Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (35 page)

And yet…if they did make love, she might become one of those women he’d admitted to casting aside after a brief affair. Could she bear to lose a man like that once they'd shared such intimacy?

And so, Mercy did the only thing she could do. She tried to put Don Sebastian Hidalgo out of her mind. And she kept herself busy.

That part wasn't difficult. She feverishly pursued the ever fainter trail of her mother's travels in Eastern Europe. Hoping her visa would at last come through. Praying the State Department would finally pass along vital information they'd been holding back about Talia. And, to keep her sanity—while she badgered officials, argued with government clerks, reassured her mother’s increasingly desperate lover in New York that all would eventually be well—she indulged in one of her favorite pastimes—visiting art galleries.

One particular day, Mercy wandered M Street in Georgetown, famous for its federalist architecture, historic row houses, cobblestone streets and multimillion-dollar, brick mansions dating back to the mid-1700s. The Mayfair Gallery was one among many of the smaller art galleries, each with its own distinctive style, scattered along the charming streets so popular with local and international artists, students and tourists.

The display area inside the Mayfair was designed on two levels. The upper floor, cut out in the middle to create an airy loft, allowed customers to not only look across the open space to large paintings mounted on the other side of the same floor but also down or up a level at the artwork on a wall diagonally across. The variety of perspectives always excited her.

Very few people browsed with her today. Mercy guessed by the way they breezed past painting after painting that they were not serious buyers. Just tourists waiting out the rain, happy to have found shelter and a free cup of coffee until the clouds passed.

A petite, silver-haired woman approached her. “I’m Evelyn Cooper. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have about our artists or their work,” she said.

Mercy studied the painting in front of her, a contemporary acrylic by a Bolivian artist. “This one is intriguing.”

The woman smiled, pale lavender eyes hopeful, and launched into her pitch.

Mercy tuned her out, already familiar with the painter’s history. This one was not likely to sell in today’s market, at least not for the price being asked. She envisioned a rare Diego Rivera mounted on this wall. Masculine, flamboyant, insightful. Making a political statement, not just providing decoration. Rivera's art reminded her of Sebastian, fighting for his cause, for his country, the only way he knew how. Her heart fluttered.

She pushed thoughts of the rancher from her mind and let her eyes skim across empty white space along the gallery's walls. Either the place was having trouble attracting quality artists, or their work was selling faster than it could be replaced. She was willing to bet on the former.

“I’m sorry,” the proprietress said, misreading her distraction, “I guess you haven’t found anything you like today.”

“Oh, but I have,” Mercy said.

Shock followed by delight shimmered in the woman’s eyes. “Wonderful! Which one is it?” She surveyed the walls.

Mercy smiled. How long had she dreamt of this moment? Her fantasy. And today she was ready to make it a reality.

“I like this one. And the one beside it.” She started walking, the woman trailing after her. “And the pretty still life here. And the wall they’re attached to.”

The gallery owner frowned, no doubt confused.

Mercy laughed. “Mrs. Cooper, I should have introduced myself sooner. I’m Mercy Davis.”

The woman's eyes lit with recognition. “The artist?”

“Yes.”
And covert agent, but we won’t go there.
“I met with your landlord this morning. I’ve made an offer to buy this building on the contingency that you are willing to sell me your gallery business.”

Evelyn Cooper looked around her at the worn carpet and middling collection of paintings, as if she couldn’t believe anyone would want the place. Mercy had done her research. She knew the dismal financial state of the gallery.

“Really?” Evelyn allowed her a tremulous smile. “I have to be honest, my dear. Since my husband died…well, the Mayfair barely makes ends meet, if that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mercy assured her. “The location is ideal, the structure of the building seems sound, and I’ve collected some wonderful art while I was in Mexico that I’d like to show.”

“Oh, my.” Evelyn’s voice quavered with emotion. “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to leave. You see, this has been my home for so many years. But I suppose…I mean, it only makes sense if someone else can make a go of it.”

“I will need a reliable manager.” Mercy took from her raincoat pocket the card she’d prepared before leaving home that morning. On it she’d written a single figure, her offer for the purchase of the business.

Evelyn studied it, her eyes slowly widening.

“My banker assures me that’s a generous offer. You can name your salary, within reason. Interested?”

Evelyn beamed at her.

43

Mercy raised the crystal champagne flute to her lips as she surveyed her new gallery. After three weeks of frantic non-stop rehab work and promotion,
Passions
had drawn a huge crowd to its gala re-opening.

Mom, I wish you could see this
.

Although there still had been no word about her mother’s fate, tonight’s sales promised to go a long way toward funding an aggressive search for the missing photo-journalist. Mercy had also mounted a media campaign to draw attention to Talia’s disappearance. An article in The Washington Post headlined:
Where in the World is Talia O’Brien?
Mercy posted a petition in the gallery to gather signatures with the hope of using sheer numbers to embarrass officials into acting. Peter was no longer a part of her strategy. His loyalties clearly lay with the government; he was in CMA mode—cover-my-ass. And she’d been unable to track down Clay’s sources in New York or Eastern Europe, if they'd ever existed.

Even before she’d left Mexico, Lucius Clay himself had e-mailed her twice and left furious voice-mail messages on her cell phone after the raids on the slave camps. She imagined his scheme—perhaps all along he’d hoped to claim responsibility for uncovering the cartel’s involvement in human trafficking? He’d been robbed of the glory, yes, but she wondered if there wasn’t something else behind his anger. Frankly, she didn’t care. More vindictive messages followed her back to Washington, but she erased every one without listening to or answering them. They finally stopped, for which she was grateful.

The voice she most longed to hear was Sebastian's, but he never contacted her directly. Only through his daughter did she learn that he was still in Mexico and, so far, successfully avoiding his enemies.

Now she heard a soft cough and looked up to see one of her young assistants, waiting to get her attention. The young woman with long dark hair down to the middle of her back and deep brown eyes held out another bid slip to her. Mercy read the figure, smiled, nodded her head. “We’ll take it, Marietta. Red dot the painting as sold.”

The girl beamed at her. “Yes. Mercy, I am so excited for you! Thank you for letting me and my roommates come to help tonight.”

“You’re doing a wonderful job,” she told Marietta Renee Valle, an alias assumed by Sebastian's daughter. Marietta, aka Maria, had enrolled in Mercy’s alma mater, The Peterson Academy, in rural Virginia.

The private boarding school for young ladies was as safe a place as Mercy could imagine. Surrounded by the laughter and companionship of other girls, Maria already seemed to be thriving at the school.

Mercy gazed with pride around her gallery.
Her
gallery! The double-tier display of art she’d shipped back from Central America popped with vibrant colors against the bright-white walls. Not wanting to limit her collection to the traditional media of oil paint, water colors, acrylics and pastels, she had included primitive drawings from Amazonian tribes who used plant pigments on bark, wood, and leather. She’d also imported a small but exciting selection of ceremonial masks, body ornaments, jewelry fashioned from natural gemstones, and Taxco silver. The jewelry seemed particularly popular tonight. When last she’d checked with her helpers, nearly all of it had been spoken for. And she’d received requests for orders.

Next week
Passions
would open to the public, if there was anything left to display and sell. She foresaw another collecting trip coming. This time Eastern Europe? Maybe she could convince the State Department to waive the freeze on her passport for reasons of a business trip? Once she reached Bucharest or Krakow, there was only one more border to cross into Ukraine.

“Quite a turnout, little lady,” a Texas drawl disbursed her thoughts.

Mercy turned, expecting to see the current Speaker of the House who’d promised to attend her opening party. But it was not Bobby Lee Fulsom. Bland, tan eyes centered in a moon face observed her with chilling aplomb.

Lucius Clay.

The impulse to flee started her feet shuffling backward. His hand whipped out and behind her. Something cold and hard pressed into the small of her back, stopping her from moving further.

A gun?

“We need to talk, girl,” Clay said, still in his cheerful drawl, still smiling. His gaze took in the room. She could see as well as he that her guests were clustered at the opposite end of the room. Their vibrant conversations and the music playing through her sound system made it unlikely anyone would hear Clay’s words to her.

Mercy shot a look past his shoulder toward Jerry Mooney, the DC cop moonlighting as her security guard. He was watching the street door, checking invitations. Making sure no party crashers got past him. He’d missed one.

Clay leaned toward her. “Outside,” he said in her ear. “You and me, hon.”

She failed to catch Jerry’s eye. Maria and the two other young hostesses were busy with guests. For a split second, Evelyn met her frantic gaze through the crowd. Mercy widened her eyes, sliding them toward Clay.

Her gallery manager grinned at her and finger-waved, then picked up a plate of cookies and started strolling around the room, clearly unaware that anything was wrong.

Mercy’s pulse throbbed in her ears. She looked toward the rear door. She didn’t move.

If it is a gun, all he has to do is pull the trigger.

So he meant to do more than just kill her outright. He was here to pull her back into his schemes. Or to punish her. Probably the second. She didn’t doubt for a minute that he was capable of doing things to her that would fully satisfy his need for vengeance.

“Get a move on. Now,” Clay drawled in her ear. “You don’t want to take any of these nice folks with you, do you?”

“No,” she said and swallowed. She couldn’t risk him going postal and gunning down innocent people.

“We’ll talk outside, ‘bout how you cost me my job and a shit load of money.”

So someone had blown the whistle on him. The CIA, or whoever he’d been working for, had dumped the bastard.
Good
!

But now she had to deal with his rage.

They walked toward the rear door of the gallery. She had hoped to design a serenity garden outside, but it was still just a city alley. Cold in the March wind. Dusty and desolate and barren, but for a row of trash cans and the two dumpsters behind the neighboring Italian restaurant. The smells of olive oil, oregano, and red sauce—usually so pleasing—turned her stomach.

As she passed out through the door to the top step descending into the alley, she kept her head steady but shifted her eyes to the right. The head-high, wrought-iron security grate was hinged up against the side of the building. She’d left it open for the caterer to unload his truck. She envisioned herself as Clay must see her—a socialite he’d blackmailed into doing his dirty work, his naïve pawn in Mexico City. And now, back in DC, a helpless victim. He was pretty much right. An unarmed woman with a gun at her back—not good.

But she had attended the SH classes for diplomatic service dependents.
Shit Happens Briefings
. They’d all joked about the unofficial name while nervously paying attention to the instructors. Shit like kidnappings, assaults, muggings, home invasions. If nothing else, the training forced her to focus on the moment.
This
moment. And her options.

Without a weapon, all she could do was play off of Clay’s perception of her as a frail female and hope to catch him off guard. Then run like hell.

But first, even up the odds. At least then he couldn’t shoot her in the back while she was running away.

She set her left foot down on the second step. Just behind her, Clay would be passing through the doorway about. . .
now
! She jumped down the last two steps. Her hand snapped out to the right, grabbed the heavy wrought-iron security gate. She pivoted her body and swung the heavy bars across the open doorway. Hard!

She heard the clank of metal hitting metal, then a clatter as the gun must have fallen from his hand and bounced down the steps. Even as she bolted away from him, triumphant that she’d managed to disarm him, she saw the pistol scoot across the alley.