Vendetta (13 page)

“Is someone from the family here?” Gabe asked carefully.

Gabe’s hand began to stray to the pin but he put it in his pocket instead. His palms were sweaty; his face tingled with anxiety. Something was going on and Gabe wasn’t sure what it was. The man beside him seemed affable enough, but Gabe knew professional politeness when he saw it. He braced himself for the situation to change once they got inside the house, behind closed doors.

There was a woman in a gray-and-white maid’s uniform hovering just inside the door. Her eyes were swollen from crying.

Fox said, “
Policia
,” and she nodded. She asked him in Spanish if the
señor
would like coffee. The man said yes to the coffee and asked her to serve it outside, on the patio. Gabe spoke some Spanish—a lot of people in New York law enforcement did—but he didn’t let on that he understood.

“
Have
there been any new developments?” Fox asked him. “Is that why you came out here?”

“I should probably speak with a family member first.”

“Of course.”

Fox led him through room after room of fine art and what appeared to be authentic furniture from different historical periods. It reminded Gabe of The Cloisters, a museum in northern Manhattan, which had been assembled from sections of medieval monasteries and convents. There was stonework everywhere, and the walls were covered with tapestries and oil paintings of knights and aristocratic ladies in gowns and elaborate headdresses. Hanging vases of flowers decorated the bannisters of a sweeping staircase, and there jungles of potted palms. But the house felt strangely lifeless, and a sense of foreboding crept over Gabe.

Then Fox opened a door that led onto a patio covered with wisteria vines. On a low stone table flanked by two chairs upholstered in green canvas sat a green enamel coffee pot decorated with a white Tudor rose, two matching cups and saucers, sugar and creamer.

Fox raised the pot, Gabe said, “Thank you,” and the man poured Gabe a cup.

“Cream? Sugar?”

Gabe shook his head, still trying to get his bearings. He accepted the cup and then Fox left him. Bemused, Gabe drank his coffee. It was smooth and rich, perfectly brewed.

“Hello?” said a woman, and Gabe turned to see Cavanaugh Ellison’s jaw-droppingly gorgeous daughter Celeste striding toward him. She was wearing black leggings, a black tunic, and heeled ankle-boots. Her hair was piled on top of her head and amethysts set in platinum glittered in her ears. A matching platinum-and-amethyst choker set off the velvety brown hue of her complexion.

She approached, and he saw how anxious she was. Her forehead was wrinkled and her plucked, shaped eyebrows nearly met above her nose.

“Mr. Lowan?” she said. “I’m Celeste Ellison. Tell me who you are, exactly, and what is going on.”

Gabe took another sip of coffee while he considered his next move. Celeste didn’t seem to notice the pin on his lapel. Or if she did, it was of no import to her.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked her.

Her frown deepened. “No. I’d like to know where my father is.”

He tried not to let his hand jerk. Cavanaugh Ellison was
missing?

“I think you should sit down,” he said gently, stalling for time. That was why Ellison hadn’t been in his office, and his assistant had been so vague about where he was. Fox had been asking for developments about Ellison’s disappearance, not Reynolds’.

She sat none too steadily. Her hands were shaking. Gabe set down his coffee and leaned forward, doing his best to appear nonthreatening so that she would trust him and open up.

He told her he was from the District Attorney’s office and she sat up straight, hope brimming and threatening to spill over. She reminded him of someone who was afraid of heights preparing to sky dive.

“Have you found him?” she asked.

“Not yet. When did you talk to him last?” he asked her.

She wilted. Edgy anger replaced the hope. He could practically taste her disappointment.

“Like I told the other detectives, he went pretty crazy during the blackout. He left and then he called me around three in the morning, and said to stay in the house until he contacted me.”

The other detectives?
He’d have to log into the NYPD database and see if he could locate any information about the situation.

“And since that call, he hasn’t contacted you?”

“I already told you people all of this!” she cried. Then she drew a breath. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept all night and I haven’t had any sleep, really, since the break-in. Neither has he.”

The break-in.
Gabe was taking mental notes as fast as he could.

“Did he give any specific indication as to why he was particularly upset during the blackout?”

She shook her head. “I—I’m just so worried. When Bruce told me the police were here I thought you were going to give me news. Good or…” She trailed off. “But you haven’t heard anything.” She picked up a sugar cube, toying with it, setting it down on the saucer of her empty cup. “You said there were developments.
Please
tell me what they are.”

Gabe let his hands dangle between his knees, assuming a posture of familiarity.

“Have you had any new reports from the authorities on the break-in? I only ask,” he added quickly, as she began to flare with renewed irritation, “because I’m trying to run through the possibilities of where your father might be right now.”

“He was so upset. He hasn’t been the same since,” Celeste said. As she talked, she poured herself a cup of coffee, then added a liberal dollop of cream and several sugars, including the one she had set on her saucer. Catherine loved cream and sugar in her coffee, too.

“What was taken?”

“Secrets,” she said, surprising him. “A laptop with encrypted files.”

“And the nature of these files?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

It didn’t take beast sense to know she was lying. He looked at her calmly, without blinking, inviting her honesty. It was a trick of his, and it no longer surprised him how often it worked.

“My father’s involved in a very high-stakes field,” she said. “His clients are billionaires, entire countries. Dozens, hundreds of competitors would like to hack into his systems, clone our products.” She gestured to their surroundings. “There are security cameras everywhere. And yet someone was able to invade our home and take sensitive material. My father’s been frantic. He hasn’t had a moment’s peace since that night.”

“When did this happen?” Gabe asked her.

“The night he was stranded in Miami. We were supposed to attend a charity event. A masked ball. My father phoned me several times. He tried to charter another jet but the weather was terrible that night and no one wanted to risk it.”

She took a shaky sip of coffee. “Thank God we didn’t go. A friend of ours was murdered. Andrew Martin. You must have heard about that.”

“I did, yes.” Gabe cocked his head. “I was there. I helped clear the room when that madman Sam Landon began his killing spree. I developed the case for the DA’s office, and I obtained his conviction.” He didn’t mention that he had also convicted two of the pin-wearers for conducting lethal medical trials on juveniles, one of whom had been Sam’s son.

She gaped at him. “You
did
?”

When he nodded she leaned forward and put her arms around him. “Thank you,” she said. She smelled delicious.

Then she shuddered and silent tears rolled down her cheeks, and after a moment’s hesitation, Gabe put his arms around her and held her. Then as suddenly as she had begun to cry, she stopped. Pulling away, she picked up a white cloth napkin embroidered in green from beside the coffee service and dabbed her eyes.

“Enough of this.” She cleared her throat and looked hard at him. “If you didn’t come with news about Dad’s disappearance, why did you come?”

“Last night, a former FBI agent who was convicted of a string of murders escaped from Rikers. When his cell was searched, this was found.” He pointed to the lapel pin. “We believe it belongs to your father.”

“Oh.” She bent forward, examining it. “Of course. I thought it looked familiar. But it was in someone’s
cell?
”

It was obvious to Gabe that she didn’t know what it represented—the ID card into the top stratum of world domination. Nor that she had fully absorbed everything he had just told her. He was fine with that. The fewer questions she asked, the better.

To his intense relief, she handed it back to him. A shadow crossed her face and her hand darted forward as if to pluck it back out of his hand. He made a fist—an authoritative, possessive gesture—and she lowered her arm to her side.

“We’ve admitted it into Evidence,” he said. “Of course we’ll get it back to your father once we’ve closed our case. Do you think someone might have taken it from your house during the break-in? Maybe to implicate your father in what happened last night?”

“I don’t know. I suppose so.” She chewed her bottom lip. “This FBI agent who escaped…”

“
Former
FBI agent.” Gabe decided to go for it. “His name is Bob Reynolds, and we found his fingers in all kinds of pies. Unfortunately, sometimes people in influential positions misuse their power and wind up hurting a lot of people. Reynolds was one of those people.”

“But why would he have my father’s pin? How would he get it? And how would that implicate my father in his dealings?” Then she pressed her fingertips against the bridge of her nose. “Dropped when he escaped. Right.”

He couldn’t decide if she was shell-shocked, playing dumb, or truly naïve about the way the big bad world worked. As he observed her, he noted telltale signs of chronic stress—circles under her eyes not fully concealed by makeup, a gauntness that spoke of not eating rather than dieting and, perhaps most revealing, she needed a manicure. Gabe had grown up surrounded by extreme wealth—perhaps not at this level, but close—and the women in his adoptive mother’s circle always made sure their nails were perfect. Some of them even had on-call manicurists who came out to their palatial homes to repair chips and change nail colors to go with various outfits.

“Its presence doesn’t implicate your father in Reynolds’ crimes,” he said.
Necessarily.
“The more pertinent issue is whether your father had anything to do with his disappearance.” He was repeating himself deliberately to let the information sink in. Sometimes he had to tell a subject the same thing half a dozen times before they absorbed it.

“You must think I’m the stupidest person you’ve ever met. In all honesty, I’m losing it, Mr.…”

“Gabe.” He took another chance. “I want to be honest with you in return. I’m not here officially. I was responsible for the conviction of the man who escaped last night, and I’ve made it my personal mission to find him and bring him to justice.”

“But what about the police?” she asked, and he shook his head. He wasn’t about to tell her that it was an FBI matter. That would only raise more questions about why
he
was there, since he wasn’t in the FBI.

“They’re taking too long. They’re ignoring half the things I tell them,” he said, laying on a level of frustration that mirrored her own. “There’s so much bureaucracy…”

She pursed her shiny lips. “That’s been our experience with them too. My entire life. We only deal with government agencies when we just can’t avoid it.”

As Gabe would have expected from a man in Cavanaugh Ellison’s position. He was grateful to have a way into her good graces. Having grown up a beast, Gabe had refined his ability to manipulate people simply by echoing back their own thoughts and opinions.

“Okay,” he said, “Here’s the whole truth: I’m off the grid. Way off. I’m looking for the escapee on my own. It’s personal for me, and I’m like you; I can’t trust a bunch of bureaucrats who have nothing invested in the situation to put in the kind of time and attention that I’m willing to spend.” He cocked his head and delivered his ace in the hole, “And now I’m wondering if this man’s escape is linked to your father’s disappearance.”

He assumed she would react in shock, maybe even fall apart again. Instead she finished her cup of coffee, blotted her mouth, and stood. “Then can you help me look for my father? Maybe if you find him, you’ll find the man you’re after.”

And just like that, I know she’s not going to the police today
, he thought triumphantly.

“I will. I’ll stay in contact with you, let you know what I find. If you’ll give me a direct phone number, I’ll call you as soon as have something.”

She raised her chin. “No. What I meant is, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands, too. I’m going to look for my father. We can go together.”

There were pros and cons to her suggestion, but more cons—lack of maneuverability and privacy, not to mention that his end game extended beyond locating Reynolds and her father. What he had planned, she could never know.

“It would be better if you did as your father asked, and stayed here. Where you’re safe,” he emphasized.
But safe from what?

“I can take care of myself,” she insisted.

“I can move faster on my own,” he said gently. “And time is of the essence.”

“Oh. I see. Well, then.” She got up out of her chair and began to walk away without a word. Gabe watched for a moment, bewildered. Had he offended her? Was she leaving?

“Miss Ellison?” he called after her.

She kept going. He rose and took a few cautious steps in her direction, then began to pick up speed as he saw that she was, indeed, taking her leave of him.

He was about halfway to her when she whirled on him and flung herself at him without a moment’s warning. He tumbled hard onto his back; his breath was knocked out of him and then before he knew what was happening, she wrenched his elbow backwards in an excruciating arm lock and pressed the heel of her boot against his Adam’s apple. He gasped for breath. Her hair broke free and tumbled around her shoulders as she applied pressure, and fresh, hard pain shot up into his shoulder while his vision clouded, then flattened into a gray field punctuated with yellow sunbursts. Then she raised her heel and she was backlit by sunlight, an avenging goddess tossing her hair.