DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten (the Charlie Fox crime thriller series) (41 page)

Suddenly, Sean peeled the phone out of my hands. “It wasn’t Charlie’s fault,” he said into it, his tone abrupt. “Dyer was set on playing the hero.”

He was holding the phone tight to his ear so I didn’t hear whatever response Parker made to that statement. I could guess, though. Something along the lines of it being my job to disabuse a principal of any heroic notions. It’s what I would have said, in his position.

After a few moments Sean handed the phone back to me. I eyed him warily as I took it.

“Yeah?”

“You asked about this guy working for the O’Days—Vic Morton,” Parker said. I was not reassured by his change of subject. “We’ve been doing some digging. Is that still relevant, bearing in mind the current situation?”

I paused. Morton had shot Castille. He had undoubtedly saved Sean’s life in the process. Was that enough to cancel out other debts?

I said, “What do you have?”

“Well, we didn’t turn up anything on the guy himself,” Parker said. “He’s been keeping a low profile since he got the job.”

“Oh.” I was aware of an intense disappointment. “Thanks for looking anyway,” I added.

“No problem,” Parker said. “There was one other thing, though—I’m not even sure if it’s worth mentioning. The guy himself has done nothing to set any alarms ringing, but his employers are a whole different ball game.”

I remembered my suspicions about Jimmy when we’d found him loose aboard the
Miss Francis
. An image of the hapless Sullivan, tied to a chair with his throat sliced open, flashed into my head.

“What gives?”

“A month ago a considerable sum of money was transferred to an account in the Caymans.”

“When you say ‘considerable’ how much are we talking?”

“Close to a half-million dollars,”

I let out a low whistle. “Yeah, that’s not to be sniffed at. But the O’Days are rich people,” I said. “Surely they transfer money around to banking safe havens all the time?”

“Not at short notice, when it incurs penalties. Rich people don’t stay rich by being careless with their money.”

I frowned. “And he might be the son and heir, but I didn’t get the impression that Jimmy had much personal money of his own.”

“Who said anything about Jimmy?” Parker said. “Morton works for Marie O’Day.”

“I can’t believe Marie has anything to do with . . . all this,” Tom O’Day said. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Can’t believe”, I noted, not “don’t believe”.

“Why would she move that kind of money around in a hurry?” Sean asked.

“I don’t know—some piece of art she wanted to buy? If it came onto the market unexpectedly maybe,” O’Day said, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

Sean and I said nothing. The silence worked at O’Day better than any arguments would have done. He stared with unseeing eyes at the milling rescue workers, the medics and police. The fire department had been called in to secure the
Miss Francis
until some kind of marine salvage operation could be organised. She sat at an angle on the shore with her bow pointing defiantly upwards, almost jaunty.

They’d sent bomb disposal experts on board to check for more explosives, but with half the hull under water there was only so much they could do. We’d all been moved back to the far side of the parking area, just in case. The waft of fresh coffee from the nearby Café du Monde was almost enough to take the scent of death out of my nostrils.

The body of the man from New Jersey had been recovered from the deck, but Castille’s had not. I could only assume he’d been swept into the river as the
Miss Francis
started to slide under. I was glad I’d had the opportunity to check that he was really dead.

“Morton would know,” O’Day said suddenly. “Until Jimmy’s guy got sick, Morton was with Marie full time. Went everywhere with her.”

“So why didn’t he say anything?” I demanded.
Unless he’s in on it . . .?

“I don’t know,” O’Day said again. He sounded tired. “I guess that’s a question you’d have to ask him.”

Oh, I intend to.

I whirled away, started moving through the crowd looking for Morton. I’d last seen him industriously helping bring people down off the
Miss Francis
, wrapped in blankets. Playing the bloody hero. How ironic was that?

Sean caught up with me inside half a dozen strides, snagged my arm. “Aren’t you overlooking something?” he said tightly. “What about Autumn Sinclair?”

“She’s still missing.”

“Is she?” Sean asked. “Or does she simply not want to be found?”

I felt a flush of anger—or was it fear? “What would she have to gain?”

He shrugged. “Power?” he suggested. “With Tom out of the picture and her claws already into Jimmy, she’s suddenly in a pretty strong position.” He paused, added, “And what proof does Jimmy have that she’s actually pregnant?”

“That’s enough,” I said, surprised by the snap in my own voice. “
You’ve
no proof she’s lying about that. You’ve no proof she’s involved at all—”

“And you’ve no proof she isn’t,” Sean fired back. “She disappeared off the boat in the middle of a hijack. What is it about this woman that you’re defending her? If it was anyone else you’d be suspicious. Instead, you’re determined to put the blame onto Vic Morton.”

I pulled away from him. “People don’t change their basic nature,” I said. “Not that fundamentally.”

“So where does that leave us?” Sean asked. He stared at me for a moment, shook his head in frustration. “You
have
changed, Charlie. You’re not the girl I remember. The way you threatened to take out Baptiste’s arm . . . You’re harder, more ruthless.”

My instinct was to get in a fast verbal blow—that if I’d changed then it was because he’d shaped me, coached me, to let go of my hesitations and regrets. To act decisively in high-threat situations.

To kill when it was called for.

And maybe when it was not.

I didn’t want to go there. Deliberately, I latched onto the reference to Baptiste, believing it was safer.

“If I hadn’t threatened Baptiste, do you think we would have got the truth out of him?”

“Torture rarely produces the truth—only a version of it. The version they think you want to hear.”

He sounded so certain, so sure.

A flutter of images passed my eyes like a film projector running at half speed. Of Sean threatening to torture a man who held my mother’s life in his hands. Threats are nothing without intent. Had our victim not believed absolutely that those threats would be carried through, they would have been useless.

As it turned out, they had not been useless. At the time even
I
had believed Sean would not falter.

But now?

I realised that I’d been wrong when I said that people don’t change on a fundamental level. Sean had changed. Not just his recollections of me, or even his emotions, but his character.

I’d spent the last few years of my professional life trying to be more like him. And just when I thought I’d finally succeeded, I discovered the Sean I’d known was gone.

As you said, Sean, where does that leave us? Where does it leave me?

I shivered despite the balmy night. “Sean, I—”

“Hey, Sean! Charlie!”

We turned together, found Jimmy O’Day hurrying towards us.

“Have you seen Morton?” I asked.

“What? No,” he said. “He’s about here someplace.” He looked round, distracted. “Dad needs you.”

We followed him back to Tom O’Day, now clutching a cup of coffee with both hands, as if he too were feeling the cold. He looked up as we approached. I saw the worry in his face.

“I can’t raise Marie,” he said. “She’s supposed to be back at the hotel. I wanted to ask her . . . I know she has nothing to do with this, but I need to know that she’s safe. Will you . . . bring her here?”

I heard the contradictions beneath the words, the uncertainties and the pain.

“Why us?” Sean asked.

O’Day shrugged. “My own guy is dead,” he said flatly. “Morton’s place is with Jimmy.” I flicked my eyes to Jimmy, standing alone, but nobody mentioned the fact that Morton seemed to be neglecting his duty in favour of personal glory. “Just bring her here—that’s all I ask.”

“What if she doesn’t want to come?” My question was double-edged.

Tom O’Day met my gaze with more bravado than confidence.

“She’ll come.”

Sean and I took a cab back to the hotel. Tom O’Day had given us his key card, but we knew we couldn’t verify his wife’s presence from the front desk. The system in place dictated that any enquiries about guests would be passed on to their security staff immediately, no exceptions. I couldn’t complain too much about that, though. After all, we were the ones who’d insisted on it.

We split up in the lobby. Sean needed to go back to his room to change out of still-damp clothes. He headed for the elevators. I decided to take the stairs up to Marie’s suite on the sixth floor. There was a feeling of urgency niggling away at the back of my mind that wouldn’t let go.

I pushed my tiredness aside as I jogged up the first flight. I knew I was the only one who suspected that Vic Morton might be wrapped up in this. And being totally honest with myself, I didn’t know if the reason behind it was my own bitter experience with the man. Had he changed?

OK, so he was dismissive of his client and still seemed on the cocky side, but he’d certainly stepped up when it mattered.

On this occasion.

I remembered again the way Castille had gone down, when just for that split second I’d thought it was Sean who’d taken the hit. Morton could easily have let Castille shoot the pair of us if he’d wanted to. Could have waited until a fraction afterwards to kill Castille, and still made himself out to be the hero.

He could have done.

But he didn’t.

Why?

I kept heading upwards. The stairs were formed concrete covered in thin corded industrial carpet. No frills. My feet were almost silent as I moved.

Unfortunately, so were his.

I don’t know what warned me—a change in the air pressure, maybe even a faint scent of something. I’d reached the fourth floor, started to turn up onto the flight leading to the fifth. I was almost to the half landing when my stride faltered.

Vic Morton stepped into view above me. I don’t know which of us was more startled. Just for a second his face betrayed him. His expression cracked and I saw not just loathing but fear, too. It was not a pretty combination.

“Fox!” he said, forcing a rueful smile. “Can’t believe I ever thought I’d say this, but am I glad to see you.” His eyes went to the stairwell behind me. “Meyer not with you?”

I eyed him warily. I was in a poor defensive position and didn’t like it much. I moved up onto the landing so we were on a level, put the wall at my back.

“No,” I said, not inclined to explain where Sean had gone. “What are you doing here?”

The smile faded. “I spotted the blonde sneaking off the boat. Can you believe it? Definitely something dodgy going on. I thought I’d follow her—see what her game was.”

“Autumn?” I said blankly.
Autumn Sinclair.
I didn’t want to believe she had a game at all. “Everyone in their right mind was getting off the boat—what’s dodgy about that? And I thought you couldn’t find her.”

“I couldn’t,” he said. “Which means she had to be hiding, right?”

Or you’re just not very good at searching.

“So you walked away from your principal without a word, leaving him unprotected in a crowd of strangers, while you went swanning off to play detective?”

He flushed, moved in closer, sneered, “I don’t think you have any room to lecture me about how to protect a principal, Fox, do you?”

My hands ached to act, to strike. I ignored the temptation presented by the vulnerable sweet spots of the point of his chin, the side of his jaw, his nose, eyes, temples, ears. Instead I took a breath and said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

He shrugged, recognising the avoidance mostly for what it was. “This is where she came,” he said. “Went straight up to O’Day’s suite.”

Which might or might not be true.
Nothing to be gained by arguing at this point.

“OK.” I glanced around, stabbed a finger towards my feet. “But what are you doing
right here
?”

His jaw tightened. “On my way to call in reinforcements,” he said. “After everything that’s gone on tonight, you never know what that bitch is planning next, eh?” He tried another smile, seemed disappointed when that didn’t work any better than the first. “Besides, Mrs O’Day’s got Thad with her—Jimmy’s usual guy. He’s not bad, providing nobody feeds him anything with nuts in it.”