Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  Nothing she hadn't been asking for, she had to admit. And it wasn't—really—Dirk's fault that sex had been awful. Or that Gray hadn't shown up when Gray was supposed to show up and save her before she had to go through with it. So now she was finally relieved of the burden of her virginity and she felt younger than she had in years. Like a little child in need of comfort.

  And Gray was the same as she always remembered him. There.

  "I'm fine.” Only ... why hadn't he come? Why hadn't he been there when she needed him to be there? Almost the story of her life.

  Oh well. He was here now. And that was almost as good.

  Chapter Six

  An almost inexorable baseball law: A Red Sox ship with a single leak will always find a way to sink.

  —Thomas Boswell, How Life Imitates the World Series

  December 22, 2003

  We have a pretty easy assignment for you,” was how the conversation started. “Just the thing, we think, since you've asked to be transferred to desk service."

  Mark eyed Don Jankewicz and Stanley Cooper suspiciously. He glanced again at the stranger who had also appeared. He did not think it was going to be a particularly easy assignment. It did not seem to have that hallmark. Monica was going to kill him. But all he said was, “Really?"

  "This is Agent Markham. From the FBI,” said Jankewicz.

  "The what?” Mark asked, in startled surprised.

  "FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Cooper explained.

  "Mark and Markham,” said Agent Markham, shaking Mark's hand. “We'll make quite a team."

  "Team?” Mark echoed.

  "Yes.” Agent Markham sent him a smile that reminded Mark of a shark. Had Mark been standing, he would have taken a step back. Since he was sitting, he shifted uncomfortably. “We think you're just the break we've been waiting for in this case."

  "What case is that?"

  "Do you know this man?"

  Mark took the photo and knew instantly that he was in way over his head. The photo was of Gray. Taken at some sort of formal function, because he was wearing a bowtie. Mark decided it would be useless to deny it. “Yes, I know him,” he said cautiously.

  Markham looked pleased. “We thought you did. That's good."

  "Why is that good?"

  "Because this man is our key to nailing this man.” Agent Markham handed across another picture.

  Mark recognized this picture immediately as well. “Dennis Halcourt?” Now he was nothing but confused. “You think Gray is your key to nailing Dennis Halcourt?"

  "Halcourt plays at the Bienvenue. Did you know that?"

  Mark now knew why even innocent people chafed under interrogation. It was damned uncomfortable. “No, I didn't know that. But the Bienvenue is a casino. Lots of people play there."

  "Gray Delamont-ay didn't mention his Dennis Halcourt connection to you?"

  Yes, this was why suspects were always so defensive, thought Mark. “Delamonte,” he corrected. “It's Gray Delamonte. The ‘e’ is silent. I doubt he has a Dennis Halcourt connection, so this is probably why he never mentioned it to me."

  "He's laundering money for him, Detective Dailey.” Markham looked thrilled to death to be sharing that little tidbit of information.

  "Gray's laundering Dennis Halcourt's money?” The idea was so absurd Mark wanted to laugh. Except that Agent Markham looked very serious.

  Gray, Mark decided, was in very deep trouble.

  "How close to the Bienvenue's operations can you get?"

  "What?” Mark asked stupidly, because of course he knew what was coming next but they couldn't possibly mean for him to—

  "We don't want your friend Mr. Delamont-ay—"

  "Delamonte."

  "—but in order to get Dennis Halcourt, we need one of our own men inside. We need you to use your Gray Delamont-ay connection to get to Dennis Halcourt."

  "No,” said Mark flatly.

  This wasn't the right answer. Annoyance flickered on Agent Markham's face. “I beg your pardon?"

  "I cannot spy on Gray Delamonte. Perhaps they didn't tell you how I know Gray Delamonte. He was best man at my wedding, for God's sake. He isn't money laundering."

  "If he isn't money laundering, then there's no harm in your getting close to him, is there?” Markham inquired innocently.

  "The harm would be in my even giving it a try. My friendship with Gray Delamonte isn't going to get you anything on Dennis Halcourt."

  "Because you're refusing to do your duty?"

  "Because there isn't anything there to get."

  "It's a nice safe assignment, Mark,” piped up Cooper. “You've been looking for one."

  "A nice safe assignment? Bringing down Dennis Halcourt?"

  "There's a promotion in it for you,” said Jankewicz. “Not only desk duty, but supervisory desk duty."

  "I appreciate,” snapped Mark as he stood, “the bribery package you've set up for me here, but the answer is still no."

  "Maybe you should take the holiday to think about it,” suggested Cooper.

  "Think about your career, Dailey,” advised Markham matter-of-factly.

  Mark decided he'd like to tell them all to go to hell. Instead he consoled himself with slamming the door on his way out.

  * * * *

  "You can't do it. That's fairly obvious,” said Monica.

  "Of course I can't do it. I can't believe they would expect me to do it. They must have lost their minds.” Mark failed miserably in curling the ribbon on the present and shrugged. Like Madison was going to appreciate it anyway. He placed it with the pile of Santa presents in the closet in the master bedroom and, feeling Monica watching him steadily, looked at her. “What?"

  She was sprawled on their bed, one hand on her stomach. “Do you think it's true?"

  "I don't for a second think it's true."

  The fact was that Gray never talked business with him. He had always assumed that was because there were so many other, better things to talk about. But maybe it was because Gray couldn't talk business with a law enforcement officer.

  Casinos could be shady, and Gray's was successful. But really. Money laundering with Dennis Halcourt?

  "Oh, God,” groaned Monica. “You're going to have to do it."

  "What?” Mark looked at her in alarm. “Why?"

  "Because you're worried that it could be true. And the only way you're going to make sure it's not true is to get in there and disprove it."

  "I could just ask him point blank."

  "And you'll never be totally convinced he isn't lying when he gives you the answer."

  Damn it to hell, thought Mark, and collapsed on the bed next to his wife.

  * * * *

  December 31, 2003

  The casino, three hours early, was exploding into a Happy New Year celebration and Gray stood in his fashionably casual formalwear and watched the ball drop in Times Square and thought—inexplicably as always—of Aubrey.

  Did she go to Times Square? Probably not. Did he even cross her mind? Probably not, he thought. She probably remembered very little of the night. And she probably was in New York, kissing somebody happily. He was drinking champagne, by himself, hoping to avoid Rosie, who was still doing a damn good job of stalking him.

  "You're not looking like it's a happy new year,” said Mark.

  "Oh.” Gray managed a smile, looking away from the huge Jumbotron. “2003 wasn't exactly stellar. You and Monica enjoying yourselves?"

  "She's tired. We're going home."

  "So soon?"

  "We saw the ball drop. It's pretty much enough.” Mark glanced out over the raucous crowd of twenty-somethings. “Not really my crowd."

  "I know what you mean."

  "There was a cute redhead who wasn't Rosie that way.” Mark nodded vaguely.

  Gray chuckled. “I'll check it out."

  "Gray, about the security job..."

  Gray looked up from his champagne in surprise. “The security job?"

  "Is it still open?
The security job?"

  Gray tipped his head a little, studied Mark's face. “Well ... yes, but ... I thought you didn't want it."

  "I didn't ... I don't...” Mark sighed extravagantly. “I kind of promised Monica. Christmas gift thing."

  "As a Christmas gift, you're quitting the force—"

  "And joining the Bienvenue. If the offer still stands."

  "Yes, the offer stands. And it isn't that I'm not delighted to have you. I'm just a little ... well, surprised, that's all."

  "Love,” said Mark, “will make you do the craziest things."

  "I'll take your word for it,” said Gray and touched his flute to Mark's. “Happy New Year. I promise to be a good boss."

  * * * *

  January 1, 2004

  When the ball dropped in Times Square, she kissed the man she'd been dancing with all night. A nice man. A little dull, but a nice man, and someone to kiss at midnight, so all the better.

  Then she and Anna, her best friend from college who was home for the holidays, abandoned their respective men on the dance floor and found a corner and drank lots of champagne and got giddy and stumbled out in the wee hours of the morning.

  And Aubrey thought, smiling, Thank God. 2004. She could finally, finally, leave 2003 behind and start over.

  * * * *

  February 4, 2004

  "I think I have a job for you,” Kaye announced triumphantly when Aubrey opened the door for her.

  Kaye's eyes were glowing and her cheeks were rosy and Aubrey could only say, in surprise, “What?"

  "A job.” Kaye pushed her way into the apartment. “You remember what that is, don't you? Or have you completely forgotten, now that you're a woman of leisure?"

  "Of course I haven't forgotten. And I am not a woman of leisure. Just an unemployed woman. But I don't want to waitress. Does this involve waitressing?"

  Kaye shook her head. “No, Aubrey. It involves painting."

  "Painting? Like walls?"

  "No, painting! Painting a portrait!"

  "A portrait?” She was skeptical because she didn't want to count her chickens before they hatched—but this was starting to sound like something she could do. “A portrait of who?"

  "Moira Scott Lowenby."

  "Who's that?"

  "How do you not know who that is? Moira Scott Lowenby! She had a fling with Robert Redford in the seventies."

  "I can't believe I didn't know such essential information."

  "She was married to Hugh Scott. Of Bienvenue hotels. She had a fling with Robert Redford. Then she married Simon Lowenby, who left her and her kids and she sued him for the entire Lowenby fortune."

  "Simon Lowenby. I think I've heard of him."

  "He was a famous playboy. Who lost most of his fortune to Moira Scott Lowenby. The woman has led the most fascinating life. She was born in Georgia and she had a baby at seventeen. Can you imagine? And her husband abandoned her right after the baby was born, and then she got a job at the Bienvenue hotel in Atlanta, and Hugh Scott came to inspect the hotel and it was love at first sight. Oh, Aubrey, so romantic."

  Oh, for God's sake, thought Aubrey, but she knew better than to bite the hand that had said it was going to feed her. “What about the portrait?"

  "Well, I was talking to her the other day, going over the pages she'd given me, and I'd mentioned how, not having grown up with money, she must have wanted to do such outrageous things once she'd gotten it. And she said the one thing she always really wanted to do was have her portrait painted. And she'd never done it. And I mentioned that I had a friend who could paint. Aubrey, she said she'd pay you room and board and one hundred thousand dollars."

  Aubrey's legs gave out. She collapsed onto her couch and blinked at Kaye and tried to breathe. “A hundred ... A hundred thousand...?"

  "And she asked me to ask you if that was fair. Aubrey, I think you could get more."

  "More?” Aubrey croaked. More than one hundred thousand dollars?

  Kaye sat beside her on the couch, obviously pleased with the reaction her announcement had wrought. “The only catch is,” she said cheerfully, “she lives in Vegas, so you'd have to move out there for a bit while you paint. I'd miss you, naturally, but I actually think the change in scenery might do you a bit of good."

  Aubrey was busy spending the hundred thousand in her head. Then she heard the word “Vegas."

  "Vegas? I'd have to live in Vegas?"

  "Yeah. But just for a little while."

  Vegas. Gray had said he was from Vegas, hadn't he?

  "I can do a little while in Vegas,” Aubrey decided. She wouldn't run into Gray. What were the chances? “And I can definitely do with one hundred thousand dollars. Wait ... that is dollars, isn't it? I mean, we're talking dollars here, right? Not lire or yen or some other foreign currency that sounds like an awful lot of money until you convert it to—"

  "Dollars,” confirmed Kaye. “Good old American greenbacks. One hundred thousand smackeroos."

  Aubrey grinned. “Looks like my waitressing days are over."

  Chapter Seven

  Legendary pitcher Tom Seaver, who briefly played for the team, once mused that “Fenway is the essence of baseball."

  —Lane Hartill, Christian Science Monitor July 8, 1999

  February 7, 2004

  The Bienvenue Hotel and Casino was stunning. Downright stunning. Aubrey could gladly have stayed in the lobby for the rest of her life.

  She loved the great marble expanse, accented with wrought-iron railings that kept guests from falling into the small brooks that drifted along the floor like an elaborate tributary system of a giant river. The sound of running water trickling over stones was beautiful. Such beautiful music. She leaned on one of the wrought-iron railings and watched the water for a long time. Then she tossed a penny in, just for good luck, and went up to her suite.

  The lobby was impressive but it was nothing compared to the suite she'd been given. She could have fit two of her apartments in New York into the suite. It had an elaborate living area, full of expensive fabrics and equally expensive art, all in soft muted earth tones that made her want to sink into one of the oversized couches and just relax. There were floor-to-ceiling windows with a stunning view of the Strip, and a balcony. Yes, a balcony, accessible from the living area and the sleeping area. The bedroom was dominated by a bed so big she thought a guest could easily host an orgy.

  Welcome to Vegas, she thought sardonically, and then promptly almost fainted over the luxury of the bathroom. Why, the bathtub was big enough to swim in! And came with the most divine bubble bath. And it was cuddled in a nook that was made completely of glass, so she could take a bath and stare out at the mountains in the distance.

  Gorgeous, she thought. Just breathtakingly gorgeous. Who would have thought that she, Aubrey Thomas, would ever be living in such mind-boggling beauty?

  She continued investigating the suite and stumbled upon an entertainment room, big screen television, the coziest couches she'd ever seen, and a selection of movies for her viewing pleasure—a little heavy on the porn. Yes, definitely, welcome to Vegas.

  She was contemplating which to try first—the bed, the couch, the bath, or the entertainment room—when there was a brisk knock on the door. “Welcome to the Bienvenue,” said the smiling bellhop as he handed her an enormous fruit basket and then an equally enormous bouquet of flowers.

  Lovely. And a bit ... unreal. She should be waking up from the delicious dream any minute now. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a couple of dollars to tip the bellboy, and then staggered under the weight of the flowers and the fruit basket to the coffee table, where she placed them both. The flowers had a note: Welcome to Las Vegas! Call me when you feel rested.ext. 9-3605. Moira.

  How nice. Smiling, Aubrey dialed the extension and a woman picked up, a woman who sounded like the kindest, most benevolent woman on earth. And no, Aubrey was not biased by the generous gifts. “Is this Moira?” she asked.

  "Yes,” the woman affirmed,
sounding a trifle surprised. “Who's calling?"

  "This is Aubrey."

  "Oh! Aubrey!” Moira sounded delighted. “You got the flowers."

  "Yes. And the fruit basket. Really, Moira, they're both too much."

  "Oh, don't be silly. If you're feeling up to it, I thought you might like to have dinner tonight. Just so we could get to know each other a little bit before we get started. I am so excited about the portrait, Aubrey!"

  Aubrey smiled. “Me too.” Not least because it might just be her salvation. Painting portraits. A new career. Sounded heavenly.

  "There's a restaurant in the hotel. Pierre's. You should be able to find it easily. We'll meet around seven?"

  "Sounds good,” said Aubrey, glancing at her watch and blinking to find it still early in the afternoon. Jet lag was throwing her all off.

  "The hostess will have your name and she'll seat you."

  "Okay."

  "See you then."

  Aubrey hung up and did some more exploring, experimenting with the big screen TV. Then, feeling far too excited to rest, she decided to go exploring around the hotel.

  * * * *

  "I do hope you're not too upset. I was worried about you, Gray."

  Rosie Sheffield—no, Rosie Mayer now—batted her eyelashes profusely, eyes downcast, as if she were truly ashamed. She leaned in to lay a concerned left hand on his shoulder, so he couldn't miss the enormous diamond winking up at him.

  "Somehow,” drawled Gray, “I think I'll survive."

  "I just ... I know it was unfair to you, Gray darling, to get married so suddenly, without telling you—but what we had, darling, it was just nothing compared to what Stefan and I have. Wait until you fall in love. You'll see."

  Gray scanned the lobby for Danny. Mark had told him Danny was in the lobby, dealing with some sort of guest altercation. Gray didn't see Danny. He didn't see any altercation, either. All that coming to the lobby had got him was Rosie spotting him and flying over to gloat—oops, apologize—over her recent marriage to a man who ranked ahead of Gray in the bank account department.