed, not just for money but for power. But surely there was more to it than that. An honorable, respected cop didn’t just wake up one day and say, I think I’ll turn my back on everything I’ve devoted my life to and become a killer.
But the only one who could tell them was Henry, and he wasn’t talking.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t have a clue . . .”
Kathryn worried the tissue she clutched. “I always thought Henry and I were close. Oh, we didn’t see each other as often as I would have liked, what with me living in Alabama and him moving from city to city, but . . . we had a connection. A bond. We talked regularly. He knew what was happening in my life, and I knew the same about him, or so I thought. Then the FBI tells me he’s some sort of drug lord who’s responsible for countless deaths, who tried to kill his godson, who’d built an entire life with this—this black girl, this niece, and I realized I knew nothing at all about my brother.” Her gaze shifted from the cottony mess in her hands to him. “You know her? This girl?”
Tony nodded.
“Is it true what they told me? That he took her in when she was a child? That he treated her as his own child?”
“She was fourteen. He saved her life, brought her to the US, told people she was his niece.” And took advantage of her gratitude, manipulated her, exploited her. If her survival instinct hadn’t been so strong, he would have destroyed her. As long as she continued to play the FBI’s games, he still might succeed.
“Why? He was never particularly interested in children. He always said you and your siblings satisfied whatever paternal urges he might have had.” She said that last with a hint of bitterness. Did she have children of her own? Had she wanted Henry to take more interest in them than he had? Did she think that if he hadn’t been godfather to the Ceolas and surrogate uncle to Selena, he would have been more involved in his real family’s lives?
“I don’t know why he became involved with Selena, Mrs. Hamilton.” Probably because she’d been damaged, because she’d been easy to control, because he’d seen ways to use her once he’d finished molding and warping her.
“Do you think their relationship was...” Heat flushed her face, and her gaze dropped abruptly.
“Sexual?” he finished for her, and a shudder rippled through her. “No. Not at all.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
Though he’d expected the question, it unsettled him. He walked to the window, but there was nothing to look at—just the unremarkable front of the physicians’ building across the street. Finally, he turned back to face her. “She’s a very talented artist. She owns a gallery in Key West. She’s half–Puerto Rican, half-Jamaican, and grew up on both islands. She’s smart, capable, competent, strong. She loved Henry and was grateful to him for all that he’d done, but . . .”
“She also hated him. For all that he’d done.” She said the words quietly, as if she understood, and might even share, the sentiment.
Tony nodded.
“What about her family?”
“She never knew her father. Her stepfather sent her away when she was nine, and her mother let him.”
“She was part of what chan
ged Henry,” she murmured.
He shook his head. “Henry was already in the business when he met Selena.”
“But she must know . . . she must have some idea . . .” Slowly her gaze shifted to his, locking. “I’d like to talk to her. I asked Special Agent King at the FBI how I could contact her, and he said he couldn’t help me. I don’t believe him. She was involved . . . a witness, a victim, a suspect. He must know where she is.” She hesitated. “You must know. Surely you keep tabs on people who shoot you.”
He touched his shoulder reflexively, remembering the ache that was mostly gone. “So far, she’s the only one.”
“But you know where she is.”
At least the feds, in getting Kathryn’s permission to use the estate, hadn’t told her that Selena would be living there, taking part in their investigation. That was one thing he could credit them with doing right.
Tony doubted Selena could tell Kathryn anything that would ease her mind. But maybe Kathryn could answer a few questions—could give Selena some sense of who the man she’d loved like a father had once been.
“She’s out of town right now.”
“Do you know where? How to contact her?”
He shook his head. “I can talk to her when she gets back.” It would be a good excuse to see her—and he needed to see her.
“Would you do that, please? I’m staying at a bed-and-breakfast in Maple Ridge.” She got to her feet, drew a business card from the slim leather bag she carried, and offered it to him. “My cell phone number is on the back.”
He glanced at the address on the front, a long-gone oilman’s mansion a few miles away, then slid it into his pocket. “I’ll be in touch.”
With a satisfied nod, she walked out into the hall with him. When he turned toward the elevator, she laid her hand on his arm. “You’re not going to visit Henry?”
He glanced down the hall, then shook his head. “Not today.” Maybe not ever.
12
“Your boyfriend called.”
Selena was in the middle of packing when Robinette knocked at the open door. He came inside, closed the door behind him, and stood, hands on hips, watching her.
Deep Cover Page 20
