Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (88 page)

Her face clouded. “Was there another phone call or a note? I didn’t hear the phone ring.” She turned to look at him, worried.
 

He held out his hand.

She walked to him and took it. He put her palm against his cheek and closed his eyes. “Something is wrong,” she whispered.
 

“Let’s go downstairs,” he repeated, leading the way.

An icy finger traced Angela’s spine as she walked down the staircase with him. Devlin’s tone was the same one she’d used with Philip the last time she saw him. Whatever was coming it wouldn’t be good. She tried to read Devlin’s face, but to no avail.

Once in the living room, he went directly to the bar and she saw the reason for his choice of location. He wanted the liquor supply handy. The finger became a cold hand on the back of her neck as her apprehension grew.

She watched him pour a few inches of scotch into each of two glasses. Angela accepted hers from his hand and noticed that he was trembling slightly. He was not as calm as he was trying to appear. And his offer of a drink was troubling too; she never drank scotch, and he knew it.

“You think I’ll be needing this?” she asked softly, gesturing with the crystal tumbler.

He bolted half of his in one shot. “Maybe.”

“You didn’t answer my question before. Was there another threat?”

Devlin sighed. His eyes, almost the color of the whisky in the glass he held, met hers directly.

“Angela, there are no threats. There never were any threats. It was all a ruse to get me into this house.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. “What do you mean? I got the letters, I read them. You read them too. And the phone calls, I heard the voice. What are you talking about? You can’t know ...”

He held up his hand and she stopped. Something in his demeanor warned her that she had better listen.

“Angela, I do know. That was all done so that Harold Simmons could recommend me as a bodyguard.” He looked away. “You were never in any danger.”

“Harold Simmons! What are you babbling about? What does he have to do with anything?”

“He set it all up.”

“Set what up? Brett, you’d better explain this. You’re scaring me.”

He drained his glass, then set the tumbler down.

“My organization approached him with evidence we had. He made a deal for his cooperation in return for immunity from prosecution.”

That she understood. She also understood that this man, who had professed ignorance of the law beyond the mechanics of paying off a parking ticket, was now spouting legal jargon like a district attorney. She swallowed hard, reaching for support by putting her hand out to the back of the couch.

“You had something on Simmons?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me it was all faked . . . the calls, all of it?”

His eyes flickered slightly. “All.”

The enormity of it was overwhelming. She could hardly take it in. Why on earth would someone want to do that to her, and why would Brett be a part of it?

“And you knew?”

He lifted his chin, as if to confront an enemy. “I knew.”

“From the beginning?” Her stomach was turning cartwheels.

“From the beginning.”

Angela took a sip of the drink she held. It scalded her throat and sent rivers of heat to her churning stomach. “But why?” she whispered. “Why?”

“So that I could get the goods on your uncle.”

She blinked in surprise. “My uncle!”

“That’s right.”

Now she knew Devlin was crazy. She shared Josie’s opinion of Harold Simmons, and would believe that he could get involved in something shady, but her uncle occupied his time setting up shipments of watercolors and glazed figurines. This was ridiculous.

“What ‘goods,’ as you put it, could you possibly get on him? What do you think he’s done?”

Devlin took a deep breath. “He’s been smuggling drugs into the country for about eight years—they’re concealed in the art pieces he brings in to sell. We’ve been trying to nail him for a while, and when more conventional methods failed we got a little more creative.”

Angela began to laugh. “Drugs! That’s preposterous. I never heard anything so insane in my life.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Brett, my uncle runs a legitimate import business. I know. I’ve advised him on some of the legal questions, international law and so on. It’s all very much above board, I assure you.”

“He runs a legitimate business most of the time, I agree. But every so often there’s a little something extra tucked behind the frame of a canvas or concealed in the lid of an incense jar. I’m sure that what he allowed you to see was above board, but that wasn’t all of it.”

“You’re insane.” She took another sip of her drink, dismissing him.

Devlin came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. She was as rigid as wood.

“Angela, listen to me. There is no question about this at all. We have been tracking Frank’s activities for a long time and we have all the proof.”

She shrugged off his grasp. “Who is ‘we’?”

“The Federal Bureau of Narcotics.”

She gaped at him. “You expect me to believe that the feds had my uncle under surveillance, and then sent you to get him when they couldn’t document his illegal dealings?”

He dropped his eyes. “That’s what happened.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And I suppose that’s who you really are? Not a private detective at all but an agent of some sort, like in the thriller novels and the suspense movies.” Her tone was incredulous, mocking.

“That’s right,” he said evenly. He met her gaze and held it.

Her derisive expression began to change as she absorbed what he’d told her and realized that he was perfectly serious. Her native intelligence came into play too. She had suspected for a while that something was not quite right about his situation, and she had just been offered an explanation for the jagged pieces that didn’t fit correctly into the picture. Disbelief faded and a horrible certainty formed in her mind.

“This is not a joke,” she said.

“No.”

“You’ve been working behind my back since you came here?”

“Yes.”

Her whole body sagged, as if a puppeteer had suddenly released the string that controlled her posture.

“You used me,” she whispered. “You let me believe I was in danger. You allowed me to be afraid.”

Devlin said nothing.

“It all makes sense now,” she continued in a wondering tone. “Why I found you in the library that night when you first came, for example. You were searching it.”

His bowed head was his assent.

“The preoccupation, the tension, the moods. The exhaustion. You weren’t getting any sleep, were you?”

He looked at her.

“Were you?” she demanded, her voice rising.

“Not much.”

“You were searching this house at night.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me I slept through all that? I’m a light sleeper. I surely would have heard something. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she thought about it. Realization dawned, and she looked at him for confirmation.

“I gave you some help to make sure you didn’t wake up,” he said.

“You drugged me?” She simply couldn’t believe it.

The look on her face was the most painful sight he would ever have to see. “I couldn’t take the chance of your waking up and catching me,” he said stonily.

Angela threw her drink in his face. Then she burst into tears.

Devlin raised his arm slowly and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

“How could you do it?” she sobbed. “How could you?”

“It was a mild sedative with no aftereffects,” he said quietly. “I didn’t hurt you.”

“No aftereffects?” she repeated, looking at him as if he were a stranger. “You didn’t hurt me? You doped me up so that you could ransack my house in order to put my uncle in jail. No, you didn’t hurt me.” She shook her head, sobbing.

“It was my job, Angela,” he said, anguished. “It was the reason I came here. I didn’t know what would happen with you.”

“Don’t you talk about that!” she spat at him. “I won’t listen to that from you.”

“Angela . . .”

“Stop!” she choked.

He fell silent, waiting.

“How could I have been so stupid?” she asked in a truly baffled tone. “I never even guessed what you were doing.”

“You weren’t stupid,” he said painfully. “You just trusted me.”

She nodded, raising a forefinger in the air. “And that was my first mistake,” she stated, the tears running down her face. “Is that why they sent someone young and handsome, to make sure I took the bait?”

Devlin felt his own throat closing with strangled emotion.

“No, damn it, no. What happened between us wasn’t part of the plan,” he said unsteadily.

“But you’re such an efficient spy, I’m sure you seized the opportunity when you saw it.” She advanced on him, regarding him with tortured hazel eyes. “What did you think when you held me, kissed me, made love to me? What did you say to yourself when you were inside of me?” she demanded, her voice breaking. “I’ll tell you what you said. ‘Sucker. Sucker, sucker, sucker!’”

“Angela, don’t do this,” he begged, turning his head to hide his working throat, his wet lashes. “Don’t tear at yourself to hurt me. You know what you’re saying isn’t true.”

“How would you know anything about what is true?” she demanded. “You’ve been lying so long it’s become your life’s work.” She tilted her head and regarded him with the pretense of objectivity. “Now I would say that you’re no ordinary, run of the mill eavesdropper, no garden variety shamus picking through the garbage looking for clues. My guess is that you’re a head honcho, a top cop, right?”

“I’m a section chief,” he replied evenly.

She snapped her fingers. “I thought as much! They must pay you pretty well.”

“Enough.”

“Enough to make betrayal seem like a fair bargain?”

He didn’t answer.

She nodded as if he had. “I should have known from the start. How could a simple private detective afford seventy dollar running shoes and be able to smoke imported British cigarettes? But I was blinded by love, wonderful love, and I didn’t question anything. I just swallowed every fairy tale you fed me, didn’t I?”

Pushed to the breaking point, he grabbed her shoulders. “Angela, none of it changes how I feel about you.”

She wrenched away from him, and when he tried to hold her she kicked out at his legs. He let her go.

“And what about how I feel about you?” she asked wildly. “You’re putting my uncle in jail!”

He slammed one fist into the other in exasperation. “Your uncle belongs in jail!” He took her hands and held them fast, forcing her to face him. “Do you know what happens to that poison he brings into this country? It goes into the arms of twelve year old children in Harlem and the South Bronx. He’s responsible for more misery and heartbreak than you can possibly imagine.”

She pulled her hands out of his grasp and slapped them over her ears. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s all lies. Uncle Frank has been kind to me. He’s taken care of me all my life since my parents died. He’s a good man.”

“Angela, he may have been good to you but that doesn’t alter the facts about his ‘business’ or the horror it causes.”

“The government has been after Uncle Frank for years,” she recited, as if from rote, “about his income tax. They could never prove anything was wrong. So now they’ve sent you to fabricate this monstrous story, all because he imports things from overseas and it’s an acceptable cover.”

Devlin closed his eyes. Her self deception was pathetic. Frank Patria was all the family she had and she wouldn’t hear a word against him.

“Did you ever see his tax records?” he demanded.

She squirmed. “No, but ...”

“No, because Simmons has been stashing cash every place he could for years, not declaring it. Didn’t it strike you as odd that you were never consulted even though you were a law student?”

“Simmons took care of it.”

“He sure did. That’s how we got him to give us your uncle.”

“All very neat, wasn’t it?” she sneered. Suddenly she bolted for the phone. “I don’t believe you. I’m going to call him, warn him about what you’re trying to do.” She lifted the receiver.

Devlin took the receiver out of her hand and replaced it.

“It’s too late, Angela,” he said evenly. “The evidence is all assembled. He’ll be indicted as soon as the papers are drawn up. There’s nothing you can do.”

She met his eyes. Hers were cold, empty.

“You’re letting your anger at me cloud your judgment,” Devlin said gently. “If you would just think about what I’ve said, go over the past in your mind, you’ll know that what I’ve told you is the truth.”

“There’s that word again,” Angela said bitterly. “From the person least qualified to utter it.” She doubled over, rocking miserably.