Everything But The Truth (3 page)

The doors opened on the sixth floor, and Peyton quickly pushed the Close Door button. The same thing happened on the fifth floor. Each time the doors opened, she feared there would be someone standing there with a gun pointing at her, and that he’d kill her. Somehow, she made it safely to the second floor.

She flew out of the elevator and headed to the glass doors where the pool was located. Remembering the detective’s instructions, she ran toward the exit doors. About four blocks from the hotel, she spotted a pay phone and ducked inside, but she didn’t have any change. “Darn,” she said, glancing at the wad of bills in her trembling hands.

After flagging down a man who had been passing by, she gave him a five dollar bill in exchange for the coins in his pocket. He looked at her as if she was some kind of nut. But what did she care?

Dropping a quarter and a dime into the coin slots, her fingers froze. Who should she call? She’d been so eager to use the phone, she hadn’t even thought about it.

And then it came to her. She punched in the numbers and letters. 555-JADE.

Jane answered on the second ring. “Speak to me,” she said.

“Jane, is that you?”

“Who is this?” Jane asked abruptly.

“It’s me. Peyton Delaney.” She paused, and then added, “Jane, I need your help.”

Chapter Three

The bus to Albany didn’t leave for another twenty minutes. Peyton looked around the station nervously, the way she’d been doing for the past three hours. A lot of shady characters had come and gone during that time. A few men had done nothing more than ogle her. Others had been bold enough to make a pass, at which point she’d always turned them down politely and then changed her seat.

She supposed it was the disguise she’d chosen. Men assumed, because of her skimpy attire, that she was easy and interested in their attention.

Well, they were wrong. The only thing she was interested in at the moment was staying alive.

She gave her short skirt a tug and fluffed her red hair. Dying her once dark blond hair in the ladies room at an all-night diner hadn’t been an easy feat, even with Jane’s help. But she supposed it had turned out well enough. At least she didn’t look anything like Peyton Delaney anymore. Or so Jane had sworn. She hid her face behind yesterday’s newspaper just in case.

A few moments later someone announced that her bus was now being boarded for departure. Quickly, she got to her feet and headed for the glass doors. That was when she recognized Frank Harrington’s cold beady eyes on her.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, sucking in a huge breath. She was about to turn and run when the killer took one look in her direction and walked right past her. From the corner of her eye, she saw him talking to a short, bald man with glasses and a big barrel of a man she knew had to be Sonny Donatelli. She’d seen enough photos of the man at the police station that it was impossible for her to forget his ugly face.

Glancing at the waiting bus, she looked back at the three men, and then very casually opened the glass door, walking outside. She climbed the steps of the bus, scanned the aisle for an empty seat and sat down, her heart throbbing viciously in her chest and her whole body shaking with fear.

She kept her eyes on the window, praying. Then, several moments later, the bus driver closed the door and off they went.

They hadn’t followed her, thank God. But then again, they were looking for Peyton Delaney—a dark blonde woman dressed in conservative clothing. Not a hooker with bright red hair.

****

“It’s your turn to take out the trash,” Reeve told his son.

“I took it out three times already this week,” eleven-year-old Kevin complained.

“Well, it’s your turn again.” Reeve went back to the cooler and grabbed two fistfuls of tomatoes.

“Sean never has to take it out.” Kevin was referring to his thirteen-year-old cousin.

“Well, while you’re away at soccer camp the next two weeks, Sean will have to take it out every day. That should make you happy.”

Kevin’s freckled face lit up. Apparently, that was something the boy hadn’t realized. After setting the tomatoes on the stainless steel counter, Reeve scrubbed his knuckles over his son’s head of dark curls. The boy was a combination of his mother and him. Kevin had always been on the small side, but he’d finally shot up the last few years. Emily would have been happy about that.

Reeve’s brother Brad stuck his head through the swinging door. “Reeve, you’ve got a phone call,” he announced.

Looking at Kevin, Reeve said, “Finish your chores, and then you can take off with your friends for a few hours. How’s that?”

The boy shrugged. “Okay.”

Picking up the phone on the kitchen wall, he said, “This is Reeve.”

“Hey, buddy.”

“Matt?” He hadn’t heard from his ex-partner in months, he thought, smiling.

“Yeah. I was just calling to see if you got the package I sent you?”

“What package?” Reeve watched his son struggling with the garbage. Kevin always pretended it took more effort than it actually did.

“It’s sort of a birthday present. A surprise. Listen, I need you to keep an eye on it for me. Maybe for a few days, or maybe even a few weeks.”

“Sure. What’s going on?” His birthday wasn’t until December, and Matt knew that. Then again, maybe he’d forgotten.

“Nothing much. I took a bullet in the gut yesterday, but the doctors say I’m going to live.”

“What happened?” It was the second time Matt had been shot. The first time was when he’d taken a bullet meant for Reeve.

“I’ll tell you all about it soon enough. I’m going to be doing a little R and R. Maybe we can do some fishing, like the old days.” He and Matt had only been fishing once. They’d used Matt’s grandfather’s cabin near the Catskills. “In the meantime, keep that package safe for me,” Matt went on. “You’re the only one I can trust right now. And, Reeve, don’t call me. I’ll call you.” With that, he hung up.

Reeve stared at the receiver. What the hell had that been about?

****

The bus driver came to a stop and turned around to look at Peyton. Rather than looking at her face, he leered at her breasts instead. Considering the skimpy tank top she wore, she supposed she had to expect it, but she didn’t have to like it.

“Sinclair’s Tavern is about a mile or so from here.” He pointed out the window. “At the intersection, turn right and keep walking.”

“Thanks,” she said, getting to her feet.

“Hey,” he yelled as she got off the bus, “if you want some company later, you know where to find me.” He winked at her, showing off his big yellow teeth.

She rolled her eyes. “Thank you, but I’m busy tonight.”
And every night for the rest of my life.

Looking down at the red, three-inch heels she’d borrowed from Jane, she suddenly regretted her choice of disguises, now that she had to walk a mile or longer. She supposed she could have come up with something other than a hooker’s costume, but Jane had insisted it was in such contrast to her normal look that the bad guys would never recognize her.

Jane had been right, thank God.

Her black silk stockings clung to her skin, making her uncomfortably warm and sticky, and her make-up felt like hot, dripping candle wax. Taking a compact from her red, canvas, drawstring bag, she gave herself a once-over in the mirror. She didn’t look half bad as a redhead, she thought as she glossed her lips with another coat of Kiss me Scarlet lipstick. She tossed the compact and lipstick back in the bag, gave her extremely short, red leather skirt a tug, and started on her way.

Sixteen car honks, four cat calls, and forty minutes later, she hobbled across the parking lot of the tavern, swearing a blue streak. She blamed the blisters on her toes and heels for her short temper. No wonder Jane was always in such a bad mood. The poor thing lived in these shoes.

Trying the front door of the brick building, she found it locked. “Darn!” The sign in the window indicated the tavern wouldn’t be open for another two hours, but she had nowhere else to go. There were two cars in the parking lot, so maybe someone was there.

Walking around the side of the building, she found another door. This one was unlocked, and Peyton let herself inside. A juke box blared noisily in the background, playing an oldies tune she recognized. After making her way to the bar, she tried to heft herself onto a stool, but her skirt was so short and tight, she couldn’t manage it without looking even more indecent.

There were two men behind the bar, one a few feet away and one at the far end. Both of them were tall with dark hair, and both had their backs to her. Resting her weary body against the back of the bar chair, she addressed the man closest to her. “Mr. Sinclair?”

Spinning around, he said, “We don’t open until four.” The other man glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to what he was doing and ignored her completely.

“I’m not here to eat or drink anything.”

Leaning over the bar, the man said very firmly, “Look, lady, this is a family business and—”

“Your friend sent me,” she said, cutting him off. “He said you’d help me.”

The man ran his eyes down the front of her and laughed. “
Help you?
Help you with what? Is this some kind of joke?”

She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “No, not at all.”
Unless he thought there was something funny about Father Mike dying.

The smile disappeared from his face. “Look, lady, I’m a happily married man who wants to stay that way. What do you want?”

She met his accusing eyes without flinching. “Matt Brozack sent me.”

He blinked twice. “Matt Brozack, huh?”

She nodded.

“Well, then, I think you’ve got the wrong Sinclair. I think you want my brother.”

Brother?
Before she had a chance to respond, he called over his shoulder to the other man. “Reeve, I think this
lady
is looking for you.”

Peyton hadn’t missed the way he’d said ‘lady’. Like it was some kind of joke. He didn’t know anything about her and yet he’d already formed an opinion because of the way she was dressed. She frowned. Jane was right. Again.

The other man sidled over and stared at her. He was a few years younger than the first man, and slightly taller. He had a wide-shouldered, rangy body, his profile strong and rigid. His dark, wavy hair brushed his collar in the back and a lock of it hung casually over his forehead. His full lips twisted cynically as his sharp, dark eyes assessed her.

He was probably the best looking man she had ever seen. Not that that should matter, she quickly amended.

“You’re here to see me?” he asked, wiping the top of the bar with a wet rag as if he were only half interested in why she was there. His shirt sleeves were pushed up to reveal crisp dark hair on his muscular forearms.

“She says Matt sent her,” the older brother said.

Reeve Sinclair narrowed his eyes at her. She’d thought he and Matt Brozack were friends. Suddenly, she wondered how she’d tell him that the detective had been shot. Would he be upset? Of course, he would.

“Could we talk somewhere in private?” she asked, feeling as if she was on display for the two of them, the way their eyes roamed about.

“I don’t have any secrets from my brother,” he said. “Listen, Matt has a warped sense of humor sometimes. He probably thought he was doing me a favor, but I don’t do…” His gaze fell to her breasts, then back to her face.

Peyton’s mouth dropped open. “I’m not here so you can
do
me,” she said indignantly, crossing her arms.

“Then what do you want?”

Moistening her lips with her tongue, she said, “Detective Brozack told me not to trust anyone but you.” She nodded toward the older brother. If she happened to offend him, she had no intention of apologizing. Not after the way he’d treated her.

Reeve studied her for a moment, tossed the rag behind the bar, and pointed to a booth on the far side of the wall. “Over there.”

Peyton limped across the room and slid into the booth, grateful to be off her feet.

Reeve slid in across from her. “Talk.”

And she’d thought his brother was rude. “Yesterday, Detective Brozack was shot while trying to protect me.” When he didn’t so much as blink, she went on. “I’m not even sure if he made it, but before I left him, he told me to find you and that you’d help me. He said to remind you that you owe him.”

The man just sat there staring at her. Finally, he said, “You’re the package he sent me?”