Oh, but there could be so many more facets to love than they suspected.
“Sweets for the sweet,” she said, smiling as she uttered the inane words and left the pastry box on the counter at the nursing station. She was halfway to Henry’s room when one of the aides called out.
“Oh, Mrs. Hamilton, you have a guest. He’s waiting in the family room.”
She stopped, glanced at Henry’s door a few yards away, then turned back. The visitors had trickled off to nothing in the past few weeks, as well, though she didn’t blame them. There was no pleasure in sitting beside a man who was dead in all the ways that counted.
She backtracked to the family waiting room, a square space with chairs, a television, a telephone, and a dreary view out the windows. The television was turned on, though the lone occupant was gazing out the window. “Excuse me. I was told—”
He turned with a smile that sent warmth tingling through her. “Jefferson! You came!” Hurrying across the room, she gathered him into her embrace.
“I told you I would.”
“You also told me you’d call me back, but you didn’t.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
She swatted his arm affectionately. “Calling me back— now that would have surprised me. How long can you stay? When did you get in? Where are you staying?”
“Just a couple days. I got in this morning, and my secretary booked me at the downtown Doubletree.”
“Oh, I bet there’s a suite available at the bed-and-breakfast. I’ll just call—”
“Thank you, Mama, but the Doubletree is fine.”
Though it would be wonderful to have him under the same roof as she, she didn’t push the subject. He was there, and that was the only thing that mattered.
Taking a step back, she studied him intently. His hair was on the shaggy side, gleaming like fire where the sun touched it through the window. Fine lines bracketed his lovely blue-and-green eyes, giving him a tired look, but his smile was warm, indulgent. Though he’d been full-grown half his life, she couldn’t look at him even once without remembering that handsome little towhead the lawyer had delivered to her all those years ago. He’d been afraid, but had bravely tried to hide it. He’d won her heart right then and there, and still had it.
“Why are you staying at a bed-and-breakfast?” he asked. “Too many bad memories at the Davis plantation?”
“It’s not a plantation,” she chided. “Though the house and its grounds would look perfectly at home anywhere in the Deep South. Do you remember it?”
He shrugged. “White house, big lawn.”
“I’m not surprised you remember so little.” He’d been a child the last time they’d visited Henry, and intimidated by the uncle who had little interest in or patience with him. “It’s a beautiful place.”
“So why aren’t you staying there?”
With a sigh, she hooked her arm through his and started toward the door. “Let’s get a cup of coffee and we’ll talk.”
“More Henry gossip?” he asked with a grin. “The old man’s much more interesting now than he ever was alive.”
They only went as far as the nurses’ station for the coffee, where a pot was always brewing. She fixed a cup for each of them, then claimed his arm again and steered him toward Henry’s room. “There aren’t any bad memories at the house for me,” she began. Except for those conjured by the discovery of Selena McCaffrey’s photo, and they were nothing new. She’d lived with them for twenty-eight years.
“It was the FBI who told me about Henry’s activities. They’re hoping to arrest his associates, and they wanted to use the house while they do that.” She saw Jefferson’s eyes widen. She hurried on before he could comment. “I didn’t want to agree, but they were throwing around words like ‘criminal enterprise’ and ‘ill-gotten gains’ and ‘seizure.’ Our grandfather built that house; it’s always been in the Daniels family. I couldn’t risk losing it because Henry was stupid enough to get mixed up with a bad crowd.”
Though whether it would remain in the family once Henry finally did die was anyone’s guess. Kathryn wanted with all her heart to believe he’d willed the estate to her or to Jefferson, to people who belonged; but it was entirely possible, damn his soul, that he’d left it to that girl.
It would be a cold day in hell before Selena McCaffrey would inherit so much as a dime that Kathryn had a personal interest in.
She drew a breath and waited for Jefferson’s response. For a time, he was quiet, his face difficult to read. Beyond “serious,” she couldn’t recognize any emotion.
“Good ol’ Henry,” he said at last, his voice flat, even bitter. He was such a good son. He always took everything that upset her so personally. “Does he have any other surprises in store?”
“Good God, I hope not.”
“How can they make a case against Henry’s associates? Unless . . . one of them is helping them.”
She waved one hand dismissively. “I neither know nor care. It’s just all so tawdry, Jefferson. Grandmama and Grandpapa must be spinning in their graves at the shock of it all. The shame Henry’s brought on the family, the stain on our good name—” She realized she’d gotten a bit strident when Jefferson laid his hand on her shoulder. With a rueful smile, she patted it reassuringly. “I’m sorry, sugar. I’m just not happy with my brother right now.”
“And yet you want me to go in and see him like a good nephew.” He didn’t make her answer that, but slid his arm around her. “Now don’t go thinking this means I give a damn about the man, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed, relieved.
He laid one elegant hand flat on the door to Henry’s room, preparing to push. “Then let’s go.”
February 18. I found them at last—Juan and Berta Lopez, the people to whom the Acostas sold Amalia. She’s no longer with them, though of course Señora Lopez assures me she was a treasured member of their family for the months she was there. They called her Maria—a new life deserves a new name—and they loved her as if she was their own.
Of course, the authorities tell a different story. They say the Lopezes taught the child to lie, steal, and cheat, that she spent her days begging and robbing to pay for her support. No money meant no food and no place to sleep. This damned third-world scum . . . what was I thinking when I sent her to them in the first place?
The Lopezes sent her to live with friends in Ocho Rios—so she could get a proper education, the señora said, and have a chance at a better future. Of course, she was eyeing my Rolex at the time she said it. She gave me a name, but had no address. Such a good friend.
March 14. I’ve hired a man in Ocho Rios to track down Dorotea and Philip VanDerBleek. Like everyone else, that’s just one set of names that they use. They’re the sort who never stay in one place long, else they’d wind up in a Jamaican prison—or graveyard. My man tells me they’re a modern-day version of Fagin, taking in kids with nowhere else to go, teaching them the fine art of criminal life, and putting them out on the streets. It’s likely that Amalia, or Maria, or whatever they’re calling her now, is picking pockets and stealing or even working as a prostitute. Wouldn’t that kill her father?
Selena sighed. A new life, a new name. Dorotea and her husband had chosen to call her Rosa Jimenez. When William had taken her in, he’d christened her Gabriela Sanchez, and when her life had fallen apart two summers ago, when she thought she had killed a man, she’d renamed herself Selena McCaffrey. She didn’t intend to change names again.
Except, God willing, someday to Ceola.
Somewhat reluctantly, she turned her attention back to the journal. She’d thought initially that she would devour it all in one sitting, but she hadn’t. It was difficult reading that raised difficult questions. Did she truly want to know that her father had been no better than the people who’d raised her—that he had, most likely, been far worse? The others had beaten her and denied her food, affection, and any sense of security; they’d forced her to steal and, toward the end, had thr
eatened to pimp her out to anyone with money in his pocket. But as far as she knew, even they had drawn the line at dealing drugs and the murder that accompanied it.
Her father, presumably, had not.
April 2. My man in Jamaica called this morning to say he’s located the VanDerBleeks and, he thinks, the child. There’s a black girl living with them, about the right age, who bears a resemblance to the photos I gave him. She’s an accomplished little thief—pretty of face, fleet of foot, sly and devious and cunning. Sounds promising.
He’ll send me a photograph so I can see for myself. Naturally, I’d rather have a child of my own to pass the business on to, but since that’s never going to happen, this child is the next best answer. After all, she’s barely fourteen and has already mastered the criminal activities in which she indulges. Completing her training will be a simple matter.
Besides, if not for me, she never would have lived long enough to grow up and work the streets. One could say I owe her.
One could also say she owes me.
Selena’s palms were damp, her breathing shallow. Over the years, William had taken great pleasure in reminding her that he’d saved her life. She had always thought he was referring to the night they’d met, when the man she’d just robbed had followed her into an alley, hit her, and threatened to rape her. William had killed him, taken her to his hotel, fed her, bought her clothes, and offered her a new life in the US.
But that incident had happened in November fourteen years ago. Whatever rescue he was referring to had obviously taken place long before that.
April 16. I got the photograph, and it’s definitely Amalia. The resemblance is amazing. No one who knew her parents could ever miss it. Now that I have confirmation, it’s time to finalize my plans. I must—
A heavy knock sounded at the bedroom door, startling her. “Come on upstairs,” Gentry called. “It’s time to work.”
Slowly Selena closed the journal and returned it to the night table drawer before going to stand in front of the dresser mirror. Beyond the color of her eyes and hair, she looked nothing like her mother. Luisa had been a light-skinned Latina, short and round, a stereotypical mamacita. Selena’s skin was darker, her features more exotic, and she was six inches taller and seventy pounds lighter.
Was the resemblance William wrote of to her father? And if so, why had he said parents?
Unless Luisa wasn’t her mother.
Her chest tightened. A part of her would love to know that the uncaring woman who’d ignored her, neglected her, and looked the other way when Rodrigo beat her wasn’t her mother. But wasn’t it better to know one parent, however inadequate, than none at all? Wasn’t it better to feel the absence of only one rather than both?
Unsure of the answers, she left the bedroom, turning toward the stairs as the others trooped up. Long and Jamieson were bringing up the rear. “Mr. Long,” she said before she could think better of it. “Could I speak to you a moment?”
Wearing an insolent look, Long came back down the first few steps and toward her. She walked to the window at the end of the corridor and gazed out as he joined her.
He leaned against the windowsill, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed. Wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked exactly what he was—handsome, disreputable, dangerous. “Well? You want something?”
Yes. She wanted not to show him any sign of weakness. He was the sort to make the most of weaknesses. But with a deep breath, she asked anyway. “What do you know about my father?”
He didn’t look surprised by the question. He didn’t look as if he gave a damn in any way. “Nothing. William never mentioned him.”
“Was there a black man who worked for him? Someone he was close to? Someone he would have felt an obligation to?” After all, according to the journal, William had been paying Rodrigo and Luisa to provide for her. A generous act from a man who’d never done a truly generous deed in his life.
He shook his head again. “There were a lot of black men—and Hispanic and Asian and Indian and white, and women, too. William was an equal-opportunity employer. But I was only with him twenty years. You’re twenty-eight. There could have been someone before me.”
“You were with him when he took me in.”
He shrugged.
“What did he tell you about me?”
“That he’d taken in an orphan who was going to call him uncle.”
“Did you ask him why?”
“We’re talking about goddamn William here. He didn’t want you to know something, you didn’t know it.” Then he chuckled. “Besides, do you think I gave a damn about you or why he took you in? Not as long as you stayed out of my way and my business.”
Selena had no doubt he was being truthful. He’d been twenty-one when William had claimed her. He wouldn’t even have noticed a fourteen-year-old girl who presented absolutely no threat to him. If only she had remained no threat to him . . .
It had been a long shot that he would know anything about her father, or tell it if he did, but she’d had to try. William and his damnable secrets . . .
She started toward the stairs before turning back. “One last thing . . . did you ever meet William’s sister?”
“Nah. They weren’t close.”
Yet Kathryn Hamilton was grieving for her brother, Tony had said, and she was somehow involved in Selena’s past. I’m sure my sister would think I’ve sold her out, William had written. Of course, he could have been referring to something totally separate from Selena. After all, he’d betrayed so many people in so many ways.
Once again she nodded, hesitated, then said, “Thank you.”
Knowing how difficult it was for her to say those words, he gave her a wicked grin as he pushed away from the sill.
The others were working when they joined them in the ballroom—Robinette poring over files, Jamieson at the computer, Gentry studying her own stack of papers. As Long sprawled in an armchair drawn close to one west-facing window, Selena took a seat opposite Robinette.
The papers spread across the table were printouts from Yates’s financial records. Databases, spreadsheets, income and expenses sorted by category and date—it was all very detailed, just like a legitimate business. That was the reason William had pushed her to get a degree in business administration, when she’d foolishly thought that the best credentials to bring to this business were a total lack of conscience, morals, and ethics.
“What has Mr. Yates been up to today?” she asked, her voice too low to reach Long.
Color seeped into Robinette’s cheeks. “He left the hotel alone this morning. We, uh, lost him in midtown traffic.”
She looked up, one brow raised, though she wasn’t surprised. Having driven in Tulsa, she could easily imagine getting cut off from your target. Though she would be happier to know that the FBI knew exactly where Yates was, she wasn’t particularly frightened, either. The estate was as secure as she was going to get, except for the snake they’d already brought in, and Long was kept under close scrutiny. “Midtown,” she murmured. “He could have gone anywhere from there.”
“They’ll find him again.”
“If nothing else, he’ll be over here after lunch. What about our partnership?”
He shuffled through the papers before coming up with one covered in his compulsively neat, small writing. “Currently, thirty-five percent of the profits from the Southeast region go back into Yates’s pocket. We’re going to increase that to fifty percent, with the promise of more to come. As for his bonus, you’re going to give him this.” He lifted a manila envelope from his briefcase just enough for her to see, then returned it. “Twenty thousand. Long says that’s a good compromise, considering things didn’t work out the way you wanted.”
“And you believe him?”
“No. But Jamieson says it’s in keeping with the entries he’s found in Davis’s books. He should be satisfied. Hell, I’d take twenty grand for not doing a damn thing.”
He was talking about a man’s death. Ever
y time Selena had closed her eyes the night before, she’d seen Buddy Tarver’s face, or what was left of it. And yet she was going to reward Yates for whatever role he’d played, if any, in Tarver’s death.
Dear God, she hated this!
“We’re looking into all the unsolved homicides of police officers in the South,” Robinette went on. “We may not be able to tie any of them to Yates, but we’ll try. And your boyfriend connected Carl Heinz to Colorado, for whatever it’s worth. You know, he could just mind his own business. We don’t need any help from the local police.”
“The Daniels case is his business,” she pointed out, her tone just as snide. “So is Carl Heinz. You don’t have jurisdiction there.” She ignored the sarcastic smirk he directed to her, glanced at Long, then lowered her voice even more. “Are you having any problems with Long?”
“No. Why?”
“He was asking about you last night—what I knew about you, how you came to work for me. He seemed more suspicious than usual.”
Becoming very still, Robinette looked at Long for a moment, then shook his head. “That’s just him. There’s nothing here to suggest that I’m anything other than what we’ve said.”
She didn’t question him, but trusted that he was experienced enough to leave anything with his real identity, and particularly anything that might connect him to the FBI, at home. Still, something had roused Long’s wariness. “Just . . . be careful.”
For an instant, he looked surprised, then he responded quietly, confidently. “Always.”
“Where have you been?”
Sonny lay across the bed, resting his weight on his elbows, and brushed a kiss over Charlize’s shoulder as she sleepily shifted to face him. “What makes you think I’ve been anywhere?”
Her look was dry. “What makes you think I’ve been in this bed all morning? I’ve showered, dressed, ordered room service, eaten, undressed, and”—she covered a delicate yawn with delicate fingers—“taken a nap. All without you.”
“I had some errands to run.”
Deep Cover Page 25
