Dead by Morning (21 page)
Sometimes her mom wasn’t a nice person.
Poppy often wished she could live with Grandmother all the time, not just during the summer. But when she had mentioned the idea to her mother, she’d gone ape-shit and threatened all sorts of things, including telling Grandmother the truth about her finances—that she was actually flat broke and living off her son’s charity. When she turned twenty-five and had full access to her trust fund, she would help Uncle Saxon take care of Grandmother.
Sometimes Poppy hated her mother.
Luke paid Aldo Finster in cash. In exchange for the sixty-two thousand euros, Luke was escorted to a parked car outside his hotel that evening around eight o’clock. The driver got out, opened the door for Luke and waited while Luke slid into the backseat.
“Good evening, Mr. Sentell,” the car’s backseat occupant said.
“Jurgen Hirsch, I presume?”
“As good a name as any other and one I use on occasion.”
“I understand from Herr Finster that you’re the ideal tour guide for me.”
In the shadowy darkness of the car’s interior, Luke’s eyesight adjusted, enabling him to see more clearly. Jurgen Hirsch, blond, muscular and probably no older than he, studied Luke, his gaze focused on Luke’s face.
“There is someplace in particular you wish to go, someone you wish to see?”
“I’m looking for a man who calls himself Malcolm York.”
Dead silence.
Luke waited, his gaze riveted to his companion’s.
And then Jurgen Hirsch’s lips tilted upward in a cold, calculating, unemotional smile. “I, too, have heard the rumors about a man by that name. But it is my understanding that Malcolm York is dead and has been for sixteen years.”
“Then there is nothing you can tell me about him that I don’t already know, but perhaps you can tell me more about these rumors.”
“You are very persistent, Mr. Sentell.”
“I’m fifty thousand dollars persistent, Herr Hirsch.”
Hirsch laughed. A look of amused curiosity glimmered in his icy blue eyes. “Have you ever heard of Anthony Linden?”
“Who hasn’t heard of Linden, the infamous former MI6 operative who went rogue. What does Linden have to do with Malcolm York, other than both men are dead?”
“Ah, but that is what makes their association so interesting,” Hirsch said in his lightly accented English. “Rumors are that Anthony Linden is alive and well and has been working as a professional assassin for the past ten years.”
“And?” Luke knew where this was going, a gut feeling he didn’t like.
“Rumors abound, of course, but the most recent rumor circulating among my associates is that Linden is working for York.”
“An interesting rumor, especially since both men are presumed dead.”
“Sometimes rumors have a basis in facts. I have no proof that the billionaire Malcolm York who lived on the Pacific Island of Amara is alive, but I know for a fact that Anthony Linden is very much alive because I had drinks with him six months ago, the night before he left for America.”
Griff took Luke’s call at 2:30 Eastern Time that afternoon. When their brief, private conversation ended, Griff called Sanders into his study and then closed and locked the door.
“Do you remember a man named Anthony Linden?” Griff asked.
“A former SIS agent, I believe. He was permanently terminated ten years ago.”
“It seems that Linden may be alive and well and is reported to have been in the U.S. for the past six months.”
Sanders didn’t react, didn’t even blink. “And did Luke ascertain what the presumed dead Mr. Linden is doing in the U.S.?”
“It seems Linden is now a professional assassin.”
Sanders’s eyes widened. He clenched his jaw.
“Luke was told that Linden is working for Malcolm York,” Griff said.
Sanders’s nostrils flared as he released a deeply inhaled breath. “How reliable is Luke’s source?”
“As reliable as fifty thousand dollars can buy. It seems that the source claims to have had drinks with Linden the night before he left for America. Luke assumes that his source and Linden are in the same business.”
“If Anthony Linden is alive and if he is in the U.S., sent here in his profession as an assassin, you and I know that the man who hired him is not Malcolm York. York is dead.”
“Is he?” Griff asked.
“You know he is.”
“Yes, of course I know he is. He was dead when we left him on Amara. No one could have survived what we did to him, not even an inhuman demon like York.” Griff looked at Sanders for affirmation, needing to hear him say the words, to vanquish the ghost that haunted him. Malcolm York was dead and yet . . .
“What York did to us, and to many others, lives on in each of us, like an incurable disease,” Sanders said. “But York is dead. He was dead long before we chopped off his head.”
Chapter 21
The trip from St. Simons Island to Vidalia took close to two and a half hours. Maleah drove straight through without making any stops. When they arrived at the Hampton Inn that Sunday afternoon, they went to their separate rooms. Although they had both acted as if last night’s kiss had never happened, that singular event stood between them, an invisible wall of uncertainty. After making a concentrated effort for months to persuade Maleah to like and trust him, why had he done something so monumentally stupid? Any fool would have known that by kissing her, he would alter their fragile friendship.
If he could take back the kiss, would he?
Maybe.
But when he had kissed her, she had kissed him. Crazy thing was that he suspected she had enjoyed the kiss as much as he had, that it had affected her as strongly as it had him.
As he settled into his room, he tried to stop thinking about Maleah as anything other than his partner on a Powell Agency case. He unpacked his suitcase, hung up his clothes, and placed his shaving kit on the bathroom sink counter. He picked up the ice bucket and took it with him when he left the room in search of the refreshment center. He returned to his room with a full ice bucket and four canned colas, two in his jacket pockets and two balanced atop the bucket.
After placing three colas in the mini-fridge and the ice bucket on the desk, he upended a glass from the paper coaster, filled the glass with ice and popped the tab on his Coke. Then he removed his jacket and shirt, as well as his shoes and socks, stripping down to his T-shirt and bare feet. After setting up his laptop, he grabbed the glass of cola, along with a pad and pen, and relaxed on the sofa. Kicked back, sipping on the cold drink, he propped his feet up on the coffee table.
On the drive from St. Simons Island, he and Maleah had avoided any mention of last night. She had focused on driving; he had checked e-mails and text messages and given his full attention to the copycat killer case. They hadn’t talked much and when they had, their conversation had been limited to strategic planning for tomorrow.
Maleah had a ten o’clock interview with Browning in the morning. She understood that the first goal was to find out if Browning knew that his visitor Albert Durham was not the real Durham, the real biographer. If the fake Durham had fooled Browning, then it might be possible to coax him into betraying any confidences the two men had shared. But he wouldn’t give the info to Maleah without equal payment in return. He would want his pound of flesh. And he would want to strip it off Maleah himself, inch by inch.
If Browning knew that his visitor had been a fraud, his knowing that would change everything. That could mean the two men were co-conspirators, working together, each getting something they wanted from their alliance. If that were the case, then Browning wouldn’t be inclined to offer any info to Maleah. Not unless she could up the ante and offer him something that the fake Durham couldn’t.
Derek could only imagine what price Browning would demand.
Would Maleah be willing to pay the price?
Would he let her?
Listen to yourself, Lawrence! Would you let her? How the hell do you think you could stop her, short of knocking her out and tying her up?
While he jotted down first one thought and then another, anything and everything that came to mind, he finished off the first Coke. Just as he got up, refilled his glass with ice and reached into the fridge for a second can, someone knocked on his door.
He set the can beside his glass on the table and padded barefoot across the carpet. When he peered through the peephole, he smiled. He hadn’t expected to see her again until morning.
He opened the door. “Hi.”
“May I come in?” Maleah asked, her chin high, her gaze direct.
He stepped aside to allow her room to enter. “Yeah, sure, come on in.”
When she scanned him from head to toe, he realized she was taking in his completely casual appearance. “I was settling in for the evening.”
“I apologize for disturbing you.” She was still dressed just as she had been when they had arrived at the hotel. Navy slacks, tan jacket, and sensible low-heel shoes.
“You’re not disturbing me,” he told her as he closed the door. “Would you like a Coke?”
She eyed the glass filled with ice and the unopened cola can on the desk. “Do you have another?”
“Two more as a matter of fact.” He moved past her toward the desk.
“Then, yes, thank you, I’d like a Coke.”
“Have a seat.” He busied himself preparing a second glass with ice and then split the Coke between the two glasses. He walked over to where she sat on the sofa and offered her the drink.
Before joining her on the sofa, he opened the fridge and retrieved a second cola, popped the tab and set the can on the coffee table beside Maleah’s glass. When he started to sit down, Maleah reached out and picked up the notepad he had left lying on the sofa.
“Take a look,” he told her. “I was just putting down some thoughts on your meeting with Browning in the morning. See if there’s anything you think you can work with, anything that strikes you as doable.”
She read over the page of notes, and then set the pad on the coffee table before lifting her glass and sipping on the cola.
“First and foremost, you have to find a way to figure out if Browning knows that the Albert Durham who visited him is a fake,” Derek said.
“I figure a direct approach is best,” she said. “I think I should lead off with the news that we spoke to the real biographer, Albert Durham, and that the man who visited him and passed himself off as a writer wanting to tell the world Browning’s life story is a phony.”
“I agree. Watch him closely for his initial reaction. After those first few seconds, he’ll hide what he’s feeling and thinking. Browning is smart. He’ll figure out what you want almost immediately.”
“And that’s when the games begin.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
“What if I can’t read him well enough in those first few minutes to figure out if he already knew Durham was a phony?”
“You’ll get an initial gut reaction in those first few seconds,” Derek told her. “Go with your gut, let it lead you into what you’ll say next. Don’t listen as much to what Browning is saying as to what he isn’t saying. Read between the lines. And be aware of his body language.”
“I know the basics, of course, but . . . Just this once, I wish you could be there, in the room with me. You’re the expert.”
He reached out, instinctively planning to touch her, but stopped himself mid-reach when she scooted away from him. Ignoring his action and her reaction, he dropped his hand to his side and said, “You know enough. It’s mostly common sense and an ability to read people. Browning isn’t going to willingly give away anything. He’s going to lie and not only with his words.”
“Are you saying he’ll know I’m watching his body language and will fake that, too?”
“He may try, but the more intense the conversation, the less likely he’ll be concentrating on what he’s doing because he’ll be too involved in what he’s saying.”
“I wish I had time for a body language refresher course.”
“How about I give you one?” Derek suggested. “Why don’t I order pizza delivery for supper, get a couple more Cokes and more ice and we’ll settle in for the evening?”
“Sounds like a plan.” She downed half a glass of cola as she stood. “I want to get out of these clothes and into some jeans. Give me thirty minutes.” She set her glass on the coffee table. “Don’t get up.”
He watched her walk to the door, his gaze moving from her slender neck, exposed because her hair was up in a bun, and down over her trim, toned body. When she walked through the door, he leaned back on the sofa and huffed out a get-hold-of-yourself breath. He had to concentrate on business, not his partner’s shapely butt.
It was that damn kiss!
He’d always been aware of how attractive Maleah was, but now he couldn’t seem to think about anything else.
Well, you’d damn well better get your mind on helping Maleah survive tomorrow’s interview with Jerome Browning. She’s going into battle and the more weapons and armor she has to defend herself, the better.
Maleah had tried not to think about the kiss, but the harder she tried to forget it, the more she thought about it. How many times had she replayed Derek’s words:
It was bound to happen sooner or later. There’s been some sort of sexual tension between us since the day we met. That kiss was a good thing. It defused the tension, so we don’t have to deal with it anymore.
It was bound to happen sooner or later. There’s been some sort of sexual tension between us since the day we met. That kiss was a good thing. It defused the tension, so we don’t have to deal with it anymore.
Although they had both known that comment was a lie the minute he said it, they had spent the entire day pretending it was the truth. They had acted as if nothing had happened, as if the tension between them no longer existed, when in fact the exact opposite was true. She was more aware of Derek as a handsome, desirable man than she had ever been. How ridiculous was that? She had convinced herself that he was everything she disliked in a man and had denied the physical attraction that sizzled between them.
You’ll hate yourself if you have sex with him.
Where the hell had that thought come from? She wasn’t going to have sex with Derek. Not tonight. Not ever. She didn’t have indiscriminate sex just because her hormones went into overdrive. Doing something stupid and impulsive just wasn’t who she was. She chose her sexual partners with care and that was why there had been very few men in her life. For her, a sexual relationship was based on specific factors: mutual respect, a certain amount of admiration, physical attraction, and love. Not the forever-after, let’s-get-married kind of love, but the friendship I-like-you-a-lot kind of love.
She and Derek were partners, working together to solve a mystery, to identify and stop a killer targeting the Powell Agency. Now was most certainly not the time for them to explore all the explosive tension they each were trying so hard to deny. Later on, when this job was over and everyone associated with the Powell Agency was safe, they would have to face whatever it was between them. The ever powerful “it” that had taken on a life of its own when Derek had kissed her.
You kissed him back!
she reminded herself for the hundredth time.
she reminded herself for the hundredth time.
Hurriedly, Maleah removed her clothes, down to her underwear, slipped on her white jeans and baggy pink cotton sweater, and then slid her feet into a pair of pink Yellow Box flip-flops. After applying fresh blush and pink lipstick, she removed the pins from her hair and ran her fingers through it.
There. I’m presentable. But I don’t look as if I’m trying to impress him.
As an afterthought, she rinsed with mouthwash and rubbed some scented lotion on her arms and hands before leaving her room.
After the second knock, Derek opened the door. “I found a Pizza Inn in the Yellow Pages. It’s not far from here and they’ll deliver in about an hour. I thought we’d have an early dinner since we skipped lunch.”
She breezed into his room, hoping her body movements expressed casual confidence. She wanted him to believe that she was completely comfortable eating dinner with him in his room, just the two of them alone. She wanted him to know that the kiss they had shared last night was the farthest thing from her mind.
“In about an hour is fine,” she told him. “I am getting a little hungry.”
“How does taco pizza sound? I know how you love Mexican food.”
“Taco pizza sounds delicious.” She picked up Derek’s notepad off the coffee table and sat on the sofa.
“Don’t shoot me, but I ordered dessert.” He grinned. “It’s cinnamon stromboli.”
“You, Derek Lawrence, are a wicked, wicked man. You’re trying to make me fat.”
He laughed. “I like my women with a little meat on their bones.”
As if suddenly realizing how what he had said might be misconstrued, he stopped laughing and searched her face. “Not that you’re one of my women. Or that I think of you as one of many. Or—”
“Shut up while you’re ahead,” she told him.
“I really stuck my foot in my mouth that time, didn’t I?” He came over and sat down beside her.
“Don’t worry about it. I realize that if I hadn’t overreacted so many times in the past and repeatedly bitten your head off, you wouldn’t be concerned that I might take offense at every innocent remark.”
His brow wrinkled as he narrowed his gaze and stared at her. “Once again, I have to ask who are you and what have you done with the real Maleah Perdue?”
She laughed. “Oh God, not another imposter. Now you’re dealing with three fakes—the Malcolm York imposter, the Albert Durham imposter, and the Maleah Perdue imposter. How did you find me out so quickly? What did I do to give myself away?”
“Are you laughing at me?”
He smiled again and she noted how his whole body had relaxed. Body language. As if suddenly remembering what she was doing here in his room, all alone with him again, she said, “I’m here for my refresher course in body language, not for our mutual amusement.”
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