Deadly Sins (29 page)

Jerry reached for the glass. His hand was trembling. “I figured on that. I’m in trouble, Adam. The kind of trouble that had the cardinal furious with me and rightfully so. It’s just a matter of time until it comes out.”

His look sharpening, Adam demanded, “What kind of trouble?” But the heaviness in his stomach had already turned leaden.

“You know I sit on the boards of many of my pet causes. I’m at the helm of others. Nonprofits have miniscule budgets. They can’t afford to hire people to do what volunteers can.” His fingers clenched and unclenched on the glass. “With this economy, giving is down. For churches. For charities. I thought investing the donations for the individual entities, even for the short term, would pay off and make up some of the losses. But the markets . . .”

“Went to hell,” Adam finished. The Scotch proved to be handy fortification. He drank. “How much did you lose?”

“Everything I’d invested. I’ve been juggling funds from one entity to pay the expenses of another and back again to cover costs. Last week one of the organizations discovered what was going on and went straight to the cardinal.”

Adam rubbed at the spot between his brows that had begun to throb. “Oh, God.”

The other man’s response was automatic. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in . . .”

“How much?” He leaned forward to set his glass on the desk. Then he took his checkbook from his inside suit coat pocket. Flipped it opened and readied a pen.

Hesitating, Jerry said, “I don’t expect your help. I got myself into this mess.”

Filling out the name on the check, Adam looked up again. “How much? The whole amount, Jerry. What’s it going to take to pay back every one of those organizations?”

The figure the man named had the pen jerking in his hand once. Then grimly, he finished writing the check. Ripped it out and handed it to his friend. When the priest wouldn’t reach for it, Adam set it on the desk. “You call the people you need to talk to at each organization. Tell them you will have reimbursement payments to them and ready to be picked up the day after tomorrow, for the full amount owed.”

Jerry shook his head. “I can’t let you do that.”

“I just did. Have your housekeeper run the check to the bank in the morning. I want you here all day. Available for the interview.”

The priest picked up the check. Stared down at it with an inscrutable expression. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Consider it a down payment on what I owe you for all you’ve done for me over the years.” But his mind was on another question. One he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer to. “Mind telling me where you had the money invested?”

Jerry shook his head. Took the check and placed it in his center desk drawer. “Thought it was safe enough. Had it with Patterson Capital. Oliver was a regular contributor to a couple of my causes. He gave me free advice. We talked about getting the highest rate of return in the shortest amount of time.” His mouth twisted. “We also talked about risk, but that part sort of skated right by me.”

Adam reached for the glass he’d set on the desk. Something told him he was going to need it. “How long ago was this?”

“Last year. At first the investments were responding nicely, then the bottom seemed to drop out. Oliver said it was a hiccup, that the financial world was steadying itself. But it was too late for me.”

The headache took on jackhammer status. The news couldn’t get much worse. “All right. You don’t offer that information. If you’re asked directly, answer honestly but with as few details as possible. Maybe there will be no formal complaint from the organizations involved, since they contacted the cardinal directly. If that’s the case, the bureau will have no idea about the nature of your latest disagreement with him.” And hopefully, by the time it did come to light, the case would be solved, and the information would be of no further interest to the agency. “Where were you last night?”

Looking up, Jerry frowned. “Me? Here. Why . . .” Comprehension dawned in his expression. He picked up the glass. Swirled its contents. “Well. Had I realized I was going to need an alibi, I would have had some dancing girls over.” His joke fell flat. Adam could find no humor in the situation.

“All right. You were home alone. If asked, you knew Patterson through some boards you served on together.” And Byron, too, Adam realized sickly. He’d been at the fund-raiser where Adam had spoken at Jerry’s behest. “Answer the questions honestly and briefly.” For his friend’s sake, he summoned a smile. “That check should mean the worst of it is behind you.” Silence stretched for a minute. “You should have come to me with this, Jerry.”

The other man released a sigh. And the look on his face was weary. “I was ashamed. With good cause, don’t you think? If I had my way, you would never have found out. But that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.”

Adam took a long swallow of Scotch. He didn’t know how to tell the man that gratitude probably wasn’t going to be enough.

“Lambert must be lying.”

Adam sent Paulie a dry look from his seat on the couch. “Do you really believe LeCroix’s son can’t be alive, or is it because you just couldn’t find him when you checked it out?” Paulie had an uncanny reputation for information mining, one richly deserved. But no one batted a thousand. And it sounded as though the mother and son had gone deep when they’d run.

Adam said as much. The words didn’t appear to cheer the man appreciably. “But if what he’s saying is true, someone managed to find him, right? Whoever it is he’s claiming used him as a tool in the murders. How the hell he managed it when I couldn’t is going to give me more than a few sleepless nights.”

“Here’s something else to add to that mix. Remember Ferrell claimed the man who hired him called himself LeCroix.”

Paulie frowned. “So was it Lambert who hired Ferrell? And possibly Jennings before that?”

Adam’s shrug was rife with frustration. “More questions than answers at this point. If he really is John LeCroix’s son—and those initials carved into his arm make that seem likely—he certainly wouldn’t be motivated by revenge.” When his friend’s gaze met Adam’s, he knew the other man followed his meaning. “But there might be another motivation out there.”

“The money.” Paulie sank more comfortably into the leather recliner and went silent for several minutes. His tie featured sly-looking dogs engaged in a poker game. One of them was cheating. “That would explain the sudden interest shown to our finances in the last several months.”

Adam’s look sharpened. “Anything lately?”

Paulie shook his head. “No one will find anything. I’ve got it buried too well.” His expression went pensive. “Do you ever regret the decision you made eight years ago in the CCU when I first came to you about the money?”

“I don’t believe in regrets.” Adam’s tone brooked no further discussion. It didn’t matter that every time Jaid entered the equation, those words turned to a lie. In this matter, at least, they were true enough. “But it’s getting harder to deny that these three murders are somehow wrapped up with LeCroix’s case eight years ago.” He shook his head in frustration. “I just can’t for the life of me figure out how.”

“Maybe not.” Paulie stretched his legs out and folded his hands over his slight paunch. “Maybe someone is trying to confuse the issue and make it seem that they’re related.”

“To what end?”

“To get you removed from this case? We talked about that before. At any rate there are way too many intersections between the Colorado kidnapper and these recent attempts on your life for my liking. The sudden appearance of LeCroix’s kid is just one more.” He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that a few minutes earlier he hadn’t believed Lambert’s claim about his real identity.

“We started tracing his life backward today to verify his story. Seems to check out given the facts he supplied us with. Places he says they were. People he claimed helped them. So far.”

“You’re wondering if those facts were planted.” Paulie’s gaze was sharp. “I don’t suppose the feds want to go to the expense of digging up John LeCroix’s body for a DNA match, so we’ll dispatch some people to talk to the so-called witnesses from his past.”

Adam nodded. Although he was inclined to believe Lambert’s claim to parentage, he’d feel better with personal visits to the places and people who had served to help the boy and his mother hide. “Maybe one of those people will recall someone else asking questions about him. We could find out who it was that discovered his identity first.”

“I’m on it.”

“There’s more.” Adam told the man about Jerry’s confession this evening. And about the conversation he’d heard between the priest and the cardinal previously. When he’d finished, Paulie’s expression was troubled.

“Adam, this doesn’t look good.”

Broodingly, Adam drummed his fingers on the couch’s armrest. “You think I don’t know that? Somehow I have to try and make sure the team I’m assigned to is the first to interview him.” Not that Adam would take a primary role in that interview. He didn’t need Hedgelin screaming about a conflict of interest. But for all the assistant director’s posturing about Adam’s presence in this case, Jerry’s involvement was the first true conflict. And it made Adam more than a little uneasy.

“So how you doing with his news?” His gaze flashed to Paulie, who was eyeing him knowingly. “It’s never easy to find out that someone we hold in esteem has feet of clay.”

“I don’t expect him to be perfect,” he said brusquely. “His vulnerability has always been the passion he feels for his causes. It affected his judgment.” He looked past Paulie. Stared blindly at the wall. They all had weaknesses. And somehow both of his were tied up in this case.

When her cell phone rang, Jaid didn’t lift her head from the pillow. Instead, her searching hand slapped the bedside table in a blind search. Discovering the phone, she opened her eyes. Tried to focus. “Marlowe.”

“Jaid.” The boozy voice was only vaguely familiar, but it was all she needed to realize this call wasn’t work related. Sitting up in bed, she snapped on the light over the bed. Checked the alarm. One thirty A.M. Someone should be shot.

“Who is this?”

“It’s me. Kale.”

Her eyelids slid shut in disgust. “Bolton, how did you get this damn number?”

“I’m an investigative reporter, baby. That’s what I do.”

“Good-bye.” She went to disconnect the call.

“Wait! This is about you and Adam Raiker.”

She froze, uncertainty creeping in. “I’m not talking to you about the case.”

His laugh was ugly. “It’s not ’bout the case. I’m talking about the fact that you and he had a thing. Long time ago. Prob’ly banging him back when you broke my nose. Should have just told me that instead of swinging like a nun protecting her virtue.”

“I should have hit you harder.”

“Yeah, well, shoulda woulda coulda.” He broke off. “What d’ya mean last call? Already? Hell yes, pour me ’nother.”

“Sounds like you’ve had too much already.”

“I do my best thinking over a couple drinks. And I’ve been thinking ’bout you all night.”

“I’d feel better if you didn’t.”

“See I know all ’bout you and Raiker’s relationship years ago. Known for a while but big deal. Not relevant to the book. Or so I thought.”

Trepidation warred with anger. “You’re right. It’s not relevant. And neither is this conversation.”

Ignoring her he went on. “But then running into you two on the street, I started to think, maybe there’s something I can use after all. Information is never wasted. It’s knowing when to use it. How to use it.”

She moistened her lips. Wanted to hang up. Didn’t dare. “You’re not making much sense.”

“None of it made sense to me, either, until I started digging a bit more. Into you this time instead of Raiker. And . . .” He released a whistle. “Guess what I found? You got a kid. Now that’s interesting. So I do a bit more checking, and hey, the age is right, too. So what I wanna know is if you’re raising Adam Raiker’s bastard.”

Ice had formed in her veins, freezing her from the inside out. “The only bastard in this conversation is you.”

His laugh was mocking. She could hear the clink of ice in a glass. Probably swilling down another shot before staggering home. “’Cuz, see, that would be of interest in the book. The great Adam Raiker, head of the Mindhunters, he’s got a baby mama stashed on the side.”

She manufactured a bored tone. A feat, considering the nerves jittering and clashing inside her. “Really? That’s what this book is going to be about? Didn’t picture you as the type for yellow journalism, Bolton. But I guess the drinking’s taking a toll, huh? I mean, how long can those two Pulitzers be expected to carry you before people start calling you washed up? I hear you’re only as good as your last book.”

“You always were a cocky li’l bitch. Needed a real man to remind you that you’re a woman. But I’m guessing you’re going to turn into my best source for material on Raiker.” His laugh was ugly. “You could say I’m banking on it.”