The Black List (20 page)

“Makes you wonder where the kid is,” Donovan said, coming up behind him, picking up a couple of the movies. He set them on the kitchen counter, saying, “I’ll look upstairs.”

Tex noticed Alice hovering in the doorway.

“Ring me if you need anything else?” she said.

“I think we’re good for now.”

“I’m off, then.”

“See ya, Alice.” He returned to the living room, then eyed the telephone answering machine. There was no light blinking, but when he pressed the button, the automated voice said there were ten messages. He was beginning to wonder if there was any point as he fast-forwarded through the various dental, doctor, play dates messages, when he heard what sounded like a commotion upstairs. He left the machine, walked toward the stairs. “Donnie?”

Definitely some scuffling, he thought as the last message started playing.

“Bea, it’s Marty . . .” Tex turned toward the machine, froze. “Something’s come up. I—I’m in trouble. I think someone got to Byron and his family. They’re dead . . . Oh, God. Bea. I need you to take Emmie to your mother’s in Cornwall. Don’t tell anyone. Stay there until you hear from me or the police. I’m sorry . . . I— Can you please tell Emmie that Daddy loves her? That I’ll always love her?”

Tex was about to repeat it just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything when he heard a bloodcurdling scream that echoed down the stairwell.

33

Tex ran up the
stairs two at a time and found Donovan struggling with a woman, who from the appearance of things had been hiding in a wardrobe.

“Sheila?”

She craned her neck so she could see him, then suddenly crumpled to the ground, and Donovan let her go. “Tex?” she said.

“It’s okay. He’s my partner. Donovan.”

“She was hiding in the wardrobe. Scared the crap out of me.”

“Who were you hiding from?” Tex asked.

“There were two men who came to the house. Trip saw them through the window and he told me to hide and not come out.”

“Did you start the fire?” Tex asked, helping her from the ground.

“No!” Her eyes widened and her face turned red. “The frying pan? I forgot it. I was making lunch.”

“Maybe it saved you when the fire department arrived.”

“I heard the sirens but I was too afraid to look in case they were still inside.”

“You’re safe. Let’s get you out of here.”

“What about Trip?”

“You know where he is?”

She shook her head, and her eyes started to well up. “What if they got him?”

“Maybe they didn’t. Those sirens were pretty loud.” He glanced at Donovan, who was brushing dust off his knees. “You finish searching?”

“If he’s hiding here, I don’t know where. And the neighbor said only two men left in the same car seconds before the fire trucks got here.”

“There you go,” Tex said to Sheila. “In the wind. Again. Let’s get out of here and call Carillo. He’s going to want to know you’re okay.”

The three walked downstairs, and on an afterthought, Tex unplugged the answering machine and brought it with him. If Bea and the kid made it out of there, no sense letting it get out where they were.

Sheila grabbed her suitcase by the door, and he asked if she had a purse.

“In here,” she said, patting the luggage.

Tex called Carillo. “We’ve got her. She’s fine.”

“Thank God.”

“Now what?” Tex asked him.

“She and I are on the next flight out.”

“What do you want us to do? Drive Sheila to Heathrow?”

“Heathrow?” Sheila said. “I am
so
not going home.”

Carillo said, “Tell me I didn’t hear what I thought I did.”

“Afraid so, bud.”

“Put her on the phone.”

Tex held it out, saying, “Your husband wants to talk to you.”

She raised her brows, planted one hand on her hip. “You can tell my ‘husband’ that if he wants me to sign those divorce papers, then he better rethink his flight schedule. I’ve never been to England and I am
not
going home until I see something of it.”

“You hear that?” Tex said into the phone.

“Loud and clear.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “What do you think I should do?”

“I’m the last person to ask about marriage advice.”

“Trust me. Advice on that, I don’t need. About letting her stay? You think there’s any danger?”

Tex glanced at Sheila, who was staring daggers at him, as though he were standing in the way of her world tour. He walked outside to get some privacy. “I guess it depends on how bad you want those papers signed.”

“More than you can imagine. But not at the expense of my conscience if something happens to her.”

“I sincerely doubt she’s in any danger now that Trip’s out of the picture. I don’t think they were ever after her. Not good business sense to kill the wife of an FBI agent, unless you want the entire Bureau breathing down your neck.”

“There is that.”

“I’ll skip the part about you purposefully flunking your psych to buy yourself a few days on the beach to come after her. So unless you’ve got anything better to do . . .”

“In other words, twiddle my thumbs here or at home.”

“Show her a few sites. Maybe then she’ll be buttered up enough to sign the papers.”

“One can only hope. I’ll look for a hotel.”

Once Tex and
Donovan had the Carillos bundled off safely in their hotel, they returned to the safe house, and Tex played the message on the answering machine again, hoping to locate where Bea and her daughter might have gone off to, assuming Bea heard the message before anyone got to her house.

“Cornwall,” Tex said. “What is that? Four, five hours by train?”

“About that.”

“Let’s say Bea gets the phone message sometime between when Marty was shot and before Trip and Sheila get to the house.”

“Except that the neighbor saw her and the kid drive off.”

“But she also saw the other car show up later. I want to make sure they weren’t followed.”

“Maybe we should have Lisette stop in Cornwall on her way here. Double check,” Donovan said as the landline to the safe house rang.

Donovan answered it.

“Since
when
do we involve ourselves in local crimes?” McNiel’s voice was so loud, Tex could hear it from five feet away. Not waiting for an answer, McNiel asked, “Where’s Tex?”

Donovan hit a button, saying, “Here. You’re on speakerphone.”

“Arthur Bingham from MI5 called me not ten minutes ago, because he’s been on the phone with MI6, complaining about the bodies littering their streets after your visit. Murder-suicide? Orchestrated hit by the bridge? What the hell is going on there, and why isn’t MI6 liaising for you?”

Tex glanced at Donovan, saying, “Slight snafu. We’ll have it rectified before the night’s out. Interesting development, though. Our contact said something about a book right before he was killed. A Kipling novel.”

“Kipling?”

“That’s all we know.”

“Find out why the damned thing is so important.”

“Any chance you can have Lisette stop in Cornwall first?” Donovan explained the necessity.

“Fine,” McNiel replied. “I’ll let her know. And if we’re looking into the case, you might as well get a lead on who’s running around killing these accountants. Can either of you identify anyone?”

Tex hesitated, then said, “Eve was there. She stole the man’s briefcase—but she says she wasn’t part of the hit.”

They heard McNiel taking a deep breath, as though weighing all the information. “Any idea
what
was in this briefcase?”

“We have to assume the book in question.”

“Find out what her agenda is. Find out what the hell is in that book. Keep me apprised of the details.”

“Will do,” Donovan said, then disconnected, dropping the phone into his pocket. He looked right at Tex. “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t want to mention Eve’s involvement?”

“I’m not sure. I think I should meet up with her like she asked.”

“I and not we? You sure that’s wise?”

“I’ll make sure it’s nice and public.”

“Marty’s meet was nice and public.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Guess we’ll find out in a few hours.”

34

Once Micah’s program ended
at Claridge’s, Eve excused herself to the washroom. She checked her reflection in the full-length mirror, deciding her champagne satin gown struck the right balance of demureness and sex appeal. The high neckline showed no cleavage. It wasn’t needed. The soft drape of the fabric fell against her curves in such a way that sometimes it hinted at what lay beneath and at other times left no question.

The way the reporter, James Dalton, had been watching her, she knew without a doubt that this gown would intrigue him, leave him wanting more.

And right now she needed every weapon in her arsenal. It was bad enough he and his photographer showed up at the venue, but to find out that Marty Blanford had somehow been in touch with him? She’d been that close to recovering the book. She
saw
Marty guarding the briefcase. He must have hidden it. Unless somehow he’d gotten it to the reporter . . . ? Was that even possible?

It was the only explanation, she thought, applying her lipstick and noting the dark circles beneath her eyes. Sleep was almost nonexistent of late, and when she did manage to drift off, she often awoke from a nightmare that seemed to be recurring. Being sucked under in a riptide, struggling to swim to the surface, and then breaking through the churning white water, only to discover that no one could hear her scream as she was being pulled farther and farther from shore. And then, after waking, she lay there in the dark, waiting for her heart to stop racing, telling herself it was only a dream, all the while trying not to picture what seemed to be a warning. That if she wasn’t careful, she was going to end up drowning, only to wash up on a stretch of shore where no one would find her, or even know that she was missing.

She didn’t want to die.

Which was why she needed to handle this reporter very carefully. Right now it was all about recovering the book and doing damage control—something she was good at.

Especially when dressed like this.

After touching up her lipstick, she left the ladies’ room, wading through the crowd of formally dressed attendees, politely extricating herself from those who wanted to chat. Finally she reached the curved grand staircase that descended to the ground floor, where the black and white checkerboard marble tiles gleamed like glass, reflecting the chandelier that crowned the spacious lobby. After retrieving her coat from a bellhop, she draped it over her arm and stepped outside. A line of black taxis stretched down the block, waiting in anticipation for the mass exodus of patrons, and she wondered if he had sent a car as she’d suggested, or if he came himself. She supposed it depended on how suspicious he was. Or how smart. Because who the hell would meet up with her after the mess Barclay’s men made at the fund-raiser in D.C.? Someone with a death wish, or someone so blinded by the prize of a good story they failed to recognize the danger?

The crisp air felt exhilarating for a few seconds, until the cold became too much to bear, and she slipped her coat on, trying to maintain what little body warmth she could muster. When Micah and his latest followers offered her a ride back to their hotel in his limo, she declined. After ten minutes with no sign, she returned to the lobby, waited, greeted and said good-bye to a few scattered guests, then gave in, realizing James Dalton wasn’t going to show.

The doorman hailed her a cab, and she slid in, telling the driver, “The Dorchester, please.”

“Nice hotel,” the driver said.

She didn’t answer, having no wish to engage in conversation. What she needed to do was think about her next move with Mr. Dalton. But nothing came to her during the short drive. At the hotel, a liveried doorman assisted her from the cab, then walked her to the turnstile, saying, “Welcome back, Miss Sanders.”

“Thank you.”

If truth be told, she was glad James Dalton hadn’t sent a car. What she really needed was rest, and she opened her beaded clutch, looking for her room key as she walked toward the elevator.

“Miss Sanders?”

She looked up, saw a bellhop walking around the counter toward her. She met him halfway.

“You have a visitor waiting for you at the Promenade Bar.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like me to take your coat?”

As he helped her slip out of it, she glanced toward the bar. The Promenade opened off the lobby, an area that ran the length of the hotel, and she followed it to the lounge at the end, where she heard the soft strains of light jazz.

James Dalton sat on the far side of the oval bar, watching her as she entered. He didn’t smile when he saw her, but lowered his glass, then allowed his gaze to roam appreciatively over her as she walked toward him. Definitely the right dress, she thought with some satisfaction.

“A drink, Miss Sanders?” he asked, standing.

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Two more iced vodkas,” he told the bartender. Once he had the drinks, he led her to a table well away from the bar and any patrons.

“You’re not a reporter, are you, Mr. Dalton?”

The barest of hesitations, then, “Why? Because you went to the trouble of setting up a meeting for me this morning with Micah and I didn’t show? As you’ve probably guessed, something came up.”

Frankly, she’d forgotten about the meeting. Trying to follow Marty Blanford had understandably consumed her attention. “No, because here I am, and you haven’t called the police.”

“Perhaps I should clarify. I’m an
investigative
reporter. In my experience, the fastest way to kill a good story is to involve the police.
Especially
in a foreign country. They’re more likely to lock me in a cell while they sort things out.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Being in custody makes it hard to get the facts for a good exposé. Something I fully intend to do, Miss Sanders.”

“Exposé on what?”