Except that he was playing dead.
Taylor pressed her lips together. It didn't matter. She wasn't going to fear a machine, or anything it sent her. Fine, so she'd probably be checking her in-box constantly as she unpacked, praying there'd be no new e-cards waiting for her.
There couldn't be. Not unless Gordon wanted to expose his hand, let everyone know he was alive.
So whatever else he'd sent was floating in cyberspace, never to reach her.
Not that he cared. He planned to reach her in person.
4:20 P.M.
WESTON & ASSOCIATES, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW
Reed paced around his office, mentally reviewing all the files, reports, and snippets of information he'd read through over the weekend. Mitch had given him copies of the articles he and Jake had dug up. Announce-ments of Gordon's successes. Significant investments he'd made on behalf of his clients—all
of which paid off huge. Big splashy parties he'd attended, always with a redhead on his arm. The guy loved the limelight almost as much as he loved the high life.
Goddammit, it didn't make sense. Gordon wanted revenge. Okay, fine, so he'd killed Adrienne and Douglas and gotten it. Whatever horrible thing he had planned for Taylor was still a question mark, but after that—then what? He'd want to start over, and not as a termite in the woodwork. His ego wouldn't allow it. So he obviously planned to flee the country. And live on what? He'd been on his own for half
a year now. He must have blown most of his savings, no matter how much he'd stocked up from the churning he'd been involved in.
The guy was a hedonist and a megalomaniac. He'd plotted and carried out a whole elaborate scheme. There was no way that revenge was all he had in mind for himself. His ego was too huge, his lifestyle
too extravagant. Something was missing.
Douglas's estate.
No matter how Reed cut it, he kept getting back to that. If Gordon could somehow get Jonathan convicted of homicide and get his hands on their father's assets . . . But how? It was a catch-22 for
the bastard, any way Reed cut it. To claim his inheritance, Gordon would have to come forward and announce he was alive. At which point, he'd be arrested for a list of crimes so damning he'd never see
the light of day again. Jonathan would become the sole beneficiary, and Gordon would fry.
So what was his angle?
Time to check out another long shot, Reed decided, walking over to his desk. He picked up the phone and punched in his old work number.
"Harter, Randolph and Collins," the receptionist answered.
"Mr. Randolph, please."
"Just a moment." The call was transferred.
Horace's secretary picked up. "Mr. Randolph's office."
"Hello, Ms. Posner. This is Reed Weston. Is Mr. Randolph available? It's important."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Weston. Let me check." She put Reed on hold, returning a moment later.
"I'm transferring your call."
"Thanks."
Two rings later Horace Randolph picked up. "Reed. What can I do for you?"
Reed launched right in. "Horace, I know this entire situation is awkward. But I need confirmation of something concerning the Berkley estates, as it pertains to Jonathan's case. I won't impose upon your integrity any more than I have to. All I'm asking is for a slight clarification of what we've already discussed. I wouldn't ask at all if I hadn't been affiliated with the firm when Douglas's will was drawn
up." A weighted pause. "And if I didn't feel the information might be crucial."
"Very well." Horace cleared his throat. "I'll do what I can. What is it you need to know?"
"Douglas's sister, the one who passed away—it's her daughter who'd be next, and last, in line to inherit
if Jonathan is found guilty."
"That's correct."
"I realize Douglas hadn't seen or spoken to his niece since she was a child, which is why she'd have no idea she stands to inherit. But she is his only living relative." Maybe, he amended to himself. "So I was wondering if you'd object if I spoke to her."
Silence. "That depends," Horace replied cautiously. "On what you plan to say."
"Nothing about the terms of the will. Nothing about Douglas or Adrienne. I only want to ask her
questions that pertain to my client." Or his twin brother. "It's possible she was in touch with Jonathan over the years. If she can shed any light on his character, his relationships within the family, it might
help. I'm reaching. But reaching is all I've got right now to prove my case."
"If that's what you're contacting her about, you don't need my permission. There's no overlap. Your questions are relevant only to Jonathan Mallory's defense, not the Berkley estates."
"I agree. I wasn't calling for permission—although I did intend to give you the courtesy of a heads-up.
I was calling to ask you for her name and address. Her telephone number, too, if you have it."
"Why not just ask Jonathan?"
"Because he's in pretty bad shape. I don't want to give him false hope. But if you don't feel comfortable sharing the information with me, I will go to him."
"Not necessary. I don't see a conflict here. The will's a matter of public record." Horace shuffled through some files and plucked the one he was looking for. "Here it is." He flipped through the will. "Douglas's sister's married name was Roberta Elmond. Her daughter's name is Alison. There's no record of her having married, so I assume she goes by the name of Alison Elmond. She lives on West Houston Street
in Greenwich Village. I don't have her telephone number handy."
"I'll get it," Reed quickly replied. "Thanks, Horace. I owe you one."
A pause. "You really think Jonathan's innocent, don't you?"
"Yeah. I do."
"If you're right, and you can prove it, that little firm of yours is going to burst at the seams in a month. You won't even need our referrals."
Reed didn't respond. Sure, the comment rankled him. But it didn't come as any great surprise. Horace would never understand that freeing an innocent man was his goal, not making a splashy name for
himself and, as a result, attracting more high-profile clients. Then again, that emphasis on billable hours above all else was why Reed had wanted out of Harter, Randolph & Collins to begin with.
"I'll keep you posted," he assured his former boss.
Disconnecting the call, he punched in 411 for information.
Two minutes later, he had Alison Elmond's phone number and had placed the call.
The line rang. Voice mail picked up, generically stating, "You have reached 212-555-8664. Please
leave a message after the beep."
He kept it terse, hoping that, by doing so, he'd elicit enough anxiety to prompt an immediate return call. "Ms. Elmond, this is Reed Weston. I'm a defense attorney. I have a few questions to ask you with
regard to the Berkley homicides. I'd appreciate your calling me back ASAP. I won't take up much of
your time. Thank you." He provided his cell number and hung up.
Time to wait—again.
4:35 P.M.
WEST SEVENTY-FOURTH STREET
Jonathan jumped out of the cab and rushed toward the apartment building. He couldn't imagine what Reed and Taylor had found. But he prayed it would be the key to his freedom.
He'd barely reached the first outside step when a stocky guy grabbed him from behind and dragged
him away.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jonathan demanded.
"Stopping you." The guy shoved him against the side of the building, clutching his shirt in two ironclad fists. "Who're you going to visit, Mr. Mallory?"
"That's none of your damned business. And how do you know who I am?"
"I've been on the lookout for you. What a coincidence that you showed up."
"What are you talking about? I was asked to come. And, I repeat, who are you?"
"I think you know. But, fine, I'll confirm. My name's Mitch Garvey. I'm a private i
nvestigator, hired to protect Ms. Halstead."
Jonathan shook his head in baffled confusion. "Then why are you grabbing me? You know I'm not
her stalker."
"Do I?"
"Yeah. She must have told you she's helping me."
Mitch arched a brow. "Is she?"
"Yes." Jonathan started to struggle again. "I've got to get upstairs."
"And why is that?"
"Because I need to see her. Because ..." Jonathan tried to shove Mitch away. "I don't have to explain myself to you!"
"Excuse me." Ed, the doorman, had walked outside. He was a broad-shouldered, imposing man himself, and he didn't look the least bit intimidated by the scuffle going on. He looked angry. "Whatever the problem here is, take it elsewhere. Otherwise, I'll have to call the police."
* * *
Bingo. The doorman had heard the escalating commotion. And, like a good safeguarder of a prestigious building, he was interceding. Just as planned. Excellent.
He inched his way toward the apartment entrance. It was too early in the day for the corporate gang to head home. So the building was quiet. But that's the way he wanted it. All he needed was one tenant... just one...
There.
A middle-aged woman exited the building. He watched her descend the steps and pass by without even seeing him. His gaze shifted quickly to the inside glass door, now slowly swinging shut.
He didn't wait. He seized his chance.
He darted into the building, wedging his foot in the sliver of space still provided by the closing door. Pulling it open, he slipped inside.
Forty-five seconds. Record time.
He took the stairs instead of the elevator.
* * *
"The police might not be a bad idea," Mitch had just finished informing Ed. "But this isn't a problem.
It's a potential crime." Leaning his weight against Jonathan to keep him pinned in place, Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out his PI license, flashing it at the doorman. "I was hired by Ms. Halstead. This man was on his way up to her apartment. I believe he's a threat to her life."
"I'm no threat!" Jonathan began wrestling for his freedom again. "Taylor called me. She said she found something, and that she and Reed needed to see me right away. She gave me this address."
Mitch's eyes narrowed. He wasn't impressed by the excuse. It was lame and easily discredited. So why would Mallory use it? He was too shrewd for that. And what about his feeble attempts to free himself? They were pathetic. If this guy had sophisticated enough martial arts skills to snap someone's neck,
then he was the Dalai Lama.
Something was wrong.
"Show me your driver's license," he commanded.
Jonathan stopped struggling. "Why? You know who I am."
"I said, show me your license."
With a peeved look, Jonathan fished in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Here." He stuck it in
Mitch's face. "Happy?"
An uneasy expression crossed Mitch's face. "Actually, no." He patted Jonathan down and then,
convinced he was unarmed, released his hold on him. "What's your social security number—off the
top of your head," he grilled, continuing to block Jonathan's path.
"Are you crazy?"
"Answer me."
"Fine." Jonathan ticked off the nine-digit number.
With a disgusted grunt, Mitch turned toward the doorman. "It's okay. Mistaken identity. I apologize."
Ed glared at them. "If there's another commotion, I'm calling the cops."
"Feel free," Mitch replied.
The doorman returned to his post.
Mitch clamped a restraining hand on Jonathan's forearm as he took a step toward the building. "Wait."
Jonathan stared. "You're still not letting me go? Look, Garvey, I don't know what your game is—"
"No game." Mitch waved away his protests. "But you're not going up there. Taylor didn't call you.
Reed's not with her. So tell me about that phone call you allegedly got."
* * *
Taylor finished watering her favorite pothos, then placed it on the windowsill where it would get the
proper amount of sunlight.
Stepping back, she glanced at her watch. Five minutes to go. She'd better not press her luck, or Mitch would be furious.
With a final glance around, she scooped up her purse, tucked her cell phone inside, and headed out the front door. She was just about to lock it behind her when she sensed a presence.
She whirled around, letting out a soft cry of surprise and dropping her keys.
He bent over, scooped them up, and handed them to her. "Hello, Taylor," he said with a smile.
CHAPTER 34
4:43 P.M.
WEST SEVENTY-FOURTH STREET
"Shit." Mitch punched End on his cell phone. "She's not answering. I'm going up."
He blew past Ed, his hand already reaching for his weapon. "Buzz me up. Now." He yanked out his pistol.
"I'll have to notify the—"
"Call Detective Hadman at the Nineteenth Precinct," Mitch instructed. "Tell him what's going on.
Now open that goddamned door."
The doorman complied.
Mitch raced up the four flights of stairs, holding his pistol in front of him as he reached Taylor's apartment and saw that the door was ajar.
He shoved it open.
"Taylor!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty apartment. Pistol raised, he continued
calling her name, checking out every room as he did.
All empty.
"Shit," he muttered again. "That son of a bitch."
"Who?" Jonathan demanded, having followed him. "What the hell's going on?"
Mitch wasn't wasting time on explanations. He pushed past Jonathan and out into the hall, squatting
down just outside the doorway and peering around to see if his sense of smell had deceived him. He found what he was looking for, rubbing his ringers over a damp spot on the carpet, then bringing his fingers up to his nose. He inhaled the familiar fruity scent.
"Dammit," he rasped, furious at himself for being taken. "Chloroform." He grabbed his cell phone and called the Nineteenth Precinct, reiterating the message Ed had just called in. Thankfully, Hadman had acted. He and Olin were on their way.
Next, he punched in Reed's cell number.
4:53 P.M.
WESTON & ASSOCIATES, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW
Reed grabbed the phone when it rang. Hopefully, it would be Alison Elmond, returning his call.
"Hello?"
"It's Mitch."
The somber tone of the Pi's voice registered right away. "What's wrong?"
"Taylor's gone. I think he's got her."
"What!" Reed shot to his feet. "How the hell could that happen?"
"Get over to her new apartment. I'll explain when you get here. Hadman and Olin are already on their way." A pause. "Jonathan Mallory's with me."
"I'm there." He was out the door even as he spoke.
5:25 P.M.
Reed literally ran the whole way, shoving commuters and other pedestrians out of his way. No car,
taxi, or subway could get him there faster.
Panting heavily, he arrived at the same time as Hadman and Olin. Their sedan roared up to the curb. They parked in the no-parking zone, jumping out and following a half step behind Reed.
They all burst onto the scene at the same time. Olin stayed in the lobby to question Ed. Hadman and Reed took the elevator up to Taylor's apartment.
"Start talking," Reed ordered Mitch the second he exploded through the door.
The PI ran through the preliminaries quickly, ending with Jonathan's arrival.
"Mallory." Hadman turned to him. "How do you fit into all this?"
"Tell them about the phone call," Mitch instructed him.
Jonathan complied, although he looked stunned and shaky.
"You're sure it was Taylor's voice?" Reed demanded.
/> "Definitely."
"But she obviously didn't place the call," Mitch said. "Which means that someone went to the trouble
of taping her voice and splicing the right phrases together."
"Whoever's framing me." Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck. "He wanted it to look like I was