Vendetta (12 page)

“Yes. Extracting him from his father’s penthouse was probably trickier than getting my father out of Rikers.” Her expression told him that she wasn’t kidding.

“Tess and I haven’t found the link yet between the two cases but there’s got to be one. The kidnappers left a ransom note. And his insulin pump. When they get their money, he’ll get his insulin.” Vincent swore under his breath. “Bastards,” he muttered. His protective instincts kicked in. Part of his mind was already classifying Angelo DeMarco not as a police case, but as a patient.

And someone he had to help.

“So how fast will it get bad?” Cat asked.

Way too fast.

“It depends on the severity of his condition—how much insulin he takes, how often, if he’s brittle. ‘Brittle’ basically means that his disease is difficult to control. Having a pump is one indicator that he is highly dependent. A brittle diagnosis is quite rare, but stressful environments can increase the severity of the disease.”

“His environment is stressful,” Catherine said. “His father has a terrible temper and he has a stepmother he doesn’t like. Their penthouse is guarded like a prison.”

Vincent nodded. “Then you might want to assume the worst. So. He’ll develop DKA. Diabetic ketoacidosis. His body won’t receive enough glucose and it’ll begin attacking itself for energy. He’ll get flushed. He’ll vomit. There will be severe dehydration. He’ll have trouble breathing and his brain will swell. He’ll lapse into a coma. And then…” He blew the air out of his cheeks. “…he’ll die.”

She slumped, dejected.

He regarded her. “I thought the FBI handled kidnappings.”

“We’re assisting. And frankly—and I’m sure this will convince you that there
aren’t
any good FBI agents—we don’t like the agents we’re assisting. At all. The DeMarcos are treating them like extended family members. Or employees. We think they’re dirty.”

Typical
, Vincent thought.

Catherine’s expression went flinty. “They really didn’t want us there. For sure they didn’t personally request an assist. We did find one thing: this poor old homeless man Angelo went to visit. Angelo brought him food and wine, and some kind of medicine. I guess they played music together.”

“Is there a connection? Was he someone Angelo knew?”

“We don’t know. The old man obviously cares about him very much.”

He heard the concern in her voice for this missing young man. He seemed like a good person, even if his family did despicable things.

“Did the FBI agents follow up with you? Fill you in?”

“Not so far. I doubt they will. We got dumped on them. They made it clear they’re not going to share information with us.”

“In other words, this is a waste of your time.”
Time that you and I should spend searching for Reynolds.

She smoothed her hair away from her face, a nervous habit of hers. “The whole time I was out there, I kept wondering what my father was doing. If he had known someone was going to break him out. If they hurt him when they took him.” Her hard expression told him that she wasn’t worried about Reynolds for Reynolds’ own sake, and he realized their crisis had passed. For now.

“If they killed him,” he finished. “Exactly,” she said, and he led her to the couch and poured her a glass of water. Then he set the kettle on for tea. He didn’t know if Catherine would last long enough for tea, but he’d get it started just the same.

“Hours have passed since the ransom note,” she said, and he realized she had switched gears. Her mind was racing, and she was too exhausted to control it.

“Considering that the case is a kidnapping of a potentially brittle diabetic, I’d be handing out assignments to anything that moved if I were in charge,” he said.

“Me too,” she said. She made a strange sound, not quite a sob, and when he glanced up from the stove he saw that she had covered her eyes with her hand. She was in torment.

I hate him. I swear I’m going to…

Stop it
, he told himself.

“Maybe they’re just giving you some time to rest up before they put you to work.”

She leaned her head back on the couch. “Maybe someone wants to know about beasts.” She raised her head and looked at him. Her face was drawn and pale. When Reynolds had confessed to murder, he had not volunteered that the dead men had all been beasts—and that a brainwashed Vincent had actually killed them on Reynolds’ orders

“As long as we’re in this together, we’ll win,” Vincent said, and the look on her face was his reward. He was tapping into emotions deeper than hatred and rage.

He was drilling down deep, into the firm bedrock of love.

“But in the meantime, tell me what
I
can do. How I can help.”

“Okay. An off-duty cop working security says it had to be an inside job.” She smiled grimly. “He’s on our suspect list, actually. And the security cameras focused on Angelo’s room weren’t working, the security backup didn’t work, and the
extra
backup system didn’t work. We were told that Angelo likes to disable the cameras on his room, which must mean he has some computer skills. But the techie in charge of the last line of defense says that the only way to reprogram that system is through directly programming it, and he’s the only one who can do it. It’s password-protected, for starters. Fingerprint and retinal scan.”

“All of which can be beaten.”

“Yes. But if you’re twenty and more interested in collecting guitars, do you really know how to compromise sophisticated computer programs and fool bio-scanners?” She tapped her finger against her lips. “Or maybe you want everyone to
think
of you that way…”

“If you’re a kid who feels like he’s got no way out, you take desperate measures. You learn things, or you find people who know how to do what you need done. And twenty’s not all that young. It’s not like he’s ten.”

“Exactly.” She nodded thoughtfully. “I’m going to ask Captain Ward to talk to Tony DeMarco directly, explain that we can be a real help in the investigation. But we need a longer leash, you know?”
I know about leashes
, he thought, as he got out two mugs for their tea and two herbal relaxation tea bags her sister Heather had left behind.

“I’ll go places you can’t. Track. You can feed me information from financials, check phone records, whatever you want me to know. We’ll find Angelo together.”

“That would be
great
,” she said. Then she caught herself and added, “But you have to be very careful. Promise me.” She leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes. “You have to promise me.”

He held up his hand. “Scout’s honor. Okay? Truce?”

Catherine’s answer was a deep sigh, the closest thing to a little snore he had ever heard her make. She also made the clucking noise that he’d teased her about before. He left the steeping cups of tea beside the stove and gathered her up in his arms. She was feather light… and fast asleep.

He carried her into her bedroom and lay her down gently. He took off her shoes and loosened her clothing. Her knuckles were bloody and he inspected them tenderly. She’d been in an altercation. More than one, by the whisper of a bruise on her jawline. He ghost-kissed every injury he found, and then he made himself leave. He had stayed too long—it was daylight out—but he had wanted to talk to her about Reynolds. Talk? He had confronted her. Accused her of hiding the truth from him.

I’m so bullheaded
, he thought, and his brain obligingly dredged up proof of that—the image of J.T. dangling from his outstretched arm. One of these days, J.T. was not going to forgive him when he lost control. He understood now that it was important to remain forgivable. Cat and J.T. deserved that.

And so much more.

He went to the roof, keeping to the corners, and blurred away.

G
abe left Rikers, went to his office and called Cavanaugh Ellison. He was told that Mr. Ellison wasn’t in and his secretary didn’t know when he’d be back—or wouldn’t say—and Gabe decided to drive out to his home, see what he could glean.

He made the drive from Rikers Island to the north shore of Long Island, also known as the Gold Coast, where Gilded Age New York financiers and industrialists such as the Vanderbilts and the Astors had once owned huge mansions. Many of their palaces to greed and excess had burned down or been demolished. Others had become colleges or museums. But some of them were still private homes.

The Ellisons lived in one of them, and it was a huge, stately Tudor. It was so enormous that it could fit two copies of the mansion Gabe had grown up in, and possibly more, since Gabe couldn’t see the sprawling estate in its entirety. Sturdy, leafy trees and formidable stone walls hid much of it from his view. But he could trace the silhouette of turrets and gables, and at least half a dozen brick chimneys. A large weather vane twisted in a building wind. The place was truly magnificent, and he studied it as he pulled over to the side of the road, his engine left idling for warmth. He had stopped to buy himself a croissant and a coffee, and he ate his little breakfast now. After a sleepless night and very little to eat before he’d gone to Rikers, he figured he’d better get some energy before he took on Cavanaugh Ellison.

Gabe had also taken some time to research Ellison. Ellison held several patents for innovations in communications systems, and numerous competitors had sued him for unfair business practices. He was a Page Six society type; his wife had died eight years ago, and his usual companion was his daughter, Celeste. She was twenty-eight, and she was beautiful, with skin the color of mahogany and eyes as shiny and dark as jet.

After quickly absorbing as much information about Ellison as he could, Gabe felt fairly certain that Ellison was indeed the leader of the secret society. There was a preponderance of news articles and photo calls placing him with the two members of the society Gabe had managed to put away. In the photos, they stood deferentially, while Cavanaugh Ellison appeared tall, his shoulders back and chin held high. Ellison deferred to no other person, not even in photos with kings and queens, dictators, movie stars and world-class athletes. It appeared less and less likely that it had been an accident that his pin had been left in Reynolds’ cell.

Mention was made in several articles that Ellison was supposed to have attended the ill-fated charity gala. Ellison’s private jet had suffered an equipment failure, and he’d been delayed in Miami because bad weather had rolled in. Gabe wondered if he had intentionally absented himself from the top-level emergency gathering for some reason.

Gabe finished his croissant and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. He remembered breakfasts in bed with Cat. Mexican hot chocolate and her joyous smile. Her tears when she had arrested her father, and Reynolds had told her that Vincent must be put down. How she had melted against him, bereft. He had hesitated to hold her, aware of her vulnerability, and of how much he had loved her even then.

She didn’t seem to remember that comfort. Could no longer acknowledge how right they were for each other.
Still were.

She had utterly discounted the sacrifices he had made. He was incredibly rich. He didn’t have to work. No longer a beast and with Muirfield out of business, he had had very little incentive to stay in New York City. But he had remained in the ADA’s office specifically to make amends to Cat and Vincent. At first they had treated him like a pariah, but he had stayed. He had risked his life more than once to help them. None of it had played out the way he had hoped.

Plan B is looking better all the time.

Stepping into dappled sunshine, he went around to the trunk of his car, popped it open, and pulled out his .9mm Beretta. He loaded it, then slipped on his shoulder holster, inserted his gun, and put on his suit jacket. As his final touch, he fastened the pin to his lapel, making sure it was positioned up high, so that when—not if—security cameras inspected his face, they would see it.

Then there was nothing for it but to get back in his car and drive up to the guard station of the estate, an imposing edifice that looked to be heavily reinforced steel and glass beneath a brick façade. Cameras mounted on both it and the other side of a steel gate swiveled as Gabe stopped and rolled down his window. A square-jawed, broad-shouldered man with a rock-hard gaze stepped from the guardhouse. He was wearing a black business suit very much like Gabe’s.

Gabe showed his work credentials. “I’m ADA Gabriel Lowan. I don’t have an appointment, but—”

“One moment, sir,” the man said. He pulled out a smartphone and took a picture of Gabe. He pressed a button and then he lifted the phone to his ear.

“The police are back,” he said.

Back?

“Yes,” the man said, and then he lowered the phone. “Go on in, sir. There’s a circular drive at the front of the house. Just park there and someone will escort you to her.”

Her?

“Thank you,” Gabe said. The large gate slowly slid back, allowing him a view of sweeping lawns and mature oak trees, hedgerows that appeared to comprise a maze, and a large pond overhung with willow trees. White swans were swimming in the pond, and a small octagonal building sat at the water’s edge. Ellison really was the lord of the manor.

Glorious beds of rose bushes and all sorts of flowers created living rainbows as Gabe drove along a gravel path, then reached the circular drive. The front of the house sported a massive wooden door carved with unicorns and lions and the initials CC entwined with thistles and Tudor roses.

A black-haired man stood at the top of a trio of stone stairs. On either side of him, white marble statues of enormous lions growled in perpetual silence. The bulge in the man’s jacket suggested that he was armed. Gabe figured he would be asked to give up his Beretta or leave it in the car, but there was no harm in trying to protect himself.

“Mr. Lowan,” the man said, as Gabe got out. “I’m Bruce Fox. What can I assist you with?” Then, before Gabe could answer, Fox asked. “Are you here because you have a new lead?”

Is he referring to Reynolds?
Gabe wondered.