Family Pride (Blood of the Pride) (14 page)

Bran hopped over a hypodermic needle. “After a photo shoot. Good place to find someone to do your dirty work.”

We headed out into the lobby and back onto the street. I pointed to the left.

“Queen’s that way. Not a chance of finding a cab along this street.”

I didn’t mention I needed the time to clear my mind and senses. It was getting close to midnight and I’d burned through all of my energy reserves.

Bran pulled out his cell.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“I want to see if this soup kitchen is one of our charities.” He tapped on the tiny numbers. “I’ve still got some pull at the office. Let me see if—”

I put my hand atop his, killing the connection. “It’s close to midnight. You’re going to get the same recording Shaw’s phone got. We’ll have to wait until morning.”

As we walked I kept glancing around us. The odds were good no one saw Bran and his obscene amount of money but it never hurt to be cautious.

“Brayton could have met Shaw at one of the charity functions,” Bran said.

“So could your father. Or mother, or one of your father’s friends/enemies,” I countered, hating to play the bad guy. “No one’s in the clear, not yet.” I steered us under the streetlights. “Tomorrow we head for the soup kitchen, start stirring up some trouble. Someone knows something. Shaw didn’t trip into this job—he was recruited to kill Molly Callendar.”

He cut me off. “And then what? We can’t take this to the cops. We can’t tell them any of this.” He rubbed his eyes. “We can’t even tell them we’ve got Liam.”

“What do you want?” I asked, keeping my voice low. We’d come up on the side of a 7-Eleven, the convenience store doing brisk business with people rushing in and out for munchies and cigarettes. “What do you want to do?”

Bran leaned against a bright placard advertising lottery numbers. “I’m not sure.” He let out a painful sigh. “I don’t know. I really, honestly, don’t know.”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to say. This was far beyond anything I’d dealt with.

There was only one more option I could offer.

I exhaled, closed my eyes and drew on what little calm I had left before speaking.

“Say the word and I’ll forget it all.”

“What?”

“The only thing connecting Liam to your father is this.” I tapped my nose. “Say the word and I’ll forget I ever picked up the scent. We’ll have Jess drop Liam off at a hospital anonymously. They won’t be able to trace him back to any of us. They’ll take care of him, probably put him with Brayton or the grandparents.”

Bran stared at me.

“Your father already thinks I’m bonkers. I’ll apologize to him and that’ll be that.” I had to force the words out. “As long as he doesn’t do any more investigation we’ll be fine. You talk to him, you tell him I’m a wee bit nuts and tell him to back off or I’ll have a breakdown. Or something like that. He’ll probably stop anyway if Liam shows up again. He’ll be busy covering his tracks.”

Bran stared at me.

“Say something.” I stamped my foot. “Say something, damn you.”

He pulled me into a hug, a hug so tight I felt the air escaping my lungs.

“I love you,” he whispered.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything.

Bran pulled back just enough to kiss me, a deep searching kiss that left me dizzy and glad he was holding on to me with both hands.

“Eep.”

“Eep?”

“Eep. Don’t let go.” I wobbled in his grip. “So was that a yes or no?”

Bran shook his head. “I can’t let my family get away with this, whether it’s my mother or my father. God knows what else they’ve done over the years. And I can’t let them get away with threatening you and your family. If my father does this once he’ll do it again and again. I know how he thinks—if he knows it’s your weak spot he’ll dig at it until it bleeds.”

“There’ll be more blood than he’s prepared for.”

“I know. Which is why we have to stop him.”

Chapter Eight

We walked back to the house in silence, holding hands. I was caught between wanting to sleep for a day and a half and wanting to tear Michael Hanover’s throat out.

Bran sighed as I unlocked the front door. He didn’t say anything as Jazz trilled and maneuvered between our legs.

“Shower. Bed.” I wasn’t sure what else to offer.

He tossed his coat on the sofa as I locked the door, double-checking the locks. The last thing we needed right now was unwelcome visitors.

Jazz hummed as I dumped another cupful of food in her bowl. I patted her on the head before heading for the stairs.

A trail of clothing led up to the bathroom. I held my tongue and picked up them up before depositing them in a heap in the far corner of the bedroom.

I stripped down, taking my time. My eyelids were already drooping and I needed to stay awake long enough to not drown.

Bran had his back to me when I entered.

I tugged the shower curtain across to make sure we didn’t flood the bathroom. We’d already had a few near misses due to some sexual escapades.

Bran didn’t say anything. His right hand was flattened against the white tiles, his left hanging at his side as the hot water splashed down over us. He didn’t move as I touched his back and ran my fingers down the small scars and scratches dotting his skin.

He began to shake, keeping his head down.

I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my face against his slick skin, and tried not to listen to his sobs.

* * *

I woke in bed, alone.

My heart went into double beats as I scrambled to find something to wear, slowing when I smelled fresh tea from downstairs and heard Bran muttering to Jazz, who was begging for more food even though her bowl was already full.

He’d pulled on a clean white T-shirt from the collection in his single drawer in my bedroom but hadn’t gotten to socks and shoes, padding around barefoot in his jeans.

I paused in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed after last night.

Bran gave me a wide smile and offered me a mug of tea. “Got confirmation from my father’s personal assistant that Second Chance, Second Life is one of Hanover Investments’ smaller charities.” He gestured at the table. “I made up bacon and eggs. You’ve got to be famished.”

I tried not to give a sigh of relief. We were good, at least for the time being.

I dived on the food with unladylike manners, shoving strips of bacon into my mouth until my stomach stopped growling.

Bran chuckled and sat down across from me with a cup of tea. “I see I was correct.”

“Aren’t you eating?” I mumbled as I speared another forkful of eggs.

“Already did.” He pointed to the dishes in the sink. “I thought I’d let you sleep in a bit.”

I glanced at the clock. “Eight-thirty? Holy...” I grabbed my mug and slurped hot tea. “We’ve got to get going.”

“I saw Liam’s picture on the morning news,” Bran murmured. “The Callendars did a live interview. They were crying, both of them.”

“He’s safe.” It wasn’t much but all I could offer. “Let me check in with Jess.”

I dug out my phone from my jean pocket and dialed.

“What?” She answered on the first ring, her tone impatient.

I put the phone on speaker so Bran could hear. “Hi, Jess.” I kept shoveling food into my mouth. “How’s it going today?”

“The little one likes cats.”

I almost spewed eggs and bacon across the table. “What?”

“Don’t panic. He was fussing a bit last night and I thought I’d give him something to look at.”

Bran’s mouth fell open. He looked at me as if I’d been the one who had Changed.

“He did have a little stuffed lion in his crib.” I reached for my tea to try to avoid choking. The mental image of Jess Changed and cooing to Liam was almost too much to bear without laughing. “Aside from that, he’s fine?”

A disgruntled huff came across the line. “I was taking care of babies long before you came along. Just call me when you need him back.”

She cut the connection before I could respond.

“Would you think less of me if I said I found that both reassuring and terrifying at the same time? If he grows up with some sort of fur fetish...” Bran stole the last piece of bacon from my near-empty plate.

“Don’t even start.” I got up and dumped the plate in the sink. It took me another minute to finish off the tea, during which I tried to not giggle at the mental image of Jess and Liam.

“I figure we’ll start with the soup kitchen,” Bran said. “See who Shaw met.” He lifted a finger before I could speak. “Not necessarily my father. There’s a lot of bigwigs who go on these outings, you know.”

“Duly noted. Think they’ll tell you who showed up? Isn’t there some sort of secrecy pledge on this sort of work?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He pointed to his chest. “Hanover, remember?”

“And then what?” I turned the water on as he walked into the living room.

“Then we take it from there.”

The answer didn’t make me feel any more confident. I wagged my finger at Jazz, who immediately hopped up on the kitchen counter and spread out next to the Brown Betty.

“Don’t ever have kittens. I couldn’t deal with it.”

She trilled and rolled onto her back with a snort.

* * *

We caught a streetcar most of the way to the soup kitchen, hopping off a block early. Bran had given me an odd look when I rang the bell requesting a stop.

“I don’t want to step off right in front of the place,” I offered by way of explanation. “Gives us a chance to see what’s going on around the building before we walk in and start rocking the boat.”

“It’s a soup kitchen. Maybe stirring the pot?”

I ignored him and studied a trio of homeless men sitting on a nearby bench, graciously donated by some corporation that advertised their charity with a large metal plate screwed into the front of the seat. The blank-eyed stares at the pigeons gathering around their feet told a thousand stories.

This area of Toronto hadn’t undergone the deconstruction so popular these days, shredding old buildings in favor of high-priced condominiums with views of other condominiums.

“There’s the place.” Bran pointed at a storefront that had seen better days, the chipped pale yellow paint barely holding the wood together. He frowned, taking in the dingy façade. “You’d think it’d look better given the amount of money we pour into it.”

“They put up a fancy neon sign and it’d be broken within the week. Around here it pays to be quiet and discreet.”

No cheerful bell jingled when we walked in to announce our arrival. The large room held over twenty plastic tables covered with red-and-white paper tablecloths. Vases held artificial flowers on some of them.

At the back sat the serving area, with orange trays already cleaned and stacked for the lunch crowd. A lone woman looked through the stainless steel windows and frowned.

“We’re not open for lunch until noon.”

Bran strode the length of the room with long, leisurely strides that hid his impatience. “I’m here to see Stacy Hampton.”

The elderly woman looked him over, pursing her lips. I couldn’t blame her trying to figure out who this man was; I had no doubt emergency buttons lay within easy reach for all of the staff.

She turned away from us and adjusted her hairnet. “Stacy? Some man up front here wants to talk to you.”

I could imagine her fingers creeping toward the red button.

I tugged on Bran’s arm, pulling him to a stop a proper distance from the serving windows. “Give them a minute.”

He looked at me and frowned.

“They’re prepared for trouble. Give them a minute to assess the situation.”

A door opened beside the stacked trays and a woman walked through. Young, blonde and in her twenties, she smiled as she approached us. Wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt with the charity title emblazoned across the front in bright yellow letters, she latched on to Bran automatically as the leader.

“Can I help you?”

Bran extended his hand. “Brandon Hanover. I’d like to talk to you about your work here.”

I could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes. Hanover. Family. Grovel. Start.

“Of course, Mr. Hanover. A pleasure to meet you.” I got a half-assed nod. “And your friend. How can I help you today?”

“I’m working on a story about some of your employees.” He gave her a thousand-dollar smile. “Keeping it all in the family, as it were.”

“I see. Come on back to my office and we can talk.” She waved at the open door with a wary glance toward the front.

Stacy Hampton was a smart, street-savvy woman.

We followed her through the kitchen to a series of small offices carved out of the back loading dock area. Skids of canned vegetables sat near a forklift.

Stacy pointed at three men sitting at a folding table and playing cards. “When your break’s over, get this unpacked. The lunch crowd’s going to arrive soon enough.”

The three men got to their feet as one and nodded. They were all older men and looked like they’d been doing hard time before they’d hit puberty, their skin leathery and scarred with more than prison tattoos. She had their respect. Hampton wasn’t a woman to be taken lightly.

The office was as generic as they come, the appropriate motivational posters on the walls with whales and dolphins and penguins delivering their pep talks. I noticed a framed print advertising a benefit dinner for the soup kitchen, held last year and prominently displaying Hanover Investments as their sponsor.

Stacy motioned for us to sit in the two folding chairs while she maneuvered her way behind the desk, gingerly shifting stacks of folders so they wouldn’t fall on her.

“Can I see your identification, Mr. Hanover?” She wasn’t a fool.

Bran handed over his driver’s license without comment. She studied it for a minute before handing it back.

“Thank you. I don’t mean to be impolite but Hanover isn’t such an uncommon a name.”

“And my father’s assistant told you I’d be coming,” Bran added.

The thin smile didn’t falter. “She did. We tend to be cautious where the media’s involved even if it is, ah, family.”

It didn’t take a genius to see between the lines. She was worried about bad press, be it justified or not. I’d see too many good causes curl up and die like slugs on salt licks when the press got it wrong and the fallout killed a good group. A retraction on page 87 didn’t undo the damage when it came to asking for public support and money.

“I understand.” Bran beamed. “I’m working on a freelance article regarding the rehabilitation and reintegration of criminals back into society and thought, well—” He spread his hands. “Where better to start than at one of my family’s good works?”

Her nose twitched. She wasn’t buying it.

I hid a smile. That would keep Bran humble.

Bran’s lips pressed together in a thin line as he realized Stacy Brunel wasn’t going to be as easily hustled as his other pseudo-journalistic targets.

“We’re here about Keith Shaw.” His tone shifted from friendly to hard-core steel. “We know he worked here on the loading dock.”

Stacy studied him for a second before responding. “Who told you that?”

“Frank Yupp.” I leaped in, unwilling to sit back and let Bran do all the heavy lifting. “He told us Keith was flashing some cash, more than he should have been holding.” I pulled out my private investigator’s license and tossed it on the table. “We’re investigating a theft and think he might be involved.”

It was a half lie. I didn’t want to say the word “kidnapping.”

Stacy’s eyes went wide as she saw the official identification. “I didn’t think we had private investigators in Canada.”

I sighed. “Yes, we do. And we’re wondering how Keith Shaw goes from unloading veggies on your dock to waving around hundred-dollar bills.”

“I didn’t know about that.” She gestured at the sparsely decorated office. “I can tell you he didn’t get it from here. We never keep more than a hundred dollars on hand including personal wallets. We believe it’s best to avoid temptation.”

“Understandable.” Bran leaned forward. “Keith Shaw only came into this cash after some sort of photo shoot, some publicity stunt. Tell us about it.”

Stacy frowned. “It was a meeting with some of our sponsors. Hanover Investments is at the top when it comes to donations, as you know. Some of the board members showed up to take pictures with the workers for newsletters, the usual fluff they send out to let their people know where the money’s going.” She shook her head. “No one got paid for it.”

She dug for a folder at the bottom of a stack to her left. “I have the photographs here. We were discussing how to use them at the last meeting.”

She flipped the plain brown folder open to reveal a series of black-and-white images of the men from the loading dock, the three we’d passed on the way in. They perched on the lone forklift, Keith Shaw among them. He glared at the camera and I imagined he wasn’t the top choice for a poster boy.

Behind the forklift stood a line of dignitaries, local government flunkies making time with the press. Bernadette beamed at the camera while Michael scowled, obviously eager to get out of the spotlight and back to work.

“Keith hasn’t been in for two days. He called in sick yesterday and hasn’t shown up today so far.” She cleared her throat. “As long as he reports to his probation officer there’s no problem but if there’s more—” She let the sentence hang. “Should we be calling the police?”

I resisted the urge to wave my hands frantically in the air. The last thing we needed was to have the police on our trail or worse, doubling back on our tracks. If they found Shaw’s body they’d be searching for his killer and not necessarily connecting it to Liam’s kidnapping. If we told them it was connected Hank would have my ass back in jail faster than I could blink for withholding evidence and I’d be trying to explain why I hadn’t handed Liam over to the authorities.

I still hadn’t figured out how I was going to dodge that bullet.

“No.” Bran waved her off. “My father, he thinks someone picked his pocket. We always carry spare cash, you see.” He displayed his own thick bundle of cash, ignoring my eye roll.