Cold Hearted (28 page)

When she approached, he reached out, grabbed her around the waist and hauled her up against him. But when he lowered his mouth to hers, she shoved him away.

“Business first,” she told him. “Pleasure afterward.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.” He brought the cigarette to his lips and took another deep draw.

“Would you like to make a quarter of a million?” she asked as easily as a waitress would ask if he wanted fries with his burger.

“Who do I have to kill?”

She laughed. “You don’t have to kill anyone, just tell me the secret about Jordan’s marriage that you claim to know. You can get big money if what you know is really scandalous, and I mean the more scandalous the better.”

“I thought I’d already butchered Jordan’s reputation when I did what you wanted me to and made a phone call to that reporter on the
Daily Gazette
and filled him in on all the dirt the Powell Agency dug up on her.”

“You already knew everything Rick Carson told me,” Haley McLain said. “You’re her stepbrother. You could have shared that info with me right after the senator’s murder and I could have gotten the ball rolling before the GBI declared his death a suicide and before Ryan Price hired Powell’s to do a private investigation.”

“Until you came to me, I’d never put two and two together,” J.C. admitted. “I still find it difficult to believe that Jordan might have killed six people.”

“Make that seven. Or are you forgetting about Jay Reynolds?”

“Who is Jay Reynolds?”

“You really don’t know?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“I’ve been doing some digging of my own and discovered that a guy she used to work with at the Peachtree Agency was mugged and beaten to death about ten years ago. It just so happens that he and Jordan had dated a few times.”

“And you think she killed him?”

“I don’t know,” Haley said. “I really don’t care. As long as we can convince the FBI that there’s a possibility she killed him and six others, that’s all that matters.”

“The FBI is getting involved?”

“Not yet, but after you contact The Chatterbox and tell them all the sordid details of Jordan’s life, including the secret about her relationship with the senator—”

“Hold on just a damn minute. You actually want me to out Dan and Devon’s relationship? You want me to—”

“Dan and Devon?” Haley’s eyes sparkled as realization dawned. “Are you saying what I think you are?”

“Yeah, I’m saying Dan was gay and Devon was his boyfriend. Does that surprise you?”

“A little,” she admitted. “But I suspected there was something odd about Jordan’s marriage and I’d heard rumors about Devon. Now, it all makes sense.” Chuckling wickedly, she danced her fingertips up J.C.’s chest. “You could use two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollars, couldn’t you? That’s what this story is worth. Probably more.”

“You’re a heartless bitch, you know that, don’t you?”

She slipped the cigarette from between his fingers, tossed it onto the gravel, and then wrapped her arms around his neck. “The Chatterbox isn’t going to dish out big money just to learn that there’s another corpse in Jordan’s past. You’re going to have to go all the way and make the news as dirty and juicy as possible.”

“Why do you hate Jordan so much?” He looked deep into her eyes, trying to figure out what made her tick.

“I don’t hate Mrs. Price. She doesn’t matter to me one way or another.” Haley brushed her lips against his. “She’s merely a means to an end for me and for Cy. If we can nail Jordan Price for her husband’s murder, it’ll be a feather in my cap and in Cy’s. I want Steve Corbett’s job and Cyrus has political aspirations that could take him to the governor’s mansion.”

“If Jordan is convicted of Dan’s murder, she won’t inherit, will she?”

Haley pulled away from him, her mouth downcast in a frown. “No, she won’t. But that shouldn’t matter to you. It’s not like you’ll ever see a dime of that money. She and the senator washed their hands of you, didn’t they? This way, you come out ahead, with at least a quarter million in the bank.”

“Yeah, you’re right about me, but what about my mother and sister? Jordan takes real good care of them.”

“If you invest your money the right way, you won’t need anybody to support your family. You can do it.” Haley ran her fingertips over his belt buckle. “And who knows, there could be a book deal in your future, even a made-for-TV movie. Think of all the money you’ll make.” She tapped her fingers up and down the fly of his pants.

J.C. grabbed her hand, spread it over his erection, and pressed it down hard against his crotch. He grinned. “You’ve almost persuaded me.”

She undid his belt and unzipped his pants, then reached inside his shorts and freed his sex. Their gazes clashed. She knew what he wanted, what he expected in a non-monetary down payment.

Haley pulled him over into the grass, leading him there by his dick; then she dropped to her knees, took him into her mouth and gave him one of the best damn blow jobs he’d ever had.

Rick walked Ryan to his Mercedes and saw him off with reassurances that Powell’s would continue do all they could to find out the truth. He intended to leave Price Manor himself as soon as he talked to Maleah. He wanted an unbiased opinion about Jordan’s state of mind. This case was simply a job to Maleah. She wasn’t emotionally invested in the outcome.

And you shouldn’t be either.

But he was and there wasn’t much he could do about that fact except maintain a barrier between Jordan and himself.

Jordan looked pale and drawn, almost haggard. He wondered if she’d been sleeping poorly and eating very little. Giving her more bad news this morning certainly hadn’t helped any.

When he started up the steps to the veranda, the front door opened and Jordan walked out, her gaze searching the drive.

Was she looking for him?

“Rick, you aren’t leaving yet, are you?”

He met her halfway in the middle of the veranda. They each stopped suddenly.

“Is there something you need?” he asked.

“I — yes, I was hoping you’d stay for a while.”

“I need to speak to Maleah, then I should—”

“Don’t go. Not yet.”

“I realize you’re probably upset and wondering what’s going to happen next, but I promise you that Powell’s will protect you and do everything possible to find out the truth, not only about the senator’s death, but the others, too, if their deaths affect you or the Price family.”

She reached out and touched him, her fingers gripping his arm tentatively, as if she were uncertain how he would react. “Do you think I’ll be arrested for Dan’s murder?”

“No, not unless they come up with more evidence than they have now. All the suppositions in the world aren’t evidence. Even the most logical theory isn’t evidence.”

“But what about circumstantial evidence? You know people have been convicted—”

He clutched her shoulders. She gasped.

“Trust us to do our jobs. Trust me.”

He shouldn’t have put his hands on her. The temptation to comfort her overruled his common sense. Damning himself for a fool, he pulled her into his arms. As she rested against him, her head touching his chin, she released a quavering sigh and wrapped her arms around his waist.

He pressed his jaw against her temple as he held her. Protectively. Possessively.

“I feel as if I’ve finally lost everything,” she whispered. “Even my sanity. Nothing makes sense anymore. I thought I had reached a point where nothing and no one could ever hurt me, but…” She burrowed her face deeper into his chest and clung to him as if he were her only lifeline.

Was she crying? Had her strong dam of reserve finally broken? God, he hoped so.

But when she lifted her head and looked up at him, her eyes were dry, her expression somber. He sensed her pain, felt it acutely, and would have taken it from her if he could have.

Cry, damn it, cry.

As he held Jordan, he caught a glimpse of movement behind her and looked across the veranda to the front door. Rene Burke stood in the open doorway watching them. When her gaze connected with his, she held up a package and waved it in the air.

Rick slid his hands up the outer edges of Jordan’s arms until he reached her shoulders. “I think Rene needs to speak to us,” he said softly.

Jordan lifted her head and pulled out of his arms, then turned to face her assistant. “Yes, what is it?”

“I’ve been looking through the morning mail and discovered a package—” she held out the small yellow padded envelope “—addressed to you. The label is printed in pencil.”

Rick reached down and grabbed Jordan’s hand. She threaded her fingers through his and gripped tightly.

“Where’s Maleah?” Rick asked Rene.

“She’s waiting for us inside,” Rene replied.

Jordan looked up at Rick. “You’ll stay, won’t you? At least until after I open the package.”

His nonverbal reply of squeezing her hand seemed to be all the reassurance she needed. She released his hand and followed Rene into the house. Just as he started to enter the foyer, his sixth sense warned him that he was being watched. He looked right and left, behind him and then up. A shadow of movement caught his eye. Someone standing in an upstairs window had moved away quickly.

Whoever had been there was gone now.

A weird vibe crept up his spine.

He went into the house and quickly caught up with Jordan and Rene. Not once on the walk from the foyer to her study at the back of the house did Jordan glance over her shoulder to see if he was still there.

Was she that sure of him?

Maleah met them as they entered the study. She eyed Rick inquisitively, but she didn’t say anything.

“Do you want me to open it?” Rene asked.

“No, I’ll do it,” Jordan replied.

Rick held out his hand. “Give it to me and you two step back. I doubt there’s a bomb inside or anything deadly, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

After his comment, Rene couldn’t hand him the package fast enough. Rick took it and examined it thoroughly. With all eyes on him, he ripped open the envelope, upended it, and then shook it. Sheets of white paper held together with a large paperclip slid from the padded container and dropped onto the desk.

Rick picked up the small bundle and looked at the top sheet. It was a copy of Jane Anne Price’s obituary.

After removing the paperclip, he shuffled through the other pages.

“What is it?” Jordan came toward him.

“Copies of obituaries,” he told her.

“Whose?” Rene asked.

Rick went through them, one by one. “Jane Anne Price.” He laid the sheet on the desk. “Daniel Price, Boyd Brannon, Donald Farris, Jay Reynolds, Robby Joe Wright, and Wayne Harris.” He held one final sheet in his hand.

“Who else?” Jordan asked.

He handed the sheet of paper to her. She read it slowly, carefully, then reread it aloud.

“Jordan Helene Price, thirty-four, of Priceville, Georgia is dead. Funeral arrangements will be announced by Benefield Funeral Home. Mrs. Price was a native of Valdosta, Georgia, the only child of Wayne and Helene Harris. She was preceded in death by her parents, her fiancé, Robby Joe Wright, her first husband, Boyd Brannon, and her second husband, Daniel Price.”

Rick snatched the paper out of her hand. “That’s enough.”

Jordan stared at him, a detached look in her eyes.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Jordan. Jordan!”

She continued staring at him, not moving, not speaking.

“Damn it, Jordan, snap out of it.” He shook her again.

“Am I dead?” she asked half a second before she fainted.

After parking her car a block from his apartment, she removed the wooden baseball bat from the trunk, slipped it beneath her all-weather coat and held it close to her body. She had followed him from the Peachtree Agency, keeping a discreet distance behind him the entire way. Once she realized that he was going home, she had relaxed, knowing that tonight would be the night. If she could catch him alone in the parking garage, she would put her plan into action.

The autumn air was crisp, the half moon semi-bright, the stars twinkling dimly in the black sky. As she hurried along the sidewalk, rushing to reach the entrance to the basement parking garage, her heartbeat raced as excitement rushed through her body.

She had worn rubber-heeled athletic shoes that she had purchased at the Dollar Store, just as she had bought the cheap all-weather coat and the bat at Wal-Mart. None could be easily traced, certainly not back to her. She would burn everything she wore tonight, including her underwear, and also, the weapon.

Breathless, her face warm, her adrenaline high, she paused for a moment when she saw him standing by his BMW, his back to her as he leaned into the front seat. He had no idea that tonight was his last night on earth. Within a few minutes, he would be dead, punished for his sins. She removed the baseball bat from under her coat and held it up, both hands wrapped tightly around it. With quiet, catlike movements, she came up behind him just as he removed his briefcase from the car.

She lifted the bat as high as she possibly could, then with one hard, fast lunge, brought it down on the back of his head. He yelped, then staggered, unsteady on his feet. Before he could turn on her, she hit him again, this time landing a blow to the side of his head. As blood trickled from his scalp in two places, dampening his sandy hair and freckled face with red streaks, he slumped forward, his flailing arms reaching out. His knees buckled. She hit him again. Harder. He fell to his knees. She repeated the blows over and over again until he lay flat on his face, sprawled out on the concrete floor.

He wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing. He was dead. And yet she couldn’t stop hitting him, bringing the bat down on his head repeatedly until only a raw, bloody mess remained.

Breathing hard, the triumph of the moment obliterating everything from her mind, she stood over his body, proud of her kill, as any hunter would be.

After enjoying her moment of glory, she propped the baseball bat against the side of the BMW, knelt beside him and searched his pockets. She removed his wallet and shoved it into her coat pocket. Then she took off his watch and rings and put them in her other pocket.