Dead Giveaway (15 page)

“Answer me, Paul! What's so funny?”

Jayne's eyes were flashing and Paul could tell she was growing furious, but he couldn't seem to stop laughing. The whole argument was utterly absurd.

“If all you can do is stand there and laugh like a hyena, you can turn right around and go back down that damned . . .” Paul pulled her into his arms and silenced her with a kiss. At first she sputtered, but then her arms tightened around him and she kissed him back.

“What was that for?” Jayne looked confused when he let her go at last.

“If we had continued to argue about our previous argument, it would have been another six months before I saw you again.”

“But it really was my fault. You've got to see . . .”

Paul grabbed her and kissed her again. Why hadn't he thought of this before? When he let her go, Jayne was giggling.

“I get it. Every time we start to fight, you kiss me. Is that right?”

“That is correct. It is impossible to disagree if we cannot talk.” Paul stood up and extended his hand. “Come, Jayne. Let us go to bed before we begin another quarrel. It is also impossible to argue in bed.”

Jayne took his arm and let him take her to the bedroom. She sighed in pure enjoyment as Paul undressed her and she felt his warm hands on her skin. Oh, how she'd missed his hands and his lips and his strong, warm body that made her cry out in delight! Her last rational thought, before passion turned her body into a trembling cluster of needs and desires, was that Paul was right. They had never argued in bed. If they just stayed between the sheets forever, they wouldn't have any problems at all.

An hour passed while he paced the floor in the garage security office until he was sure that everyone had gone to bed. Then he retrieved the pricey, compact, shortwave radio from his vehicle and carried it up to the penthouse spa.

He glanced at his watch as he switched it on. Almost midnight. The Old Man would be in bed. The device crackled as he attempted to connect and he moved to a better spot next to one of the glass windows where the static was minimal. His contact was almost out of range, but the altitude worked in his favor, a straight shot down the mountain with no obstacles.

“Yes?” A female voice with a slight foreign accent answered immediately. Since the Old Man's wife had died in childbirth over thirty years ago, he'd surrounded himself with a succession of beautiful women. This one was Colette, a young French showgirl, his personal companion for the past six months.

“I'm calling from Deer Creek and I need to talk to him.”

“May I please say who needs to speak with him?”

“I'm the Caretaker.” He frowned, hating his code name. Every time he used it, he felt like an actor in a cheap movie. Unfortunately, precautions were a necessary evil.

“Just a moment. I'll get him.”

The voice he heard next was sharp with concern. “Is she all right?”

“She's fine.” The Old Man always asked about her. He didn't give a damn about anyone else and he never had. “I need some advice.”

“You woke me. This had better be good.”

“It is. The people who took care of your problem last month left the tickets behind. They were discovered tonight.”

There was a long silence with nothing but static while The Old Man considered the problem. Moments before he'd switched on the device, he'd decided that there was no sense in mentioning the bones in the pool. He'd already removed them and substituted a couple of steak bones from the garbage. It could all be chalked up to post-avalanche panic.

The old geezer who'd seen too much when he'd cleaned up the construction debris had been completely expendable. The soldiers had dumped him behind the liner and no one except the mission do-gooders had missed him. They'd figured that he'd wandered off to try his luck in another city. It was one less mouth to feed and the bums down there dropped in and left whenever they wanted. The horseshoe ring was no problem, either. It had no identifying marks and for all anyone knew, it could have belonged to a worker on the construction crew. There was no sense in bothering the Old Man with details. The problem had been solved and that was what counted.

“Hello?” he asked, wondering if he'd lost his connection. This was taking too much long. There was no answer and he was about to disconnect and try again when the Old Man spoke.

“You can talk now. I hooked up a scrambler. How about those suitcases?”

“Your soldiers put them in the gardening shed. They barely had room for the body in the truck.”

“Get rid of them.”

“I will, as soon as I can get down the mountain. They're safe. I put on a new padlock and I have the only key.”

“There's nothing else to tie us to that rat?”

“Nothing concrete, but one of the women spotted your soldiers. She said they looked mean and scary.”

“They are.” The Old Man chuckled. “Contact me if there's any problem. You got that?”

“I got it.” He was still scowling as he switched off. He'd been well rewarded for being the Old Man's errand boy, set up in a business that netted all the money he'd ever need and served as a laundry besides, but he'd never been trusted to act on his own. He knew he was much more capable than others who held positions of honor. All he had to do was prove it.

 

 

Rachael sat in one of Clayton's big leather armchairs and watched him pace. He was restless tonight and even though she was tired, she didn't want to go to bed without him.

“So what do we have for damage, Rachael?” Clayton stopped by the couch to pick up one of the legal pads on the coffee table.

“Nothing of any consequence. A couple of broken glasses from the bar and . . .”

“The crystal?” Clayton looked worried as he interrupted her.

“No, the tumblers I bought for parties. They weren't expensive. And my Mexican piggy bank's cracked, but I can always get another. Five dollars at the flea market.”

Clayton made a note on the pad. “Anything else?”

“Only the big clay pot for the rose tree. It's been looking sick anyway. I'll have someone take care of it just as soon as the road's clear.”

“The rose tree with the yellow flowers?” Clayton frowned as Rachael nodded. “Those are Darby's Marshall Golds. She worked for years on that strain. Will it live until we can call in a gardener?”

Rachael hesitated. “I think so, but you know how lousy I am with plants. Do you want to take a look?”

“I guess I'd better.”

Rachael watched as Clayton opened the sliding glass door to the rose garden and stepped out. She knew he hated to go into the rose garden, which had been virtually neglected since Darby had died. It was too beautiful to go to waste, but Rachael's gardening skills were minimal and now that their regular gardener had quit, she had to find someone else to take over his duties.

Clayton came in, frowning. “It's root-bound. That's probably why the pot broke. And it doesn't look like it'll last for long. Do you think you could help me move it to another pot? There's a whole stack of them in the gazebo.”

“Of course I can.” Rachael jumped to her feet. Working together in the rose garden would be wonderful therapy for Clayton, almost as effective as making love in Darby's sitting room.

It took twenty minutes of backbreaking effort with Clayton lifting and Rachael steadying the tree while he poured in the potting soil, but they'd finally managed to transplant it into a big earthenware pot. Rachael stepped back and brushed off her hands. “Done! Now let's hope it thrives.”

“Not without more potting soil.” Clayton bent down to point at the base. “See that line around the trunk? It's called a crown and the soil has to come up far enough to cover it. I'd better put in another couple of bags.”

“You can't. I brought out the last one. Shall we dig some dirt from the garden and fill in with that?”

“Not advisable.” Clayton shook his head. “This is a special mixture for plants in pots, and garden soil has a different composition. I guess we should have left it and hoped for the best.”

Clayton looked so disappointed that Rachael knew she had to do something. “Maybe there's some soil in the gardener's shed. Let's go down and take a look.”

“I don't know who has the key.”

“Never let a little technicality stand in your way. That's the first thing I learned after I passed the bar. This junior lawyer's been picking locks since she was six years old.”

Clayton looked shocked and Rachael explained as they rode down on the elevator. “I was a latchkey kid. When I was little, I used to forget my key at school so I learned how to pick the lock on the front door. That came in so handy, I started to practice on other locks, too. I got into my foster mother's desk and my foster father's liquor cabinet and I even learned how to pick the padlock on my foster brother's ten-speed so I could take it for a spin when he was away at summer camp. Even more important, I was the only girl on campus who didn't have to wake up the housemother when she came in late.”

“It's amazing you didn't turn to a life of crime.” Clayton grinned down at her. Rachael never ceased to surprise him.

“Well, I wasn't quite that good,” Rachael admitted with a giggle. “But I know I can pick the flimsy padlock on that gardening shed.”

The gardening shed ran the width of the garage and Clayton watched while Rachael examined the lock. “It's the same kind of padlock my foster brother had on his bike. If I remember correctly, I just twisted to the left while I poked a hairpin halfway in and . . . I did it, Clay!”

Rachael stepped to the side while Clayton opened the door and switched on the lights. There was a whole shelf of potting soil and they each grabbed two bags. “Anything else we need before I lock it back up again?”

“I don't think so.” Clayton headed for the door. “Don't trip on those suitcases, Rachael.”

Rachael looked puzzled. “What are suitcases doing in here? We've got individual storage bins for things like that.”

“Good question. Do you suppose they belonged to our gardener?”

Rachael put down the potting soil. “There's only one way to tell.”

“I'm not sure we should . . .” Clayton stopped in midsentence as Rachael unzipped the little carry-on bag. It was too late to protest and he was just as curious as she was.

“Passports!” Rachael held up the distinctive folders and began to flip through them. “Look at this, Clay. They're issued in different names, but they all have Johnny Day's picture on them! Why would Johnny have fake passports?”

“Got me . . . but we'd better take them with us. And I'm definitely calling the authorities as soon as our phones start working again!”

Rachael stuffed the passports in her pocket, grabbed the bags of potting soil, and followed Clayton to the elevator. She didn't bother to relock the door since they'd be coming back down in the morning to show the others.

When they got back to their own apartment, Clayton went out to pour the potting soil around the rose tree while she sat down on the couch to examine their find. Four different passports with Johnny's picture, issued to Joe Perrino, Ramone Bertoni, Frederic Sorrento, and Johnny Day.

“I think we saved the Marshall Golds.” Clayton was smiling when he came in, but he quickly sobered when he saw her face. “What is it?”

“This passport's got Johnny's real name on it.” Rachael held it out to him. “He couldn't have left the country without it, could he?”

“Of course he could. He probably used another fake one. Still, it's definitely another piece of the puzzle. We'll discuss it with the others in the morning. How about a nightcap before we turn in?”

“That would be nice.” Rachael smiled at him. Clayton always suggested a nightcap when he wanted to make love to her. It had become one of their private rituals, a small glass of sherry preceding an enjoyable interlude in bed.

When they'd finished their sherry, Rachael rinsed out the glasses while Clayton showered, and then she hurried to her dressing room to put on Clayton's favorite negligee, a floor-length wisp of rosy pink lace. She creamed her face, brushed her hair, and sighed as she took her toothbrush out of the holder. She didn't feel like going through the whole routine tonight with the plaque rinse and the brushing and the flossing, but she had an appointment with her dentist next week and he'd go through the roof if he knew she hadn't followed his instructions.

While Rachael rushed through her prescribed dental hygiene program, she thought about the passports again. Now she wished she'd taken the time to open the other suitcases. Were there more passports inside? Or did they contain something even more interesting, like smuggled jewels or contraband drugs? If Clayton was still in the shower when she got through, she'd slip on a robe and run down to the gardener's shed to check.

Clayton was waiting for her when she emerged from her bathroom. He was wearing nothing but a towel and it was obvious that he'd been thinking about her. When he switched out the lights and put his arms around her, Rachael decided that the suitcases could definitely wait.

 

 

Betty smiled at her secret friend and took another piece of candy. She was getting very sleepy, but that was all right. Her friend had told her to go to sleep anytime she wanted and he'd even covered her with her favorite blanket. She felt warm and happy, just knowing that he was taking care of her. He was much nicer than Nurse.

They were watching a movie on forbidden channel five, but it wasn't very interesting. The actor and the actress were in bed and the man had just switched on the light. He was reaching for a glass of water when Betty's secret friend began to smile. Perhaps this was a comedy and she'd missed something. She thought she'd nodded off a few minutes ago, but she wasn't sure. Her head felt as light as the pink fluff from the carnival. What was it called?
Cotton candy,
those were the words.

Betty was proud of herself. She'd remembered something. She wished she could tell the man called Jack, but he had gone to the hospital. She'd try to remember to tell him when he came back all about the comedy that wasn't very funny and the candy cotton and how her secret friend had smiled.

 

 

Clayton woke up to reach for the water glass and poured in the packet of bromo he kept by his side of the bed. Despite Rachael's warning, he'd eaten some of her hot salsa. His stomach was still on fire and the corn chips had made him terribly thirsty.

He glanced over at Rachael's side of the bed and noticed that her water glass was empty. She must have been thirsty, too.

“Rachael? Do you want me to get you more water?” Clayton waited for a moment, but Rachael was sound asleep. He knew that filling her glass would be the gentlemanly thing to do, but he was so tired, he couldn't face the thought of walking all the way to the bathroom and back. If Rachael wanted more water in the middle of the night, she'd just have to get it herself. Wasn't that what women's lib had been all about?

He frowned as he settled back against the pillow. The water had a bitter aftertaste. Perhaps the avalanche had loosened some rust in the pipes.

There was a burning sensation in Clayton's chest and he wished the bromo would work faster. He was utterly exhausted, and it had nothing to do with the packing they'd done for Johnny or repotting Darby's Marshall Golds. He was a middle-aged man, in good shape of course, but he'd acted like a randy teenager today. He'd made love to Rachael twice, once before the avalanche and again tonight.