Deep Blue (18 page)

Hope walked up behind his chair. “Here. Dig into this.” Leaning over his shoulder, she set a big plate of bacon and eggs down in front of him, followed by a platter of buttered toast. Her soft breasts pushed against his shoulder and his groin throbbed. The attraction he felt for her still amazed him.

Conn looked at her and smiled, forcing his thoughts in a safer direction, inhaling the aroma of the delicious-looking food.

“I don’t believe this. A woman who can actually cook. And a city girl at that. I haven’t met a woman in years who knew how to fix a meal. Never did know many. Not even my mother.”

Hope arched a burnished eyebrow. “You can’t have a mother. That would mean you were actually a child at one time. I find that nearly impossible to believe.”

He laughed. “You’d be pretty much right, then. I was never really a child. I was born twenty-five years old. And I never really had a mother. She ran off with a carpet salesman when I was just a kid.”

Hope looked stunned. “Your father raised you?”

“More or less. Considering he was the town drunk, you couldn’t really call it that.” He dug into the eggs on his plate.

“How…old were you when your mother left?”

“About five, I guess.”

“Did you ever see her again?”

“No, and I didn’t really want to.” He reached for a couple of pieces of toast, wishing he hadn’t brought up the subject. He sure as hell hadn’t meant to. Still, he refused to avoid it now that he had.

“What about your dad? Is he still alive?”

Conn shook his head. “He got drunk and drove his car into a tree. Probably saved some other guy’s life.”

Standing behind his chair, Hope leaned over and wrapped her arms around him. “Conn, that’s so awful. I can’t imagine a mother abandoning her child. For me it would be an impossible thing to do.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes bad things happen.”

“I guess that’s another reason you hate women.”

Conn caught her hand where it rested against his chest and pressed a kiss on the back. “I don’t hate women, and if I’d known telling you the sad tale of my misplaced youth would have you holding onto me like this, I would have told you sooner.”

She laughed, slapped him playfully on the back, and drew away.

Conn just smiled. Getting back to the food on his plate, he closed his eyes and sighed at the taste of perfectly cooked eggs and just-crisp-enough bacon. “Wow, this is really good.”

“I love to cook, but I’m usually too busy to do much entertaining.”

“Now, that’s a real shame.” He looked at the other place-mat on the table. “Where’s yours?”

“I wasn’t hungry.” She let out a breath. “I keep thinking of Buddy. Someone needs to convince him to sell that building before he winds up getting killed. Nothing’s worth your life.”

“Maybe this time he’ll listen to you.” He finished eating, mopping up the egg yolk with the last of his toast. “That jam was fantastic. What was it?”

“Blackberry. I canned it last year.”

One of his eyebrows arched up. “Who would have guessed that beneath that tough façade lies a regular little Martha Stewart.”

Instead of smiling, Hope’s spine stiffened. “It’s just a hobby, is all. I really don’t have time to fool with it.”

Conn came up out of his chair, turned, and caught her around the waist. “What is it with you, Hope? You know, it’s okay to be a woman. You don’t have to constantly be proving yourself. So you like to cook. What’s the big deal? You know what I like to do sometimes?”

“What?”

“Paint. I like watercolor painting. There, now you know my terrible secret.”

Hope’s eyes searched his face. She recognized the lie for what it was and his reason for telling it.

“You are such a liar,” she said, but she was smiling, her tension slowly draining away. “I keep trying not to like you, Reese, but sometimes you really make it hard.”

Conn grinned. “I wouldn’t touch the next line for all the gold on the
Rosa.
”

Hope laughed, and Conn thought how much he liked the feminine, slightly throaty sound. “Come on, I’ll help you with the dishes,” he said, though there were other, more intimate things he would far rather be doing. “When we’re done, I need to call the
Conquest,
see what’s going on. Then we’ll head down to the hospital.”

“All right. Thanks.”

They finished up in the kitchen. Conn phoned the boat and asked to speak to Joe, who was in charge of the salvage operation while he was away.

“So how’s it going?” he asked.

“Not bad. We had some trouble with one of the generators after you left, but we’re due in for supplies so we’ll have it repaired when we get to Jamaica. We’re heading back tonight.”

“You guys find anything interesting?”

“Ron did—a fabulous gold necklace. It was broken into sections and one of the pieces is missing, but, man, it’s really gorgeous. We found a couple of gold cobs, too.” Cobs were crude coins struck off the end of a gold or silver bar. They came in sizes—eight escudos, four, or two, a measure of weight for shipment back to Spain.

“There are a lot of artifacts in this area,” Joe said, “but there’s still no sign of the ballast pile, and I’m starting to think the mother lode is somewhere else.”

“Keep after it. I’ll be back in a couple days. We’ll recalculate the grid and take another look around, see if we can figure out what happened to the main part of the ship.”

“Roger that,” Joe said. “You keeping Hope out of trouble?”

“So far.”

“Good. See ya soon.” Joe ended the call and Conn set the phone back in its cradle. He was thinking of the shipwreck, thinking of Mel Fisher and the Spanish galleon,
Atocha,
that had sunk a few years after the
Rosa
went down.

During the journey of the 1622 fleet, the
Atocha
had been hit by two different storms, one that sank the ship, the other two weeks later that separated the top decks from the hull. Fisher had found the top decks first, then been sidetracked by the amount of treasure they had found. It wasn’t until later that he finally found the mother lode.

“Anything new?” Hope breezed into the living room, coat, muffler, and gloves in hand.

“They’re still finding stuff, but no sign of the ballast pile—which means we haven’t found the main part of the treasure.”

“You’ll find it.” Walking over to the hall closet, she pulled out his overcoat and handed it over. “I don’t have a single doubt.”

Conn just smiled, wishing he was as confident as Hope.

They took the elevator down to the lobby. Conn flagged down a cab, which sloshed half-frozen water up on the sidewalk as it pulled over to the curb.

At the hospital, they got out and headed toward the front of the building, their breath white in the frosty air. When the door swung open, they walked through the reception room to the elevator, heading straight up to the sixth floor nurses’ station.

“Good morning. May I help you?” A different nurse from the one the night before stood behind the counter, this one tall and thin, blond hair sticking out in places, and generally looking pretty frazzled.

“We’d like to see William Newton,” Conn said. “He’s in room 613.”

The papers in her hand started to rattle. She glanced down the hall toward Buddy’s room, then back to him, and her face looked bone-white.

“I-I’m sorry. I’ll have to let you speak to one of the doctors on duty.”

Unconsciously, Hope gripped the sleeve of his coat. “What is it?” she asked the nurse. “What’s happened to Buddy?”

“Like I said—you’ll have to speak to the doctor in charge. I’ll go get him.”

As the nurse turned to leave so did Hope, walking in the opposite direction, down the hall toward Buddy’s hospital room.

“Wait a minute!” the woman called after her. “You can’t do that! He isn’t even in there!” The nurse looked up at Conn, her eyes full of pity. “I’m sorry, I really am. I’m afraid Mr. Newton’s injuries caused him to have a stroke sometime during the night. He passed away early this morning.”

“I still can’t believe it. He was always so vital, so full of life.” Hope paced the carpet in front of the sofa in her living room. She had done her crying already. She was fiercely angry now. “Whoever attacked him murdered him as surely as if they had put a gun to his head. It isn’t right—it just isn’t! I wish there was something I could do.”

“Take it easy, Hope. You’ve already done more than most people would have. You have to let the police deal with this from here on out.”

Hope sighed. “I called Jimmy Deitz while I was in the kitchen making coffee. He wasn’t in, but I left a message on his machine. I’m sure he’ll call me back.”

In the meantime, she went into the bedroom to phone her father and stepmother. She hadn’t talked to her family since she had left New York, and e-mail just wasn’t the same.

Sitting down on the bed, she dialed her dad’s home number and smiled when she heard her stepmother, Tracy, on the other end of the line.

“Hey, kiddo! It’s about time we heard from you.”

“How are you, Tracy?”

“Everyone here is fine. How about you? Are you still in the Caribbean?”

Hope told Tracy she was back in New York to attend the funeral of a friend, a shortened version of the truth. “I’m returning to Jamaica as soon as the service is over.”

“It’s twenty degrees here. I’m jealous.”

“I don’t blame you.” Her dad came on the line and she repeated the conversation she’d had with Tracy. She didn’t mention Hartley House, or Buddy, or any of her personal concerns; she didn’t want them to worry and she knew that they would.

“You take care of yourself,” her dad said. “And give your sisters a call. They’re beginning to get worried.”

“I’ll phone them as soon as I hang up.”

She started with a phone call to Charity in Seattle, then called Patience down in Texas, telling them both she was fine, catching up on a bit of family gossip, but careful to keep the calls light and fairly brief. Last, she called her best friend, Jackie Aimes.

“You’re back in the city?”

“I found out Buddy Newton was in the hospital. You probably read about it in the papers.”

“After what happened with your apartment, I was following the story, what little there was of it. I saw the piece about him being mugged in front of his apartment.”

“Buddy died last night, a stroke caused by the injuries he received.”

“Poor guy. Seems like he sure caught a lot of bad breaks.”

“It’s worse than that, Jackie. Buddy was murdered. I only wish I could prove it.”

“Hey, girlfriend, I thought you learned your lesson when those guys busted up your apartment.”

Hope sighed. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m only staying in town until the funeral is over. Then I’m heading back to Jamaica to finish my assignment.”

“Smart girl.”

“In the meantime, just in case, I’ve got my own personal bodyguard.”

“Now
that
sounds interesting. I want details, girl. Fess up—I bet this guy’s a major hunk.”

“Actually, he is. I’d tell you about it, but right now, I’ve got to run. I promise I’ll keep in touch—I’ve got your e-mail address.”

“You take care of yourself, you hear?”

Hope smiled into the phone. “I will. Thanks, Jackie.”

A deep voice reached her from the doorway. “You’re smiling. I take it this
Jackie’s
a friend.”

“Of the female sort, yes. A very good friend.”

“Family okay?”

“Everybody’s fine.” Hope looked down at the phone, thinking of Buddy and willing Jimmy Deitz to call.

Better than that, he showed up at her apartment thirty minutes later.

Conn insisted on answering the door. Jimmy said who he was and Conn let him in. Deitz walked into the living room stripping off his heavy, slightly worn overcoat, tossing it over a chair.

“You must be Hope,” the detective said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” He was short and stout, with heavily muscled shoulders, a fireplug of a man with a scar that bisected one of his dark eyebrows. He was built a little like Wally Short, but Deitz was a hard-looking man while Wally just looked friendly.

“Jimmy, this is a friend of mine, Conner Reese.”

Jimmy stuck out a wide, scarred hand. “Reese. You’re one of the guys involved in the treasure hunt. You run the dive operation.”

“Among other things.” Conn gripped the shorter man’s hand. For a couple of seconds, the two men sized each other up, though Hope had a feeling Jimmy had already checked Conn out, probably when he first took on her case.

“You as tough as you look?” Jimmy asked bluntly.

Conn’s mouth edged up. “If you want to know if I can take care of Hope, the answer is yes.”

Jimmy just nodded and Hope was sure he knew Conn was an ex-Navy SEAL.

“I hated to hear about Newton,” Jimmy said. “I don’t think whoever roughed him up meant to kill him. I do think whoever’s calling the shots on the Hartley House deal wants that piece of property and they’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

“Any idea who that might be?” Conn asked.

“Not so far. The guys who own Americal, the company that made the offer, have managed to bury their names pretty deep. The way these things work when the people involved don’t want to be known, a legal firm files the corporate papers, listing a couple of lawyers in the firm as directors. Later, they amend the documents internally, change the directors, and put in whoever they want.”

“Pretty tricky,” Hope said.

“No kidding. Atlantic Securities, for example, one of the companies named as owning Americal, was incorporated by a law firm named Wells, Powell, and McGuiness.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Hope said. “Back when I was with Richard we attended several benefits for charities they were involved in.”

“Yeah, well, the interesting thing is the name pops up again in connection with the property next door.”

“How are they connected?” Conn asked.

“Back in 1986, Wells, Powell, and McGuiness defended the corporation that owns the piece of property north of Buddy’s in a lawsuit brought against them for negligence. I guess somebody fell down and broke his arm or something. Seems like everybody’s sue-crazy these days. The point is, out of all the attorneys in the city, these guys’ names come up on the property adjacent to Hartley House.”

Jimmy flashed a smile. “Even more interesting, that firm was also used in 1993 to incorporate a company called Royalty Park. Royalty Park owns the piece abutting Newton’s property to the south.”

“Oh, my God,” Hope said.

“Amazing, ain’t it? All three of those pieces front the Hudson River. Put them together, you got enough real estate for a major development.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” Hope said.

“What kind of development are you thinking?” Conn asked.

“Who knows? Could be anything. Residential condos, time-shares, high-rise professional office space for sale. Whatever it is, if the deal goes through, the numbers are going to run into the hundreds of millions.”

Conn whistled.

“No wonder they need Buddy’s property,” Hope said. “Without it, they’re limited in what they’re able to do—maybe even blocked completely.”

“That’s just about it.”

“So what can we do to stop them?” she asked.

“Now that Buddy’s gone, we don’t have much to say about it. Whoever the old man left the place to is likely to agree to whatever deal he’s offered. From what Buddy told me, the offer’s more than fair. It was just that he didn’t want to sell.”

“The building belonged to him. It was his home. He had every right to refuse to sell.”

“True, but look where it got him.”

Hope took a steadying breath. “You’re saying Buddy’s murderers are going to get away with it. They’ve killed an innocent old man and now they’re going to be rewarded by making millions of dollars.”

“The cops are on it. They don’t like seeing an old man murdered any more than you do. There’s always a chance they’ll find the thugs who beat him to death.”

“But not the real killers—the men who ordered the attack. Those men will go unpunished.”

Jimmy just shrugged. After so many years in the business, he was bound to be a realist.

“So who’s in line to inherit the property?” Conn asked.

“I don’t think Buddy had any real family left.” Hope’s glance strayed out the window. In the office building across the way, people worked in little cubicles, absorbed in their own concerns. But Buddy had been different. He cared about other people. Now he was dead. “Of course there might be a distant cousin or some other relative out there somewhere.”

“I guess we won’t know until the will is read. I spoke to that attorney friend of yours, Matt Westland, the guy who was helping Newton. He says it might take a couple of weeks.”

Jimmy gave her shoulder a surprisingly gentle squeeze. “You did the best you could, Hope. You got to think of it that way.”

She only shook her head. “All those poor old people are going to lose their homes.”

Conn reached down and linked their fingers together, his strong grip oddly reassuring. “Like Jimmy said, you did your best. That’s all anyone can do.”

“When are you two heading back?” the detective asked.

“Right after the funeral,” Conn answered. “That’s day after tomorrow.”

Hope didn’t argue, though she hadn’t completely made up her mind.

“Be better if you left today. If they’ve figured out you’re here, there might be trouble. Until this is finally over, anything could happen.”

Hope let go of Conn’s hand. “I’m not leaving until after Buddy’s funeral. There’s only so much I’m willing to take.”

Jimmy cracked a brief, approving smile. “That’s the spirit. But if you stay, you’d better be careful.”

“I will.”

He looked up at Conn. “You keep an eye on her.”

“Believe me, I intend to.”

Jimmy left and Hope took a weary breath, her thoughts more in turmoil than they had been before. She wanted to stay in New York and do what she could to help, but even if she did, it probably wouldn’t matter. The will might not be read for weeks and even then, the new owner would undoubtedly take the Americal offer.

She was still thinking of Buddy and the tenants at Hartley House the following morning when the phone began to ring. Hope picked it up, wondering who besides Jimmy knew she was in the city.

The voice on the other end of the line was her boss, Artie Green. “I heard you were back in town.” The anger she heard in his voice made her stomach churn. “I want to see you in my office, Sinclair. Now.”

He hung up before she could reply. Hope set the receiver back in its cradle and looked up at Conn. “I’ve got to go down to the office. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

She crossed the room, heading for the coat closet, then realized Conn walked beside her.

He smiled. “I’ll just keep you company.”

“This is business, Conn. I’ve got a meeting with my employer.”

“No problem. I’ll wait out at the front desk.”

“That is ridiculous!”

His dark eyebrows drew together over eyes that had turned an icy blue. “Yeah? That’s what Buddy thought.” Grabbing his overcoat, he gripped her arm and propelled her out into the hall. “You don’t want to be late. Let’s go.”

As usual, the offices of
Midday News
on Twenty-second Street hummed with activity. Hope left Conn perched on an uncomfortable chair in the small reception area, the object of speculative glances being cast his way by Agnes Holland, the thin, gray-haired woman at the desk.

Conn bestowed one of his rare, charming smiles, and Agnes, the battle-ax of the office, returned it almost shyly. Hope rolled her eyes as she walked through the door leading into the main part of the office. Once inside, she made her way past a small sea of reporters who pounded away on their word processors, madly working to make their deadlines.

Hope waved at a couple of familiar faces but kept on walking, heading toward Artie Green, who stood in the open doorway of his office, his bald head gleaming in the bright fluorescent lights overhead. As she drew near, she noticed the frown on his face and the blunt hand clamped on his hip. Not a good sign.

“Get in here, Sinclair.”

“Yes, sir.” Hope eased past him into the office, and Artie slammed the half-glass door.

“Sit down.”

She did as he commanded, carefully tucking the skirt of her brown wool suit around her knees while Artie sat down in the chair behind his cluttered desk.

“You…um…wanted to see me?”

“Yeah. What the hell are you doing here, Sinclair? Why aren’t you sunbathing somewhere out in the middle of the ocean?”

Hope managed a smile. “I found out a friend of mine was in the hospital. I came to see if he was all right.”

“And was he?”

The fake smile slid away. “No.”

“And that friend wouldn’t happen to be Buddy Newton, by any chance, would it?”

Her eyebrows went up. “Actually, it was. But how did you know? As a matter of fact, how did you know I was even in the city?”

“Randy Hicks stopped by the hospital to see your late friend. The nurse mentioned he’d had out-of-town visitors. Your name came up as one of them.”

Randy Hicks, the reporter—and she used the term loosely—who had taken over her story. “So what did good ol’ Randy have to say about what happened to Buddy?”

Artie picked up the newspaper sitting on top of the stack on his desk and handed it over. “Here. See for yourself.”

Hope took the paper, opened it, and began to scan the pages.

“Section B. Top of the page.”

It was a prime location, the headline in large, bold print: IRONIC END FOR OWNER OF HARTLEY HOUSE. Hope quickly read the article, which basically said that the neighbors had been correct in their efforts to improve the neighborhood. After all, look what had happened to poor old Mr. Newton, mugged and killed almost in front of his own home. A new development in the area would help get rid of the unsavory element that was beginning to move into the neighborhood.

Hope smiled sardonically. “Of course, Randy didn’t mention the fact that the guys who want to buy that property already own the pieces to the north and south. That whatever they’re planning to build will make them millions of dollars. Or that they are undoubtedly the men behind the attack on Buddy that ultimately killed him.”