Читать книгу Guarding Grace - Rebecca York, Rebecca York - Страница 8

Brady drove toward Georgetown with no particular destination in mind. The one thing he knew was that going home wasn’t an option at the moment. Despite claiming to be her bodyguard, he still didn’t know if he was going to end up taking Grace Cunningham to the cops. And he sure as hell didn’t trust her enough to let her into his apartment.

As she sat next to him, she radiated tension. Yeah, well, she should. She’d been involved in something pretty nasty this evening.

He saw her hands trembling. She was on the edge, and maybe he could use that to his advantage.

Turning off Wisconsin Avenue, he pulled onto a side street and under a streetlight that gave him enough illumination to see her.

When the car came to a stop, she glanced around in alarm. “Where are we?”

“On the run. But you look like you could use a friend.” “I’m fine,” she protested.

“Of course not. You’ve been through a rough couple of hours.”

He cut the engine, then reached across the console and gathered her close, stroking his hands over her back and shoulders, then into her hair, feeling her tremble.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he whispered.

She stayed rigid for a moment, then relaxed against him. As he kept stroking her, murmuring low, reassuring words, he was having trouble fitting her into the murder scenario he’d constructed on the way to her apartment. The picture he’d seen made her look like the soul of innocence. The woman clinging to him gave the same impression. Yet he’d also seen her dispatch a couple of tough guys in the alley. Let’s not forget about that.

“I’m scared.”

“Yeah. I understand.”

He’d taken her in his arms for purely mercenary reasons, yet he couldn’t keep himself from reacting to the softness of her skin, her light flower scent, the clean feel of her hair.

Careful, Brady, he warned himself. This is no time to be taken in by a woman who could work her way into a weekly liaison with the head of the Ridgeway Consortium.

Yet she didn’t seem like one of John’s honeys. He went for women who were flashier, blonder. Women who knew that John Ridgeway might be able to help them along in the world.

She was more like Brady’s own type. A lot more. Or was it that he had stayed away from any romantic relationships for too long? And the first young, pretty woman who came along was tugging at his emotions in unexpected ways.

He should distance himself from her, but he stayed where he was, captured not only by the physical attributes of the woman but also by a sense of connection.

Her voice woke him up to reality.

“It wasn’t a coincidence that you showed up in the alley in back of my apartment.”

“Yeah.”

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“I stopped by my brother’s house. He had your address and your photo in a personnel file.”

“Okay.”

He reminded himself that he should be the one getting information, and he didn’t want to be staring over Grace Cunningham’s shoulder when he questioned her. He wanted to be looking into her eyes. Would they shift to the side or stay steady?

Easing away, he asked, “Are you feeling better?” “Some.”

“Who was after you?”

Her gaze turned inward as she considered the question. “I’m not sure. Could be security guards from the Ridgeway Consortium,” she said in a flat voice.

“The news said my brother was alone when he died.”

She moistened her lips. “That’s a lie.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know? Were you with him?”

“No.”

“But you were having an affair with him,” Brady said because he wasn’t going to get sucked into feeling sorry for this woman. Or feeling anything. He’d said he was her bodyguard. But that was for his convenience, not hers.

Her eyes shot up to him and her voice turned hard as she said, “I was not having an affair with him. He didn’t appeal to me that way.”

“You just said you were with him when he died.”

She gave him a glacial look. “That’s not what I said at all. I said he wasn’t alone. I wasn’t with him. There’s a difference.”

He kept the questions coming. “You were supposed to be working on a research project with him, but you were really having a liaison.”

“No,” she said again. “He was using me for something else.”

CHARLES HANCOCK WAS a man used to making life and death decisions—and collecting the huge fees his clients were willing to pay.

Tonight he sat on the leather sofa in the den of his McLean mansion. The floor-to-ceiling drapes were open, and he could look out over his property.

The television played softly across the room. One of those programs he liked on Animal Planet where a macho guy ran around jumping into alligator pools or sticking his hand into scorpion holes. Charles was always hoping one of the fools would get chomped to death. Or stung by a stingray, like that Australian guy.

The show was good background for cleaning his Glock model 17L, a sweet little handgun if he’d ever seen one.

He glanced at the clock. It was ten and time for Anderson Cooper. The boy came across as steady and reliable. Charles had made that a rule of his own life.

He had no illusions of his own power. Or his own tragedies. After his wife and son had died in a terrorist attack in Egypt, he’d vowed to devote himself to the greater good of humanity. As he saw it. His goal was a stable society—with power in the hands of the people who knew how to wield it.

He stayed in the background, quietly giving substantial amounts of money to causes he thought would make a difference. Like his college scholarship fund for disadvantaged kids. A lot of people had written them off, but he understood that the better chances those kids had in life, the more likely they were to stay out of trouble.

Charles switched channels then sat up straighter when he saw the concerned expression on Cooper’s lean face.

“White House advisor John Ridgeway suffered a fatal heart attack this evening while catching up on some work in his office.” The anchor’s words hit him like rocks slamming against a cement wall.

Carefully Charles set the handgun on the table in front of him.

Ridgeway was dead. Supposedly he’d died alone in his office.

Charles’s mind flashed back to November six months ago, when an intruder had blown himself up—along with Dr. Richard Cortez—at the Bio Gens Laboratories in Bethesda, Maryland.

Cortez had been a close friend and colleague. When he’d heard the news, Charles went back and looked at the deaths of some of his clients. Pat Richmond in Massachusetts. Joe Barlow in California. Ted Pierson in New Jersey.

Richmond had died in a hit-and-run accident. Barlow had been at home when a burglar broke into his Beverly Hills mansion. Pierson had drowned in a boating accident.

He’d wanted to dismiss those deaths—and half a dozen others—as unrelated. That was before the pipe bomb at Bio Gens Labs. Two people had died. Cortez and someone else—presumably the bomber.

Charles had obtained a sample of the DNA from what was left of the bodies. And what he discovered had brought cold sweat to his skin.

The police had never solved that mystery. Now what about Ridgeway? Were the authorities going to get a crack at the case—or was a grand cover-up in motion?

“MAYBE YOU’D BETTER explain what you mean about his using you for something else,” Brady said.

He watched Grace drag in a breath and let it out.

“I was in the office complex, but your brother was with another woman when he died. They went into another office together. They made love. Then he gasped, and I assume he had a heart attack. There must have been security guards right around the corner. As soon as it happened, a couple of them rushed in—followed by Ian Wickers who runs security at the Ridgeway Consortium.”

“I know who Wickers is!” He glared at her. “You expect me to believe someone else was with my brother?”

“Earlier, I was working with him on notes for his autobiography. We had a standing appointment every Tuesday night.”

Just what Lydia had told him.

“Did you know he was working on an autobiography?” Grace Cunningham asked.

“He hadn’t shared that with me.”

“Probably he didn’t want to tell you anything until he had a publisher lined up.”

That sounded pretty cynical. Yet the observation fit. John wouldn’t want to make a big announcement until he’d signed a multi-million-dollar book contract.

She continued with her version of the evening’s events. “After our sessions together, he always left me and went to meet someone else.”

He kept his gaze fixed on her. “That’s an interesting story. Why should I believe it?”

CHARLES HANCOCK TYPED in his password—Paladin. It was from an old TV show, where a guy in a black hat rode around the old west righting wrongs.

He’d loved the show when he was a kid. So he’d appropriated the title. Paladin wasn’t the Lone Ranger. He didn’t always play by the rules. But he got things done.

The way Cortez had.

The doctor’s death had been a personal tragedy. But Charles would find the right man to take over the research. Someone with vision. Someone who understood the importance of maintaining stability in the government of the United States—and ultimately the world.

All the Bio Gens protocols were in the computer. Waiting for the right moment to start the project up again.

But right now he was into damage control.

His source at the consortium had confirmed his suspicion that Ridgeway hadn’t been alone when he’d suffered his fatal heart attack. It seemed that he’d been playing Russian roulette with his health. He’d been with a woman, but Ian Wickers was keeping that information inside the building.

Good. That suited Charles’s purposes perfectly. The fewer people who knew what had really happened, the better.

He had the woman’s name. Karen Hilliard. He drummed his fingers lightly on the computer keyboard. He hated giving in to conspiracy theory. However, in this case he knew it was justified. When you put Ridgeway’s death together with the murders across the country and then the explosion at Dr. Cortez’s lab you came up with an unfortunate pattern.

The man who had blown himself up—along with Cortez—had been a rare bird. He’d called himself Billy Carmichael. But that was the name he’d taken after he’d disappeared into thin air.

Charles knew his real identity from the DNA sample he’d obtained. Billy Carmichael was one of the babies who had been conceived in a petri dish at Bio Gens Labs—then sold to childless couples desperate for children. Couples who bore all the expenses of raising one of Cortez’s little darlings yet didn’t know what a remarkable youngster they sheltered.

He switched to another database—the children. He didn’t usually go into it unless he had a request from one of his clients.

Now he plugged in Karen Hilliard’s name. He didn’t find her, but he had a pretty good idea who she was. Three years ago, one of the children—now grown—had gone missing. A young woman named Kate Winthrop.

Charles’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the computer screen. He had no conclusive proof, but he’d be willing to bet that Kate Winthrop and Karen Hilliard were one and the same.

She’d been one of Cortez’s more bizarre experiments. He’d brought her into the world just to prove he could do it. Really, she’d been of no real use to anyone.

And now Charles cursed himself for not getting rid of her when he’d had the chance.

Switching to e-mail, he sent a message to his Ridgeway Consortium contact. First he wanted a physical description of Karen Hilliard. And her DNA—if he could get it.

Had she been working with the man who had blown himself up—along with Dr. Cortez? Or was she on a private mission?

Either way, he needed answers. And if he got the wrong one, he would have to take drastic action.

BRADY WATCHED GRACE Cunningham glare at him.

“I’m not telling you a ‘story,'” she said, punching out the words. “And you should believe me because I haven’t jumped out of the car and started running.”

“How about, you know, I’d catch you and bring you back.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She kept her gaze steady. “Tonight, your brother was in the office next door when he had a heart attack. After he died, Wickers told one of the agents to take the woman to the basement. While they were busy with her and with your brother, I managed to get out of the building.”

“You’ll pardon me if I’m having a little trouble connecting with this fantasy.”

She shifted in her seat. She might be spinning him a story, but she was scared of something—and not necessarily of him.

Then there was the logic of the situation. If she’d really been in the same room with John when he’d died, could she have gotten away?

He studied her face. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Had he seen her at one of the parties that John insisted on dragging him to? The parties where he watched people drinking cocktails and highballs.

She surprised him by saying, “Your brother spoke very highly of you.”

He snorted. “My job was taking care of business he didn’t want made public.”

“Then maybe you can do one last thing for him.”

“Which is?”

“Find out what really happened and expose the cover-up.”

He kept his gaze on her, hoping his posture gave nothing away. On the way to Grace’s apartment, he’d called Wickers, and the guy had blown him off. Maybe Grace Cunningham really was what he’d been praying for—to use a conventional phrase because he hadn’t prayed in years. If she was willing to tell the truth. But he wasn’t going to act too eager.

He lifted one shoulder. “Maybe it’s better to leave it the way it is.”

“You want Wickers and his pals to control the situation? When I got home—armed men were only a few minutes behind me. Then you came and rescued me.” She sighed. “Or maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe you’ve already pushed a secret buzzer on your cell phone, and they’re coming for me now.”

“Maybe,” he answered and watched her shoulders tighten.

“One woman’s already disappeared. The woman who was with your brother. Either she’s still in the basement of the Ridgeway Consortium, or they’ve taken her somewhere else. Or she’s already dead.”

“Dead! I’ve only got your word that she exists.”

She reached into the large purse that sat on her lap and pulled out an evening bag. “While the guards were busy, I took a big chance and grabbed this.”

When she laid it on the console next to him, he turned on the overhead light, then opened the bag. Inside was a wallet with a driver’s license belonging to someone named Karen Hilliard. There were also a couple of credit cards, a library card and an auto-club card. He held up the driver’s license. She was an attractive woman with large dark eyes, short cropped blond hair and a challenging look on her face. More John’s type. Just as with Grace Cunningham, he felt as if he knew her—only in this case, the conviction was even stronger.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know much about her.”

“This could belong to anyone,” he said.

“Sure. I made the whole thing up—to get myself off the hook.” She dragged in a breath. “There’s got to be a record of her entering the building. Oh, wait—they would have wiped it out.”

“Maybe we should have a talk with her.”

“If you can get into the Ridgeway Consortium basement—or wherever they’re holding her now. I could tell Wickers I know about her.”

“That might shorten your life.”

“You think your brother’s chief of staff is desperate enough to kill?”

“If he thinks it’s necessary.”

Brady knew John had hired Wickers for his expertise, and his ruthlessness. Him and that other guy, Phil Yarborough, who had a background working for a mercenary company that had gotten in trouble in Iraq. Neither man was going to give up anything he thought he could keep private.

He made a split-second decision. “Come back to my apartment and we’ll talk about it.” He hoped he wouldn’t be sorry.