Sweet Talk

  She was so rattled she had to think about the question a minute before blurting, “It was money I saved.”

  “That’s another lie,” Ronan said. He tried to sound disappointed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t.”

  Ronan’s voice hardened. “We traced it, Vicky. The money came from Carl Simmons’s account.”

  “No, no, it didn’t. I saved all that money.”

  “Carl withdrew that precise amount,” he said. He didn’t have proof that Carl had done any such thing, but he was going to see if Vicky would take the bait. “And you deposited that amount. There’s only one conclusion we can draw. Carl gave you the money. So now I have to ask, why? Could it be for the alibi you gave him?”

  She hadn’t asked for an attorney, so Ronan kept at her, question after question, trying to wear her down.

  Grayson spoke again. “You’re going to prison for a long time if you lie to us. You’re as much responsible for shooting Olivia MacKenzie as Carl is.”

  “No. Why would you think—”

  “You’re lying for him to give him an alibi, so you’re in it with him,” Ronan said. He slapped his hand down on the table, and the sound reverberated around the small room. Vicky jumped.

  “Tell her about the proof we have that she’s lying,” Grayson told Ronan. “The other proof.”

  What the hell? Ronan had no idea what Grayson was talking about, but he nodded and said, “I will. I’m getting to it.”

  “There’s more proof?” Vicky was scared and unsure now.

  “I don’t understand,” Ronan said, shaking his head. “Carl’s going to go to prison for his other crimes. Why are you protecting him? You certainly don’t have to worry about giving the money back to him.”

  Grayson knew they were going to have to let her go. Aside from the fact that Vicky had deposited ten thousand dollars, everything they claimed to know about her was fabricated. He wasn’t through messing with Ronan, though. “Go ahead, Agent Conrad. Tell her about the other proof.”

  Ronan was going to have to come up with something, and Grayson couldn’t wait to hear what he would say. He knew his friend’s mind was scrambling.

  Vicky panicked. “I want a deal.”

  “You what?” Ronan asked. He’d also been thinking they were going to have to cut her loose.

  Grayson stepped forward and leaned on the table. “What kind of deal?”

  “I’ll tell you what really happened, and you don’t put me in lockup. You let me go for good. No charges . . . ever.”

  They nodded, but before they spoke their agreement or disagreement, she blurted, “Yes, I lied. He made me. He was with me that night, but only for a little while. He left early. He seemed to be in a real hurry.”

  “Did you see what he was driving?” Grayson asked.

  “I did. I’d never seen it before, so I asked him about it. It was a brand-new SUV. One of those big fancy ones. He said it belonged to the fleet that they used whenever lawyers from other branches were in town.”

  “What color?” Ronan asked.

  “Black. Real shiny black.”

  Grayson walked out into the hall. Ronan followed him. “A black SUV doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Unless we can show where it’s been,” Grayson said and then added, “GPS.”

  Ronan smiled. “Of course. Simmons spends most of his time in New York. He can’t be that familiar with D.C. He might have needed directions to Olivia’s apartment.”

  “Or maybe even Martin’s house to plant a gun. If he programmed an address into the GPS, there would be a record.”

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  “Let’s go find that SUV.”

  * * *

  Carl Simmons’s misery started and ended with Olivia MacKenzie. She had set out to destroy her father and him, and she had succeeded. He tried, but he hadn’t been able to shut her up or stop her relentless quest.

  Carl had estimated he had at least another good year to draw more and more rich investors into the Trinity Fund. He’d tucked away a little bit in foreign banks, but he simply hadn’t had enough time to hide what he’d need to live on. It was too late now. He had to figure out a way to get out of the country.

  He’d made sure there weren’t any papers to prove he was a silent partner in the fund. Nothing in writing to damn him. That was only slowing the Feds down, though. Eventually they’d have enough to fry him.

  Yes, it started and ended with her. He’d tried to stop the woman by threatening her, but she didn’t scare that easily, so he took it to the next step and went to her employers to discredit her. That didn’t work either. Killing her seemed the most logical solution.

  Kline needed money and agreed to do it, but he backed out at the last minute. Simmons decided that he would have to pull the trigger himself. Three bullets and he still couldn’t get rid of her.

  He felt confident he’d covered his tracks pretty well, but then finding out about Ray Martin was a lucky break. His arrest was covered in all the papers, so Carl took advantage of his good fortune and decided to hide his gun at Martin’s house. Simple as could be. Martin would go down, and maybe Olivia would be so shaken she’d worry about the shooting and back off her persistent prying. He actually thought it was a possibility . . . that is, until she started messing with Robert’s deal with Jeff Wilcox. She brought in the lawyer, Mitchell Kaplan, and Carl knew that pit bull wouldn’t stop until their whole operation was exposed.

  All they’d needed was a little time, a few days for them to clean out their accounts and hide what was left of the money before they took off and disappeared, but when he learned about her visit to Jeff Wilcox, he could almost hear the clock ticking down the minutes before he and Robert MacKenzie were destroyed. Carl should have killed Olivia then, but he had to act quickly, so he’d tried to use the mental illness ploy to get her hauled away to an institution for a few days. He never should have trusted those idiots, Kline and Vogel. They screwed up everything, and if he’d just been a little quicker, he would have gotten away before the Feds showed up.

  Carl refused to be defeated. They may have arrested him, but he was smart enough to convince the judge to release him on bail. Obviously they’d underestimated him. He had a plan. He was going to leave in the middle of the night, drive one of the fleet cars that wouldn’t be recognized, and hightail it to Miami. He had connections there, people who could get him out of the United States.

  Everything was in place. He was all set to leave that night, but then he got the phone call that changed everything. An inside source, an attorney who had a contentious relationship with the FBI and who owed Simmons a favor, called to let him know his bail was going to be revoked. The Feds were on their way to his house to take him in. He was being charged with attempted murder. The source told him about the evidence. The GPS had damned him, and Carl knew there wasn’t any way out of this now. Even if he tried, he couldn’t get away.

  When he’d been arrested for his white-collar crimes, he hadn’t panicked. Even if he didn’t make it out of the country, at the very worst, he’d be sent to a minimum-security prison, or as the media liked to call these facilities, a country club. Now that he was going down for attempted murder, minimum security was off the table. The judge would put him in a hard-core federal prison, and Carl knew he couldn’t handle that. Just thinking about it terrified him.

  He’d rather die.

  The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He would die. It would be quick and over. No long years of terror in prison. He’d go out on his own terms. And he wouldn’t go alone. Yes, he’d take her with him. It was fitting, wasn’t it? She’d caused all this pain in his life. She had been his ruination. Now he would be hers.

  He already had the fleet car waiting, a dark blue Honda. It was parked on a street a couple
of blocks away. He’d removed the license plate and swapped it with one he found on another Honda in a parking lot.

  He had to act fast. Once the Feds discovered he wasn’t at his small D.C. apartment, they’d put out a search for him. He knew he couldn’t evade them long. He took the gun he kept in his safe and hurried down the street to the waiting car. He drove to Olivia’s apartment building, pulled into the garage across the street, and waited. Darkness was descending. It was Saturday, and he hoped she’d go out. He’d follow her and ambush her. It wasn’t much of a plan, but he hadn’t had time to figure out something more elaborate.

  There were other cars parked on the street across from the entrance to her building. People were sitting inside them. Newspeople, he knew, waiting for a chance to talk to her about her father. He might just get lucky and shoot a couple of them, as well. They certainly hadn’t been kind to him. Why should he care about them?

  Carl decided he’d have a better vantage if he joined the other vans and cars. An Acura left, and he pulled into its slot behind a white van. It was a great spot. A red SUV honked at him because he’d gotten to the space first. Like the other vans and SUVs and sedans, he kept his motor running. Slinking down in his seat, he waited. Condensation quickly covered the windshield and windows, making it difficult for anyone walking by to see inside.

  Carl had brought a flask of whiskey with him. He took a long swallow and felt the liquid burn his insides. The whiskey gave him courage. Before he killed himself, he hoped he could watch Olivia die. He smiled thinking about it and took another swig. It would all be over soon.

  * * *

  Grayson paced in Olivia’s apartment while he waited to hear that Simmons had been picked up. Agents were on their way to Simmons’s apartment now, and it shouldn’t be much longer before Grayson got the call that the bastard was in handcuffs. Only when Simmons was in lockup would Grayson stop worrying.

  Olivia was getting ready to go out. Grayson was taking her to a dinner party honoring Dr. Pardieu.

  She had taken the news about Carl Simmons well and admitted she was actually more relieved than surprised.

  “The GPS was his big mistake. He left a clear record that he’d driven to Martin’s house to plant the gun,” Grayson told her. “Are you happy now that you know it was indeed Simmons who tried to kill you?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Happy? This will put him away forever, so yes, I guess I am.”

  Grayson had told her that as soon as Simmons was picked up they could leave.

  The bedroom door opened, and there she stood. She wore a black dress with a V-neck that showed just enough cleavage to make Grayson nuts.

  “You look beautiful,” he told her as he pulled her into his arms and kissed the side of her neck. “Every time I get near you, I want to take you to bed.”

  She felt the same way. She kissed him on his cheek and pulled away. “We’re going to be late if we don’t leave now. It’s a thirty-minute drive to the restaurant.”

  “I haven’t heard about Simmons yet. We’re going to wait—”

  “Couldn’t we get in the car and start driving?”

  “Olivia . . .”

  The warning in his voice didn’t deter her. “If we get to the restaurant and Simmons still hasn’t been taken into custody, we’ll turn around and come back. I don’t want to wait here, then drive like crazy to get there before it’s over. It’s Dr. Pardieu,” she said. “I can’t miss it. He’s like a father to me.”

  He relented. “Okay, we’ll leave now, but you have to promise you’ll stay in the car and not balk if we have to turn around.”

  She smiled. “I’m not sure about the balking, Grayson. I’ll stay in the car, but I feel I’m entitled to a little balking.”

  He helped her with her coat, kissed her neck again, and buttoned his suit jacket. “Ready to walk the gauntlet?”

  “How many reporters did you see?”

  “Three vans, a couple of SUVs. They’ll try to swarm as soon as you step outside. Keep your head down,” he told her. “I’ll get you out of here as fast as I can.”

  “You should park in the garage from now on,” she suggested.

  “They’re down there, too,” he replied. “More than are on the street. When we get back, I’ll talk to the doorman about sweeping the garage.”

  He pulled up her collar as the elevator door opened in the lobby. “Ready?”

  She nodded. Grayson took her hand and strode past John. She waved to him as she was being pulled through the door.

  A door opened on every car that was parked across the street, and cameramen and reporters came running. Grayson noticed a blue Honda opposite the apartment entrance. It hadn’t been there when he’d arrived. The sedan was squeezed in between two vans. As Grayson hurried Olivia around his car to get to the passenger side, out of the corner of his eye he saw the door of the Honda open and Carl Simmons step out into the street.

  Olivia was blinded by camera lights. She put her hand up to shield her eyes, unaware of the danger.

  Simmons swung his right arm up, and Grayson saw the glint of steel. He moved so quickly, Olivia didn’t have time to brace herself or react. He threw her behind him, and she fell to her knees before he flattened her with his body. In one fluid motion, he covered her and trained his gun on Simmons.

  He shouted to the reporters, “Get down, get down . . .”

  “What—” was all that Olivia could utter. Grayson had knocked the wind out of her. Gunshots stopped her from asking questions. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed Grayson wouldn’t get hit. Protecting her, he’d made himself a target.

  Camera lights illuminated the scene that was unfolding. Simmons ran toward them, shooting again and again, trying desperately to get Olivia. Grayson fired only one shot. That was all he needed. The bullet sliced into Simmons’s black heart. His arms flailed, his legs buckled, and he crashed spread-eagle to the ground, face-first.

  The noise was ear-piercing. People were screaming and running every which way. Olivia’s heart pounded in her chest, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Grayson lifted her, checking to make certain she hadn’t been hit by one of Simmons’s bullets. Her dress was ripped all the way up to the top of her thigh, her elbow was scraped, and she was shaking from head to toe.

  Grayson’s eyes showed fear mixed with his rage. “Are you all right? Did he—”

  “I’m okay,” she whispered, surprised by how weak her voice sounded. “What happened?”

  “Carl Simmons.”

  Stunned, she asked, “He’s here?”

  “He’s dead. Can you walk? I want you to get inside. Tell John to lock the door. Don’t talk to anyone. Just sit and wait for me. I need to get to Simmons’s gun—”

  “Go,” she said.

  John held the door for her, blocking two eager reporters from entering. He bolted the door behind her and led her to the security room behind the desk. “No one will bother you here, and you can watch the street, see what Agent Kincaid is doing.”

  Grayson ran across the street. Pushing reporters out of his way, he knelt beside Carl to check for a pulse while he called it in.

  Others had called 911 already. Within bare minutes, police and agents filled the street. Olivia waited patiently, but her chest was getting tight, and she knew she was going to be in trouble if she didn’t use her inhaler. She then realized she didn’t have her purse. She must have dropped it when Grayson pushed her. John found it under the car and brought it to her, and once she’d used her inhaler, she felt immediate relief. She put her head back, closed her eyes, and tried to calm her racing heartbeat.

  She thought about Grayson and how calm he’d been while that maniac was shooting at them. He was completely in control, until it was over. Then his composure turned into fury that Simmons had tried to hurt her. He had put his life on the line to save hers, she
realized, and her eyes filled with tears at the thought of what could have happened to him.

  Knowing it would be some time before Grayson was finished, she went back upstairs. She stripped out of her clothes, washed her hands, and cleaned the cut on her elbow. She slipped into her silk robe and curled up on the sofa to wait for him.

  He arrived a half hour later and found her standing at the kitchen window, looking down at the street.

  “Is he really dead?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What was he thinking to come here? With all the reporters . . . He couldn’t have thought he’d get away with it.”

  “He wanted to die, but he wanted to kill you first.”

  “He really hated me, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. You stopped him from destroying more innocent people’s lives. The world’s a better place without him.” Grayson tossed his tie on the table. “You took your clothes off,” he commented.

  “Yes.”

  He took a step toward her and stopped. “It’s not too late. We could catch the end of the party I guess.”

  She took a step toward him. “I don’t want to go out. I could fix dinner . . . microwave something. Are you hungry?”

  He slowly looked her up and down, smiled, and said, “Yeah, I’m hungry.”

  Lifting her into his arms, he walked into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Grayson wouldn’t leave Olivia alone. He was determined to marry her, and nothing she could do or say would change his mind. He had listened to her protests for two months, but he was persistent.

  “If I were to get sick again, you’d have to suffer with me,” she argued. “Are you ready for that?”

  “How about I toss you out if you get so much as a cold?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What happens if I get sick?” he countered.