Best Laid Plans Page 19

  “I didn’t anticipate hearing from you just yet. How did it go?” Holmes’s tone was complacent. He wasn’t going to be happy either.

  “This isn’t something we can talk about over an unsecured line. I’ll be at your apartment in twenty minutes.”

  “Do you realize what time it is?”

  It wasn’t something he was likely to be unaware of. “What’s your point?”

  “I…er… have company.”

  “Yes, well get rid of her.” Eric hung up and went out to the curb to hail a cab.

  ***

  EVEN THOUGH RUSH hour was long since over, traffic was as heinous as ever, and in spite of his assurance to his boss, it was after ten by the time the cab pulled up in front of Holmes’s apartment building.

  Eric paid the driver and strode up the walk to where the doorman waited.

  “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?” He was new, otherwise he’d have recognized Eric.

  “I’m here to see Edward Holmes. My name is Jameson. I’m his assistant.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. Mr. Holmes sent word you’d be coming.” He opened the door, and Eric went through.

  The lobby was cool, almost sterile, all marble and potted plants and the sort of high-end art and furniture his mother had favored when he’d been a boy in Georgetown. Now he crossed to the bank of elevators and took the first available one up to the eighth floor.

  Dammit, he’d be glad when this whole business with Pandora Gautier was done with. It was more important to see that all the right people realized Senator Wexler was the man America needed as president than to make sure she got her hands on that kid.

  Two people—possibly four—had been killed in an attempt to deliver him, and Eric had to admit he was curious about why she wanted a seven-year-old boy.

  ***

  HE KNOCKED a brisk tattoo on Holmes’s door, which was immediately opened.

  “Eric, what’s been going on?”

  “Let me get a drink first.” He went to the cabinet where his director kept a supply of liquor and took out a bottle of Dewar’s 18 Year Old. Glasses were already set on the surface of the cabinet, next to an ice bucket. He ignored the ice and the tasting glasses, uncapped the bottle, and poured a healthy amount into a shot glass. He knocked it back, grimacing at the burn—another reason he so rarely indulged—then put the glass down and turned to face Holmes.

  Eric froze. Beyond Holmes’s shoulder, he could see Dr. Gautier sitting on the loveseat. She wore a slim skirt suit in winter-white and a silk blouse of emerald-green—at least she wore nothing red. She’d have resembled a Christmas ornament otherwise—and her legs were folded neatly to the side. She raised a cup to her lips, partially concealing her face. Her tight skin had an almost glassy appearance due to her numerous plastic surgeries, but no one ever mentioned it.

  What the fuck was she doing in DC?

  “Mr. Jameson.” Dr. Gautier set the cup down on its saucer, then placed them both on the coffee table with a snap.

  Eric noted Holmes’s flinch. The fine bone china with the delicate pink rosebuds painted around the rim had been brought to the marriage by his deceased wife and had been in her family for more than a century. If they’d had a daughter, the tea set would have been passed on to her, but since they hadn’t, Holmes kept it—for the most part—in a china cabinet, and treasured it.

  “Ma’am.” Eric crossed to her and shook her hand. “I have to say I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “Edward called me. What news do you have?”

  He drew in a breath. This wasn’t going to be good. Keeping it brief, he repeated what Deuce had told him, ending with the boy being snatched from their grasp and an unanticipated death.

  Dr. Gautier kept her gaze on his while she smoothed the numerous rings on her fingers. Her expression revealed nothing, but that could have been because of all the plastic surgeries she’d undergone. “I intend to speak to Deuce about this.”

  “Are you insinuating you think I’m lying?”

  “Of course she isn’t, Eric!” Holmes’s tone was hearty, and it told him not to fuck this up.

  Before he could apologize, Dr. Gautier said, “Deuce has been in my employ for quite a few years, whereas you…” Her gaze remained stone-cold as her lips curved up in a humorless smile.

  Eric’s intention to apologize vanished.

  “That boy is important to me. I went to a great deal of trouble to—I want him back.” She rose to her feet. “And I don’t care what it takes.”

  “Why do you need him now? Why not let him grow up?”

  “That’s not your business.” Once again her lip curled, this time in a very unpleasant sneer. “I suggest you let the scientists deal with the science of this matter.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about, but from the expression on Holmes’s face, Eric knew he’d better make amends immediately. “Ma’am—”

  “I’m returning to the Institute in the morning. You’ll keep me informed as to what happens. And remember. If I’m not satisfied with your results, I’ll have no qualms in withdrawing all funding to Senator Wexler and offering it to Senator Franklin instead.”

  Dammit. Franklin was a liberal as Wexler was conservative.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Supercilious bitch. Eric stood aside and let Holmes escort her to the door.

  Eric heard the door opening, the soft murmur of voices, and then the door closing. Holmes returned to the living room.

  “Shouldn’t you have seen her home?” Eric sniped.

  “She’s a grown woman who’s very capable of seeing herself home. I must say, I expected better of you, Eric. We can’t afford to lose that funding.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “In that case, I wish you’d demonstrate that. We have other things to worry about.” He went on before Eric could ask what they might be. “Senator Wexler has decided he wants to marry Portia Mann.”

  “Excuse me?” When had all this come up? “The senator is already married.”

  “I’m aware of that. So is he. However, he feels Mrs. Mann would make an ideal first lady.”

  “And he thinks Mrs. Wexler will go along with that?”

  “He plans on having his aide romance her. When word of her adultery gets out, he’ll be able to divorce her without looking like the bad guy.”

  “Jesus, this is worse than a soap opera.”

  “It is, but at least he’s given us enough time to smooth over the scandal that’s sure to ensue.”

  Six years. Would that be long enough? Given most constituents had the attention span of a gnat, it just might be.

  “Mrs. Mann has been a widow for a long time,” he murmured.

  “Exactly.” Holmes sent a glance his way. “Twenty-four years, and never in that time has she looked at another man. The senator likes that.”

  “Is he aware she was always referred to as the Ice Queen?”

  “Probably not. He’s more involved with things in his home state than here in DC.”

  “How will Quinton Mann react to this?”

  “That’s where I come in. As a director of the CIA, I’ll get him out of the picture.”

  “But you’re Counterintelligence Threat Analysis.”

  “I’ll make sure I get into Operational Targeting.”

  “And then what? Kill him?” Eric had done things that were questionable, but killing someone with Mann’s background and family didn’t strike him as a smart move. Two of Mann’s uncles had been in the CIA, while a third had been high up in the NSA.

  “No. It’s going to take some planning—someone I know came up with an idea for inserting a program in a cell phone, and he’s working on that. With a little luck, everything should fall neatly into place. And if worst comes to worst, I’ll find some reason to send him to Paramaribo.”

  “Th
at hellhole!”

  “Precisely.” Holmes’s thin lips stretched into an even thinner smile.

  “All right, you’ll be doing that, but what will I be doing?”

  “Getting that boy back for Dr. Gautier. Can I get you a bite to eat? I have some leftover roast beef. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  “Thanks.” Eric waited until he was alone in the room before he took out his cell phone. He punched in a number and waited. And waited.

  Just when he thought the call was going to voicemail, it was picked up.

  “You got Deputy Kilroy. What do you want?” The voice was deep and gravelly.

  “It’s Jameson, Kilroy.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Jameson. I didn’t recognize the number.”

  Eric grunted. “There was a shooting in your fair city earlier today, in front of a Home Depot.”

  “Right. So sad. Jack Jackson was DOS.”

  “You knew him?” That wasn’t going to be good if he did.

  “Lemme just say I knew of him. Man ran a construction company. Did some work for my brother-in-law. He’s a faggot.”

  “I beg your pardon? Your brother-in-law?” Was Kilroy losing it? Why would Eric care—

  “Jackson. He’s queer. Was queer. Now he’s gone, and I say good riddance. Too bad that partner of his wasn’t with him. Then we could have gotten rid of two of ’em at one shot.” Kilroy laughed sourly. “The last thing we need in this country is more fags. So, what can I do you for, Mr. Jameson?”

  “I understand there was another victim.”

  “Huh? You mean the woman who was hit by a car? She’s been sent up to St. Mark’s ICU. It doesn’t look good. I understand her husband was sent for.”

  Eric gritted his teeth. Why did this buffoon think he would want to know that? “I was referring to the other gunshot victim.”

  “Oh, the kid. Yeah, he’s—”

  “The kid? Are you telling me the little boy who was with them was hurt?” If anything had happened to the boy and Deuce hadn’t seen fit to tell him, Eric would see he didn’t reach his next birthday.

  “What little boy? Wasn’t no little boy when we got there.”

  Did that mean the woman had gotten her son away? Eric only just prevented himself from tearing out his hair. “In that case, who are you talking about, Kilroy?”

  “The kid who works for Jackson. The paramedics found him covered in so much blood at first they weren’t sure he if he was dead or alive. Turned out a bullet creased his temple—he was just unconscious. They took him to St. Mark’s too.”

  “All right. You’ll make sure any evidence goes away?”

  “Like that is it? Yeah.”

  “Good. You can expect payment in the regular fashion.” Eric hung up and ran a hand through his hair. Did the woman realize what had happened was an abortive attempt to kidnap her son? Were they even still in Savannah?

  He poured himself another scotch and stated morosely into the amber depths.

  He’d return home after he left here. A good night’s sleep—he never could sleep well in motels—and then he’d have to put together another team and head back to Savannah.

  Goddamn the boy.

  Goddamn the woman.

  And goddamn Pandora Gautier.

  Chapter 7

  DEUCE PACED the floor of Doc Cadogan’s waiting room in Walterboro. It was after hours, and the door was locked. Ace was slouched in a chair, his legs crossed, reading a Good Housekeeping magazine, while Stan watched Fox News, seemingly just as relaxed, but Deuce could see the tension in the line of their shoulders and the restless jiggling of their feet.

  “You’ve got shitty taste in news stations, Stan.”

  “What can I tell you? It amuses me.”

  “Huh.” Before Deuce could say anything else, his cell phone rang—the theme from Jaws. It had been a toss-up between that and Halloween, but he’d known that whichever one he chose, his stomach would begin churning when he heard it.

  Ace looked up; Stan looked around.

  “It’s the boss.”

  “Who, Jameson?”

  “Not that idiot. Dr. G.”

  Stan straightened in his chair and Ace checked his watch. “Jameson talked to her already? Jesus, he must have really booked to DC.” Until this was settled, their boss had decided to stay in the capital in her town house in Dupont Circle.

  “He could have called her.” Although they all knew that generally she preferred meetings to be face-to-face.

  “Uh… Deuce? Are we dead meat?”

  “Dunno, Ace.” He took the phone from his pocket and flipped it open. “Good evening, Dr. Gautier.”

  “Good evening, Deuce. How is your man?” Of course she’d know Trip had been shot.

  “Doc’s still working on him.”

  “Which doctor are we talking about?”

  “Cadogan.”

  “Ah. He does good work. I don’t think we’ll need to worry about the outcome.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry the job didn’t turn out well.”

  “As am I. I should have realized Jameson wasn’t as skilled as he and his employer claimed he was.”

  “No,” he said again. “Uh… Trip’s going to need some downtime—”

  “I’m aware of that, Deuce. I am a doctor.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

  “I understand the good people of Savannah fired back at you.”

  “They did.”

  “What is this country coming to?” It was obviously a rhetorical question, so Deuce kept his mouth shut. “I’m sending Jameson back to Savannah. He’ll need to put together another team, this time without my aid.”

  “You don’t want us to handle it?”

  “I don’t intend to see my best team wasted on such an amateur.”

  Once again Deuce kept his mouth shut. She’d originally sent her best team because she wanted that boy as soon as possible, and yesterday would have been preferable.

  “You want to know what I have in mind, why my plans have changed so drastically.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Smart man.” Dr. Gautier gave a brief laugh, and Deuce swallowed. He had never heard her make a sound like that before, and he hoped he didn’t again: it was fucking scary “You and your men can take some downtime. I expect to see you back in DC in two weeks, at the Institute.”

  “We’ll be there, Dr. G.” But he was talking to dead air. He closed his phone, put it back in his pocket, and turned to face Ace and Stan.

  “How bad is it, Deuce?”

  “Actually… it’s not bad. Dr. G. has given us a couple of weeks off.”

  “I thought—” Ace shook his head and held up a hand to prevent Deuce from speaking. “Never mind, I know, the boss doesn’t pay us to think.”

  “Two weeks in Walterboro? What are we gonna do here for two weeks?” Stan shifted in his chair.

  Just then Dr. Cadogan came out of the back room where he’d been working on Trip. He tugged down his face mask and removed latex gloves. Everything he wore, including the paper gown, was dotted and splashed with blood.

  Deuce fisted his hands. “How is he, Doc?”

  “Better than he deserves to be, I’ll say that. The bullet missed every important organ in the area, as well as every major blood vessel. Give him a week or so, and he should be back on his feet again. However, he needs to stay quiet until then, and he’ll need care.”

  “I’ll do it.” Deuce had no intention of letting any of his men twist in the wind, but Trip most of all.

  “What do you mean, you’ll do it?” Ace glared at him.

  “Ace…” Dammit, was he going to give him a hard time over this?

  “We all will.” Ace snapped.

  Deuce looked from Ace to Stan, “You don’t have to hang around. You’ve got two weeks
. You can play tourist in DC or go to Busch Gardens. Trip isn’t your responsibility.”

  “Maybe not, but he’s our friend.”

  “Ace is right, Boss, I’ve been run ragged the past three months. I could use a couple of weeks with nothing to do.”

  “Even if it’s in Walterboro?”

  Stan just shrugged.

  “Okay.”

  Dr. Cadogan cleared his throat. “I’m afraid he can’t remain here in my office.”

  Deuce ran a hand over his face. “Is he well enough to travel?”

  “Yes.”

  Deuce wondered if he should believe him. Problem was, they didn’t have much choice, “Stan, is the car gassed up?”

  “Yeah.”

  Deuce nodded. “Doc, can we get Trip out of here now?”

  “Actually? The sooner the better. I don’t mind doing favors for a colleague, but I do have to live in this town, and the less they know about other… things… the better off we’ll all be. Bring the car around back.”

  “Stan?”

  “Got it, boss.” He rose and strode out of the room.

  Dr. Cadogan glanced at Deuce. “Your friend should be coming out of the anesthesia right about now. You two can get him dressed.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Deuce took a money clip from his pocket and peeled off a wad of bills. “This should cover what you did today. If not—”

  “This is fine.”

  Smart man. Dr. Gautier was a generous employer, but God help you if she thought you were getting greedy.

  Deuce followed the doc into the back room. Trip was lying on his front on a table. A bandage wrapped around his torso and wound from his right shoulder across his ribs. Deuce was relieved no red marred the whiteness of it.

  He ran a hand over Trip’s dark hair. “Hey, Butch. You in there?”

  “Huh?” He blinked, his gaze momentarily unfocused. “Yeah. Boss?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting myself get shot.”

  “Trip… get over yourself. You had nothing to do with that.”

  “I was there.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Okay. Deuce?”

  Deuce gave a put-upon sigh. Not that he was serious, but he didn’t want Trip to know how scared he’d been. “Now what?”