The Right Kind of Trouble (28 page)

“What do you mean?”

“It was going to belong to one of your many times–great grandfathers, son. But they stole what he'd worked for, put him on a boat and forced him to return to England a laughing stock. He took ill, never did recover. Over time, our family lost everything. But we'll find a way to get it back, won't we?”

He tried to understand what his father could mean, but he didn't find an answer soon enough. A brutal hand closed around his neck and yanked him forward, squeezing with awful strength. “You heard me, right? Answer me, boy!”

“We'll find a way.” It never once occurred to him to say anything else.

“Good boy. That's a good boy. Right, then. Come along. We need to be getting on. Have to get ready for that meeting. If I get this teaching job, then things will get better. You'll see. You'll see.”

He followed along in his father's footsteps, rubbing absently at his neck where strong, big fingers had curled in.

In the back of his mind, he heard his father's voice as he murmured,
We'll find a way …

*   *   *

Now, decades after that chilly day in January, he stood staring again at the house McKay built. It was a picture this time, a large painting done by a regional artist of some renown. Apparently, the artist had had a good relationship with the deceased Mr. and Mrs. McKay and the former McKays as well. He'd died recently, but this painting had been a Christmas gift to the family some years back.

Now it was the focal point of the lobby of the McKay Regional Riverboat Museum.

He curled his lip, reached up to stroke a hand down the painting, feeling the texture under his palm, the wooden surface of the frame.

He'd thought he'd found his way, but decided over the past few years that he'd rather do
more
than what his father had previously planned. He didn't give a shite about that sprawling monolith of a house. He wanted to get back the flat he kept in London. He'd made a right nice life for himself and he missed it, wanted to get back to it.

But until he was finished here, it wasn't an option.

His father hadn't raised a quitter.

As he had grown, so had the power of the McKays—the fucking McKays—especially thanks to the financial genius of Devon and the brilliant mind of Sandra Lewis McKay. She'd help pioneer any number of new medical instruments and taken research and development in the medical field in entirely new directions. The money from those patents was still rolling in—he had no doubt of that.

As that power had grown, his father's rage had exploded.

As his father had lain dying in his bed, his lungs eaten up by a virulent strain of cancer, he'd grabbed his son's hand.

“Make them … suffer,” he'd said. “You hear me? It's their … fault. Their fault.”

He'd just nodded.

They'd tried to get him in on a trial for a new cancer therapy, one that might have saved him, or at least given him more time, but he'd been rejected.

The company sponsoring the drug tests was in partnership with McKay Enterprises. They knew it then, both father and son.

The rejection had happened because he was a descendant of George Whitehall—there was no other reason they could fathom.

It wouldn't have occurred to either of them that the McKay family had no direct contact with the day-to-day runnings of the numerous companies they had connections to, that they couldn't keep track of everybody who came in contact with those companies—that number would run into the millions.

But a mind fueled by rage and hate sees little beyond that rage and hate.

As the old man grew sicker, he blamed the McKays more and more each day.
They know about us, boy. You got to hide yourself. Don't … don't let them know. And you … make … them …

He'd started to cough.

A few minutes later, he'd lost consciousness.

He'd never woken back up.

There are few certainties in life.

The sun will rise.

The sun will set.

Everybody dies.

Money speaks.

Friends will abandon you.

Family will always stand beside you.

The McKays will destroy everything that matters.

He'd told himself that at the grave as his father was lowered into the dirt, and he told himself those very words now.

In his hand, he held a gas can, filled with a special accelerant, the kind that just couldn't be found at the local
Pump N Go
. He splashed some on the floor in front of the display where the painting was and then left a trail all the way up to Moira's office, all over the papers she was reviewing. It wouldn't solve anything, burning them. She would have digital copies of the data, but this would slow her down and more … it would piss her off. He took care to hit other areas of the office, her chair, her desk, and then the large painting hanging on the wall. It was the last one ever done of her with her siblings and her parents. On a whim, he drew the boxcutter from his back pocket and slashed an ugly
X
through the canvas. His gloves were a strange, surreal blue, making his hands look almost inhuman.

He moved on throughout the museum, leaving accelerant behind him. Almost like the trail of breadcrumbs in the forest, he mused. But so much more effective.

He only had so much time and he made quick use of it, hitting the areas that would cause the most damage possible before going out the backdoor and leaving it open. There, he withdrew a device from his pocket and knelt, taking care to put it in place before rising and strolling away. He kept his head down and averted from the cameras. Although he had his mask on, he didn't want anybody to take notice of him until he was well out of view.

Once he was, he pulled out his phone.

He'd heard the idea of
dialing it in
on a movie once. Some of his best ideas came from movies.

He hadn't taken the idea seriously at the time, but with the changes in technology, he realized it really was possible. All with the right tools and a bit of research …

He hit send.

A moment later, the building went up in a rush of flames.

He was already halfway through town and talking, sans mask, to Mrs. Mouton.

He feigned surprise when she shrieked and he caught her arm. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

“Oh, mercy. Oh, dear heavens…” She lifted a hand and pointed. “The …
oh, my!
Look!”

He turned his head and stared.

With everybody around him, he didn't dare let himself smile.

Mrs. Mouton started to struggle. “What if Moira is in there … or any of the others? We have to get help!”

As they all swarmed closer, he did the same.

*   *   *

Absently, Moira popped a fry into her mouth before pulling one of the wrapped sandwiches out of the bag.

Ian had met her on the sidewalk, his arms laden with a box full of food and he'd winked at her, asked if he could join her.

Assuming he'd gotten Neve's call, she grinned at him.

Now, as they unpacked the food, Gideon shot her a disgruntled look over the top edge of his computer. His assistant Darby was digging into the food Ian had brought over.

“This two-person team has grown significantly,” Gideon said as the door opened.

Neve, Brannon, and Hannah came inside, Hannah noticeably less energetic and still wearing her uniform.

“You look tired, Hannah.” Gideon gave Brannon a pointed look. “Take her home.”

“Not happening, Chief,” she said easily. “I'm tired, not fragile. I can look at records or research stuff as well as anybody else.”

“True, but this is a police investigation.”

“As of yet, seems to be a wild goose chase,” Ian said. “You're just digging up old family records or trying to. How is that a police investigation?”

“Gideon?” Moira set his food down in front of him and bent to kiss him. “You're arguing with a rock wall trying to dissuade all of us, and you know it. Why bother?”

He grunted out something unintelligible and sighed. Then he took a pointed look around. “Just where is your canine companion, Moira?”

“I took her home. I didn't know if she was allowed in the station.”

The look he gave her could have frozen the flames of hell. “
I
get to decide who and what is allowed in my department, Moira. You aren't supposed to be going places alone.”

“Well … you can always drive me home.” She winked at him, then stole one of his fries.

He caught her wrist before she could grab another. “You're interfering in a police investigation, Mac. Don't make it worse by stealing a cop's fries on top of it.”

She laughed as he bit into the fry she held before letting her go.

A few minutes later, as they all spread out, he reviewed the information he had and pointed them toward the best databases.

Neve pulled out her laptop, and Ian cocked up a brow as he saw the now-familiar website pop up. Leaning over, he whispered softly, “Now that's not very nice. You're slacking.”

“No, I'm not.” She slanted a look at him from the corner of her eye. “Watch.”

She went to the advanced search and typed in
George Whitehall
, filling in his country of birth and estimating about when he would have been born, plugging in a few more details.

“Viola.”

“Cheater.” He grunted and used the laptop he'd brought from the pub to go to the government website Gideon had suggested.

After a few minutes of what felt like fruitless searching, he glanced around, then decided to follow Neve's lead.

Of course, that required he set up a bleeding account.

Neve snickered to herself when she saw what he was doing, but she didn't blame him.

The ancestry website was mostly for fun as far as she was concerned, but it accessed
huge
databases, including the ones Gideon had pointed them do, searching through them so they didn't have to. This seemed like an awfully far-fetched idea, but she'd definitely heard of weirder ones, so she wasn't going to toss it out altogether.

One of the leaf hints popped up and she clicked on it, but it was a dead end from what she could tell.

Blowing out a breath, she rubbed at her head and refreshed her window. It was easy to get lost in all the searches. There were so many hints up in the box now, she didn't know which way to go.

A noise from outside caught her attention just as somebody out in the station shouted.

Gideon's phone rang.

Too much noise …
Distracted, she moved the laptop from her lap to the table. Absently, she flicked a finger down the touchscreen watching as a list popped up, full of those little leaves. One name caught her attention and she sneered out of habit, flicking at it.

Her
flick
really meant
go away
. But her computer didn't get that.

It opened the hint, and a picture started to download.

She groaned.

Outside, the noise from the street started to grow louder.

Somebody burst into the room with a suddenness that had Neve leaping out of her chair, her heart racing. She liked to think she was over what had happened. She liked to think it … even she knew she was lying to herself.

Moira had gone pale, her hand pressed to her chest.

Gideon had answered his phone, rising to turn away, communicating in a series of monosyllabic grunts.

But now, Beau Shaw practically tumbling to the floor as he came to a halt, Gideon turned around. “Officer, please step outside,” Gideon said, striding toward him.

But Beau's eyes were wide, locked on Moira. “Thank God. Shit, Moira. Everybody was…”

She looked around. Neve felt a curl of dread settle in her gut.

Slowly, she reached out to close her laptop, not bothering to close the picture.

“What's wrong?” Moira asked.

“The museum,” Beau said.

“Officer!” Gideon half-shouted his name now.

Beau tensed, then shook himself, clearly coming out of whatever shocked state he'd been in. “Yes, sir!”

“What's going on?” Moira demanded, her voice low and angry.

Gideon blew out a breath. Then he moved to Moira. “I don't know just yet, but I just had a call. The museum, Moira … it's on fire.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Are you okay, Mac?”

Dully, she lifted her head and saw Gideon kneeling in front of her. He was sooty, rivulets of sweat leaving somewhat cleaner trails on his face. His eyes were almost brilliantly blue against the dirt as they stared at her with concern.

“Okay,” she echoed, trying the word on her tongue.

Behind him, the walls of the museum rose up like skeletal arms. So much of it was gone. The fire department had been on the scene almost immediately and they'd acted as fast as they could, but Moira was a realist. It looked like a third of it—at least—was destroyed. She'd imagine much of what was left wasn't going to be salvageable.

“Who is doing this?” she asked quietly.

Gideon sighed and reached out to take her hands. “I don't know. But I will find out.”

“Do that.” The fury struggling to break free under the numbness rose a little closer to the surface, and she felt like she was going to snap. “Do that because I'm ready to rip his guts out.”

Wisely, he just nodded.

Then, reaching out to cradle her head, he drew her in close. His lips brushed her brow. “I'm so damn sorry, Mac.”

“Don't. Not here. Not now.” Tears burned her eyes and she whispered, “Please don't. I'm about ready to break as it is.”

“The good Lord knows you can't let the world see you're human.” He said with a faint smile, but nodded and let go. “I've got to get back to work. Why don't you go hang out at Ian's place with him and Neve?”