Читать книгу Guarding Grace - Rebecca York, Rebecca York - Страница 9

Karen Hilliard looked around her bleak surroundings. She was huddled on a narrow bed in a storage room, but it might as well be a cell.

A guy named Phil Yarborough had already questioned her, and she’d stuck to her story about meeting John Ridgeway at a party and letting him seduce her. Yarborough hadn’t believed her. She hadn’t expected that he would. And she was braced for the interrogation to get rougher.

When the door opened, she willed herself to steadiness. Yarborough strode back into the basement room and slammed the door behind him. Crossing to her, he grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her to her feet.

“What the hell is going on?” he bellowed.

Determined not to let him scare her, she raised her chin. “I can’t answer that question until you tell me what you want to know—specifically.”

He took a breath as he struggled for calm. “We ran your fingerprints.”

“And?”

“They come up as a match for John Ridgeway.” When she didn’t deny it, he gave her a shake. “How did you manage it?”

“New technology.”

“Which is?”

She shrugged. “I’m not all that technical. I just follow directions.”

“So you’re admitting that somebody sent you here—to kill John Ridgeway.”

Okay, time for plan B.

“I’m admitting that somebody wanted me to contact Ridgeway.” “Who?”

“I don’t know, exactly. My guess is that they have ties to the Middle East.”

“What makes you think so?”

“They look Arabic.”

“And why are you working with them? ”

“Because I need money.”

“You’re lying.”

“What makes you think so?” she asked, echoing his phrasing.

“You’re too dedicated. You have your own agenda. What do you have to gain by defending an Arab terrorist group?”

“They said they’d kill me if I talked.”

“Then you’re caught between a rock and a hard place because I’m going to kill you unless you come clean with me.”

“I can’t tell you anything if I’m dead, can I?”

He led her to the chair in the room and pushed her down, then pulled out a pair of handcuffs. As he secured her wrists to the wooden arms, a tremor went through her.

Roughly, he turned her hand over and looked at the tips of her fingers, then ran his thumbnail over the whorls.

“How did they do it?” he asked again. “Some kind of artificial skin?”

When she lifted a delicate shoulder, he drew back a hand and slapped her across the face. “Stop lying to me!” She gasped, then met his eyes. “You figure it out.” “I will,” he vowed.

BRADY DROVE BACK to La Fontana. After parking in the garage, he took Grace up to his third-floor apartment.

When they stepped inside, he saw her inspecting the place and wondered what she would think of his decor. Although he hadn’t paid a lot of attention to fashion details, the furniture was comfortable.

But it seemed she wasn’t interested in his decorating skills. Instead she walked to a window and looked out. “We’re too high to get out this way.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Are you sure?”

“You think you’re in the middle of a conspiracy?”

“I know I’m in the middle of a cover-up. I know Wickers thinks I’m a loose end.”

He wanted to argue that this was America, not the Gulag Archipelago. But he remembered his own recent confrontation at gunpoint in the driveway of his brother’s estate. Something was going on, and this woman could help him get to the bottom of it. But she was also in trouble, and he was going to keep her safe. At least until he knew the real story.

“You want some coffee?” he asked.

She looked at her watch. “At two in the morning?”

“Well, maybe decaf.”

They both walked into the kitchen, where he remembered his previous encounter with his larder. “Sorry, there’s no milk.” “That’s okay.”

“I forget to buy groceries,” he said, wondering why he felt compelled to explain.

“That’s okay,” she answered again, and he thought from the tone of her voice that perhaps she knew he’d had a wife and daughter—until they’d been killed in a car accident.

Determined to switch the focus back to her, he asked, “You’re a freelance researcher?”

“My day job is at the Smithsonian.”

“It’s a big place. Where exactly?”

“The Air and Space Museum.”

“You have an engineering background?”

She laughed. “No. But I can research any subject. I was working on an exhibit that will showcase World War I-era planes. I was recommended to your brother and decided to take the assignment. The autobiography was legit and the pay was good, but I just didn’t know I’d also be covering for his … habit.”

He ignored the observation as he filled the kettle and set it on a burner. Maybe it was true. Maybe not. He knew John Ridgeway hadn’t been a particularly nice guy. But that was no excuse for murdering him. If it had been murder.

“Did you know Karen Hilliard?” he asked. “I mean, outside your contact at the Ridgeway Consortium.”

“We knew each other.”

“Were you friends?”

“We traveled in some of the same circles,” she answered, and he thought she was skating around the truth. “Which circles?” “Young DC professionals.” “The bar scene?”

“Sometimes. And parties. Some of them on the Hill. Some at people’s houses. Anywhere from basement apartments in Columbia Heights to Georgetown mansions.”

“You from DC originally?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Chicago.”

They were standing close together. He could reach out and hold her the way he’d done in the car. To comfort her, he asked himself, or because he wanted to feel her body against his? He wondered if that was the real reason he’d initially decided not to bring her here. Staying in a public place meant he couldn’t start anything with her.

He stopped that line of thought. Getting intimate with this woman was the last thing that should be on his mind.

He wondered what she saw in his face when she suddenly said, “You don’t have to be tough all the time. It’s all right for you to feel … sad about your brother.”

“I don’t need advice, thanks,” he answered quickly, all too aware of the last time he’d let himself give in to grief. But that had been very different. Losing Carol and Lisa had been a body blow. He was still coming to terms with John’s passing, but it didn’t feel the same. He’d loved his wife and daughter. Fiercely. When he’d learned of John’s death, he’d been shocked, but not plunged immediately into a black hole of devastation. He’d miss his brother, but his death wouldn’t leave a gaping wound in his life.

“We’re not going to talk about me,” he added, making his voice firm.

“Why not?”

“It’s not relevant.”

“You get to make the rules?”

“Yeah. Because I’m the one who drove you away from certain captivity.”

“Well, that was very noble of you, but it doesn’t mean I can’t walk away from you now.”

Tension crackled between them. From the look in her eyes, he was sure she would dump him if that suited her plans. He felt a pang he couldn’t explain. He wanted to keep her with him, and he didn’t even know if it was for the right reasons. For that matter, he didn’t know what the right reasons were. He’d started out thinking she was sleeping with his brother.

Now he thought she was telling the truth about how she fit into the picture. But the whole truth?

He’d damn well better find out and damn well better keep his head on straight while he did it.

“Where would you go?” he asked.

He was glad to see she looked uncertain. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Where were you going when I caught up with you in the alley?”

“Away.”

“No specific destination in mind?” Before she could answer, a knock sounded at the front door.

They both stiffened, and he looked at the clock again. It was just after two. No time for a social visit. Or any kind of visit.

“Maybe you should ask who it is,” she whispered. Yeah, that was the logical first step. He walked toward the door and called out, “Who’s there?” “Ridgeway Security.”

He’d smugly assumed that Grace was safe in his apartment. And Grace had been acting as if she didn’t need his protection. But when she turned frightened eyes to him, he knew they’d both made major miscalculations.

He kept his voice steady. “Go into the bedroom. It’s at the end of the hall.”

As she hurried to the back of the apartment, a second knock sounded.

“Just a minute,” he called out, rubbing his hand through his hair to muss it up. He walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Through the distorted lens, he saw two tough-looking men standing in the hall. Although it was hard to be sure, he thought he’d never seen either one of them before.

“Open up.”

“I’m getting dressed,” he answered, undoing the top two buttons of his wrinkled dress shirt.

When he opened the door, the men pushed their way past him and into the apartment.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask for permission to enter?” he asked.

“Didn’t you just give it to us?” “No. I want your names.”

The one who had been speaking said, “I’m Mosley.” “Kessler,” the other one offered. “Can I see your credentials?”

They both reached inside their suit jackets and brought out small leather cases with their cards and Ridgeway IDs. Unless the creds were fake, both of them worked for his brother’s consortium.

“What’s this about?” Brady asked as they put the credentials away.

“Your car was spotted in the vicinity of Grace Cunningham’s apartment earlier this evening. Is she here?”

He gave the speaker a quizzical look. “I think you’re mistaken. Who is Grace Cunningham?”

“She had an appointment with your brother tonight.”

“And?”

“Given the untimely demise of Mr. Ridgeway, we want to ask her some questions.” “She’s not here.”

“Do you mind if we look around?” “Yes, I mind.”

Despite that, Mosley walked past him into the living room. After opening the closet and looking behind the furniture, he searched the kitchen, then started down the hall. Kessler stayed with Brady by the front door, probably so he couldn’t escape or make a phone call, Brady guessed.

Brady stared after the man heading for the bedroom. He’d spent a lot of time with his brother, which meant he’d spent a lot of time around his security detail. They always followed procedure, and these guys were acting out of character.

His mind switched from the men to Grace. Had she found a hiding place where the intruder wouldn’t discover her?

Unlikely. Unless she’d climbed out the window again. Only, as she’d pointed out, they were too high up for her to find an escape route, unless she also worked as a circus performer or a cat burglar.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to give the impression of fatigue rather than tension.

If they found her here, what the hell was he going to say about it?

He barely knew Grace Cunningham. Yet if she was telling the truth about what had happened this evening at the consortium, he understood why she wanted to avoid falling into the clutches of these men. They’d said they wanted to ask her some questions. She’d said they were in the middle of a cover-up.

“I appreciate your going all out for my brother,” Brady said, angling for an opening to … He wasn’t sure what. “You seem pretty loyal. How long have you worked for him?”

“How is that relevant?” the man snapped.

“I haven’t seen you at the consortium.”

“I haven’t seen you, either.”

Down the hall, Mosley made a grunting sound.

He’d found her. Damn!

Kessler reached into his jacket and pulled out an automatic pistol, then dashed toward the back of the apartment, intent on aiding his partner.

Without making a conscious decision, Brady stuck out his foot and sent the man sprawling. He landed on the wood floor, halfway down the hall.

While the guy was catching his breath, Brady lunged for the desk, grabbed a glass paperweight and brought it down on the back of Kessler’s head. He went still.

As he watched blood seep from the man’s hair, Brady knew he’d just stepped over an invisible line from harassed citizen protesting a home invasion to criminal. Scrambling over the limp body, he sprinted toward the bedroom.

Mosley was also on the floor—at the side of the bed. He was on top of Grace, trying to wrest his gun from her grasp.

Brady grabbed the man’s coat collar and yanked him backward, just as the gun discharged, the sound reverberating in the confined space.