Dark of the Night Page 9

  “No thanks.” Jake pulled the notepad out of his pocket and sat in the other chair.

  Amber lit a cigarette and sat back, watching him through a haze of smoke. “Look, Mr. Mahoney, I’ll be honest with you. I cared a lot about Hank, but I wasn’t in love with him. And he wasn’t in love with me. We had more of an arrangement.”

  She lifted her eyebrows in punctuation of the last word. “He needed someone to attend legal functions with, and I enjoyed being wined and dined. It worked well for both of us. And while it makes me sad to think of him dying like that, I’m not all broken up over it or anything.” She exhaled a perfect smoke ring. “I just didn’t want you to have the wrong impression.”

  “Your arrangement with Hank Larsen is none of my business, Amber. What I am interested in is his state of mind before he died.”

  “State of mind?” She frowned at him, her expression blank.

  “You know, was he agitated, upset, worried about something?”

  She considered the question for a moment. “I don’t think so. In fact, if anything, I’d say it was just the opposite. It was almost like he was excited about something.”

  Jake looked up, his senses tingling. “What makes you say that?”

  “Just the way he was acting. Hank was a good guy, but a little tight with his money. And all of a sudden he’s babbling on about a trip to the islands. St. Bart’s no less. He kept saying our ship was about to sail and that we’d be riding the tide, or something like that.” She stubbed out the cigarette and leaned closer, waving a hand in the air. “Next thing I know, he’s dead.”

  “Did he give you a clue as to how this proverbial ship was going to come in?”

  “Not a word.” She cradled her chin in her hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “Can you tell me why you left so quickly. After his death, I mean?”

  “I suppose it’ll sound silly. It’s just that Hank’s death made me realize how—” She bit her lip, obviously struggling for the right words. “—fragile we all are. And suddenly I had a need to live life a little. You know, prove that I was alive. Like I told you, we’d talked about St. Bart’s. It seemed the obvious place to go.” She looked up, her green eyes bright with tears. “I know it probably seems callous, but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do.”

  Disappointment surged through him. Another dead end. He stood up. “I appreciate your talking to me.”

  Her eyes ran up and down him again, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “My pleasure.”

  He handed her a business card as they walked back through the swinging beads. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  “I’ll do that, Jake.” Her grin had turned flirtatious, and he resisted the urge to laugh. Any other time, he might have been tempted. But not now. Not with a woman like Riley O’Brien out there.

  God, he had it bad.

  Tendrils of fog curled in and out of the chain link of the prison yard fence. Normal people weren’t outside on an evening like this. But then there was nothing normal about felons.

  The men were split into groups. Like teenagers at school lunch. A group at the far end was engaged in a basketball game, their cheers echoing eerily through the mist. Another group was huddled near the gate, their talk muffled and low.

  Haywood Jameson leaned back against a fence pole, marveling at how far he’d fallen. One minute he was the golden boy of Atlanta, and the next he was watching convicts play ball. He sighed, closing his eyes, trying to block it all out.

  His father had been to visit. Well, visit wasn’t the right word, actually. The meeting had only lasted long enough for him to sign paperwork that effectively cut Haywood out of the family business, and symbolically out of his family’s life. Still, in a perverse kind of way, it had been nice to see him. To remember what it had been like to belong somewhere.

  He supposed he should be grateful they hadn’t cut off funds until after his trial. At least he wasn’t in debt. But he’d hit bottom, and best he could tell there wasn’t anyone standing in line waiting to help him up.

  He was a convict. And a murderer. And no one gave a damn about him.

  He opened his eyes. Bryce Daniels was walking across the yard with the lean grace of a dancer, or maybe a panther. There was just something about the man. Something far removed from the world they were living in. Grace. That was it. The man had grace. Which was quite an accomplishment in here.

  Haywood raised a hand in greeting and started forward, tired of being alone with his thoughts. A man had to take his friends where he found them. As he crossed the exercise yard he suddenly noticed that everything had gone quiet, almost as if the mist had swallowed all sound.

  The group on the left had split into two units, the larger one unmoving—waiting. A smaller one, comprised of two men, strolled leisurely toward the center of the yard. In the distance the faint noise of the basketball game filtered through the wet fog.

  The hairs on the back of Haywood’s neck stood on end, and noise splintered from the group on the left. A fight. Haywood swerved away from the confrontation. If there was one thing he’d learned in here, it was to keep low and stay out of trouble’s way. Bryce evidently had the same idea because, with only a cursory look at the escalating brawl, he continued forward.

  The other two men were obviously of the same mind, continuing to distance themselves from their compatriots. They stopped when they came to Bryce, one gesturing to the fray behind them.

  It happened in the blink of an eye, and yet to Haywood it seemed like slow motion. The first man slid neatly behind Bryce, pinning his arms, the second ramming a fist into Bryce’s gut.

  Haywood’s first instinct was to run. To get as far away from the violence as he could. But another more powerful emotion held sway, surprising him. Loyalty. And with it came a flood of anger.

  He ran forward, knocking the first man aside, wondering where the hell the guards were. Bryce fell to one knee, and the second man reached for him, something flashing in the watery light.

  Swinging his elbow up and to the right, Haywood caught him in the chest. The man scowled, then stepped back and disappeared into the swirling mist. Haywood fought for breath, his eyes searching for the other man, but he too, was gone.

  The noise of the fight was fading. And Haywood’s beleaguered brain pulled forth an image of the huddled group carefully splitting apart. The fight had been staged. To cover the attack on Bryce. He swallowed convulsively, the implication hitting him hard.

  He knelt beside his friend. “You okay?”

  The older man opened his eyes, pain stark against the pallor of his face. “Stabbed me.” The words came out on a hiss.

  “Where?”

  “Chest.” The word was hardly more than a whisper.

  Haywood fumbled with the zipper on Bryce’s canvas jacket. The damn thing wouldn’t open. Grabbing the collar, he jerked the coat downward, tearing it. Where were the guards?

  Blood pulsed thick and black through a jagged tear in Bryce’s shirt. Haywood pulled off his own jacket, folding it into a pad, holding it firmly in place over the wound. “It’s going to be all right. Just hang on.”

  His mind was running in crazy circles, trying to decide what to do. He’d never seen a man die. Never been this close to death. Except for the accident. And then he’d been too drunk to know what had happened. What he’d done.

  He pressed harder on the wound. He wasn’t about to let someone else die.

  “Go.” The word came out of Bryce’s mouth on a whoosh of air. His eyes fluttered, then closed.

  Haywood shook him. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

  Bryce’s eyes opened again, life flickering there. Dim, but alive. “Dangerous.”

  Haywood marveled at the fact that this man, in this place, was probably dying, and yet Bryce’s last thoughts were for him. For his safety. Misplaced loyalty in here was a death sentence. But Haywood didn’t care. Maybe tomorrow, but not now. Not while Bryce needed him.

  He se
arched the yard for signs of help. The mist had thickened, turning to rain, and it soaked into his clothes like icy fingers. Bryce’s breathing was shallow and fast. He had no idea if that was good or bad, but decided that breathing in any capacity was preferable to the alternative.

  Suddenly, out of the gloom, he saw two guards. Making certain to keep one hand on the makeshift bandage, he raised his other hand and waved, yelling for help. The rescue team, such as it was, was on its way.

  Bryce’s hand tightened on his arm. Haywood leaned close, trying to catch his friend’s whispered words. “Keep quiet.” He tilted his head toward the approaching guards.

  “But—”

  “No point in signing a death warrant.” Bryce’s words were faint but clear. It was understood that matters inside were settled without interference from prison staff, but this was different, surely.

  “What happened here?” A burly guard knelt down beside Haywood, his companion keeping watch.

  Bryce squeezed his arm. Haywood sucked in a breath, feeling like a coward. “I don’t know. I found him like this.”

  “Call the infirmary,” the guard barked, taking control of the situation. His partner was already on the radio.

  Bryce tugged on Haywood’s sleeve. “Watch your back.” The words were barely a whisper. Spoken soft and low. For Haywood’s ears alone.

  He shivered and pressed harder on his friend’s chest, the man’s blood sticky on his hand, reminding him that even in hell, people could die.

  Chapter 8

  RILEY TWISTED HER hair into a French knot and reached for a hairpin. It had been a long day, and it was going to be an even longer night. The last thing she wanted to do was spend an evening schmoozing with her father’s supporters. What she needed was a day off.

  What she needed was a lifetime off. Guilt washed through her as she slid her dress off the hanger. She owed her father better. These rebellious thoughts had to stop. She was just overtired. Too many things had happened over the last couple of days. The bomb, Michaels—Jake.

  She smiled at the thought. She’d never met anyone who could push her buttons quite like he did. He could make her run the gamut from anger to confusion to desire in about eight seconds flat. She closed her eyes, giving in to thoughts of him, imagining what it would feel like to have his arms around her, to have his lips on hers.

  She sighed, and opened her eyes, pushing her traitorous thoughts firmly aside. There was no sense thinking of the man like that. No sense at all. He was a reporter. A cantankerous one at that. He was more comfortable in a morgue than in a stateroom. And any dealings they had would most likely be adversarial, not romantic.

  Which was a shame and inevitable all at the same time.

  She knew she couldn’t have a relationship with anyone. She had more important things to accomplish. Global kinds of things. She was going to be the First Lady of the United States of America.

  And all she could think of was Jake Mahoney. His eyes, his mouth, his hands . . . She drew in a shaky breath and stepped into her dress, reaching behind her to pull up the zipper, the tab staying stubbornly out of reach.

  Sometimes she needed her sister so much. Caroline would have known what to do. About Jake, about her father, all of it. Her sister had always known her own mind. She’d been as strong-willed as their father. A blonde with a redhead’s temperament. An O’Brien all the way.

  They’d shared so much, she and Caroline. Secrets and dreams. Caroline paving the way for her younger, shyer sister. Riley smiled with the memory, finally sliding the zipper home. Caroline had been the light of their existence. And with a ten year difference between them, she’d been Riley’s idol. A magical fairy princess.

  Hot tears welled in her eyes, and Riley brushed at them angrily. How long would it be before the pain went away? Her sister had been dead for twenty years, and still it hurt as though it had happened yesterday.

  She’d tried to lock it all away—to keep it out of her heart and mind—but it always surfaced again, picking at her, eating away at her reserves. She sat down on the bed, wrapping her arms around her waist, revisiting the terror of the night before—the dream. It was almost as if it were a symbol. An echo of those awful days. But she failed to see any logic in the abstract images.

  There was fear, certainly, and pain. But nothing concrete. Nothing that meant anything. Her therapist had said it was a manifestation of her grief. And when it had vanished, she’d put it aside, pretending to forget. But now it was back. And with it came her memories, her grief, and a longing for her sister so acute it threatened to break her heart.

  Without realizing what she was doing, Riley found herself standing at the door to her sister’s room. Or what had been her sister’s room. It had been a long time since she’d come here. Even with remodeling, she could still feel her sister’s presence.

  She took a step forward, shadows shifting across the floor, misty twilight bathing the room with an eerie half-light. The furniture was carefully neutral. Chosen purposefully as the antithesis of what Caroline would have chosen. Beige instead of rose, pleats instead of ruffles, stripes instead of the floral prints her sister had loved. There was nothing left to indicate the room had ever been hers. But still the essence of Caroline remained, a hint of sandalwood on the breeze, the memory of her laughter hanging in the air.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Riley shook her head, banishing her morbid thoughts. There was no sense in being overly dramatic. The past was just that— the past. Her sister was dead and gone. Her mother too. And nothing—not desire, not need, and certainly not a dream—was going to bring them back.

  She walked over to the open window and reached up to close it, her eyes dropping to the table by the armchair, the hair on her arms rising as gooseflesh chased along her skin. A book lay open on the table, a half drunk glass of lemonade sitting beside it.

  With shaking hands she reached for the book, knowing already what she was going to find. The book was Caroline’s. Mary Stewart’s My Brother Michael.

  Riley turned to the first page, her heart pounding against her ribs. Caroline’s name was scrawled across the page. The handwriting loopy, the i dotted with a heart. She turned the pages randomly, the words leaping off the page, the story more than familiar.

  Caroline had been reading it to her the spring she died. Riley could hear her voice, see her face. They’d sat together in the garden reading—and drinking lemonade.

  “Caroline?”

  She whirled around, her heart threatening to break through her rib cage.

  Her father stood just behind her, the room’s shadows making him seem smaller somehow, lost, his pain almost palpable.

  “No, Daddy, it’s me.” Riley dropped the book back on the table and reached out for him, wanting to soothe the pain she saw reflected in his eyes. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  Her father stared at her for a moment, confusion fighting with the last traces of fear. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

  “It’s okay.” She pulled him into a hug. “It was just a trick of the light.”

  He nodded, his expression clearing. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I walked in and you were silhouetted against the window. I guess I just lost it for a moment.”

  “I understand. It’s easy to do. She’s still here somehow, isn’t she?”

  He gave her a hug and then let her go. “She’s in our hearts, if that’s what you mean. But if you’re implying she’s here in some metaphysical way, I’m afraid I can’t buy into that.”

  “But you thought I was her.”

  “I reacted to the moment, Riley. Nothing more.”

  She didn’t believe him. Not completely, anyway. There was something there, something in his eyes. He had believed she was Caroline. Even if it was only for a moment. He’d felt her here too.

  “So what are you doing in here? Reading?” His eyes dropped to the book on the table. “You were supposed to be getting ready for the party.”

  “I was. I just came in
here for a minute. I guess someone else was taking advantage of the light.” She shifted, blocking the book from view. No need in upsetting him further. “What time is it?”

  “Almost seven. We’re going to be late.” He shot her a stern look as he guided her toward the door. “Leon will have our heads.” His voice held a hint of laughter, his emotions obviously firmly back in control.

  Riley shot a look over her shoulder, her gaze settling on the book and the lemonade. Shivering, she turned to follow her father, the scent of sandalwood still hovering in the air.

  “You’re kidding.” Jake glared at his editor. “You want me to back off the investigation?”

  Tim Pierce rubbed his balding head, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Only the part that has to do with Riley O’Brien.”

  “You were just saying yesterday that there were too many coincidences. What if Riley is the key?” Jake scrambled for some sort of explanation. Something that made sense of his friend’s edict.

  “But you’ve just told me you weren’t able to establish a connection when you talked to her this morning.”

  “I wasn’t able to establish anything, Tim. The woman threw me out.”

  “Well, what do you say we leave it at that? After all, you’re not on the political beat. By all rights if there’s a story it should be Walter’s.”

  “Walter’s?” Jake tried but couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “Walter can’t write his way out of a paper bag—and that’s when he’s sober, which we both know is only about ten percent of the time. What the hell is going on here?”

  Tim sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Orders from on high. I got the call about an hour ago.”

  “How high?” The paper was top-heavy with managers, but something like this had to come from higher than the editorial staff.

  “The very top. Apparently there was a phone call today concerning your visits with Ms. O’Brien. There was talk of harassment, Jake. The big brass isn’t taking this lightly.”

  “I wasn’t harassing anyone, Tim. Hell, I saved her life.”

  “And then you followed her to Michaels’s.”