Read Deadly Little Lies Online
Authors: Jeanne Adams
Deadly Little Lies (10 page)
For the first time in hours, she laughed. “Yes, I do. I'll have you know I was a cheerleader.”
“Really now,” he said, imagining that and feeling his body respond again with the image of a younger Carrie in a short skirt, holding pom-poms. Being around her was a constantly stimulating experience. “So. You will instruct me.”
“Okay,” she said, motioning him closer to the center of the room. “Here's how it goes. You need to bend your knees and hold one hand here.” She positioned his arm to one side. “And one hand up here.” She extended his other hand upward. “That way, I can, essentially, use you as a ladder and your hands as a handrail. Once I'm up, you need to brace your hands on the back of my calves, okay?”
“Got it,” he said, positioning himself as she directed. He felt foolish, in a way, acting as nothing more than a ladder, with her doing all the work. But the possibility of learning anything about their cage was too great to pass up.
“Ready?”
“Yes, ready,” he replied, helping her as she stepped first on his bent thigh, then onto his shoulder. It took them three tries to get their balance and movements coordinated enough for her to mount his shoulders, but they were successful.
The experiment however, was a total failure.
Even with her on his shoulders, the ceiling was at least three feet beyond the reach of her outstretched arms.
“Well, it was worth a try,” she muttered, bracing herself on the wall to dust off her feet and slip back into her shoes.
Dav agreed, adding, “We should eat again, while we still have daylight.”
“Oh, is it getting dark already?” She looked upward, measuring the sun's path. She looked around the room as if marking the time as she'd done first thing that morning. “Look.” She pointed to the wall, her face reflecting hope and a touch of awe.
The path of the sun's rays traced across the floor, bringing the carvings to life with shadow and relief. Demonic faces grimaced from the rock, and deep in their crevices gleamed gems. Dav squinted into the grate, noting that there were clouds skidding across the sky.
“Do you remember anything about the weather, did you see the news or do you remember anything about it?” he asked with some urgency. He couldn't remember if there was a rainy season in this tropical area, but the thought of torrential rains filling the cell was vivid in his mind.
“Not for Central America. It was supposed to be sunny in San Francisco,” she added, her smile rueful. “Here, I have no idea.”
“I do not either. I'm just wondering what this place is like when it rains. Seeâ” He pointed upward. “The clouds are getting thicker.”
“Hmmm. Not the best place to be in a storm.”
He continued to stand, staring at the sky, racking his brain to remember anything about the countries in Central America. The geography was easy, thanks to his business dealings. But remembering the weather or other facts? That was hazy.
“Dav,” Carrie called. “Let's sit and eat.”
He turned to see that she was arranging a picnic, setting out one of the canteens and the sandwiches. Another egg and a piece of fruit joined the feast and when she'd placed them just so, she looked up at him and smiled.
“Very neat,” he complimented, dropping cross-legged to the ground. He could feel the stone's dusty chill through the fine wool of his coat, laid out like a picnic blanket, but it wasn't so bad with the warming sun still up. It would be colder by nightfall. Even in this tropical climate, early spring underground was cool.
“So, what have we here?” he drawled, trying to inject some lightness into the situation. “A veritable feast. Something from almost every food group, lovingly prepared by our chef du jour, the divinely beautiful Carrie McCray.”
“Thank you, thank you.” Carrie took up the play, but he saw the color in her cheeks. “And plated for you this evening by the chef herself. Here, m'sieu,” she said, using the French nominative. “Sit, enjoy, please.”
Laughing at themselves, they ate. “This is the first picnic I've ever had,” Dav admitted, crunching through the dry bread, bacon and cheese.
“You've got to be joking me.” Carrie looked at him, astonished. “No childhood picnics?” she began, then her face fell. “No, I guess not. But college? Nothing?”
“I was too busy surviving and working and building my business,” he said, wondering what else he'd missed in his search for freedom from his father and brother, for the power to tell them all to go to hell. That gave him another thought. “I thought I would never go back, you know. To Greece.”
“Really?” She cocked her head, a listening pose. “Why did you?”
“My mother. I had just graduated. I had decided to say to hell with my father, and I applied for citizenship, as I mentioned.” He grinned as she shook imaginary pom-poms.
“Good for you.”
“Ah, but the villain of the story had other plans, alas,” he said dramatically, lowering his voice to the basso profundo range to make it sound serious and scary.
“Oooh, tell, tell,” she played along again.
“I'd found a job with a major investment and shipping firm. I was to start on a Monday. My father's secretary called me the Thursday before. She said he'd told her to call, to tell me that my mother was in the hospital and I should come home.”
“And you went,” Carrie said, unhesitatingly.
“Yes, I did.” The bitter pill of that memory still choked him. “They said she was dying.” He sat silent, remembering.
“Dav? She wasn't dying?”
“No,” he said, and something in his face must have given away the anguish he'd felt back then. “She wasn't dead, but she'd been desperately ill for six months and they hadn't told me. No, this time it was my father who was in the hospital, but he knew I wouldn't come if I thought it was him.”
“He played you,” she said, reading the situation perfectly.
“Of course. Then, once he had me, he kept me. He had his ways, his connections with the authorities, and I knew it. I could have left, yes. But I would have had to make a scene in a public place, and he knew I wasn't yet that desperate. I put off my return, but in the end, I had to decline the job in America, stay in Greece. At least I was there when my mother did die.”
She laid a warm hand on his arm. “I'm sorry.”
He smiled, sorry to have gone back in time to that memory. “Me too. I never got to say good-bye to my mother. She wasn't a strong woman, she never thought to defy him, never understood why I would. She was lost to me though,” he said, finally. “She had Alzheimer's. It had come on early for her. There were many hospital stays when I went home. The last one, I chose to meet with my father instead of taking visiting hours one day, and she slipped away. He had dismissed her from his life, of course. Nurses managed her. And finally him too.”
“Was that when he died? After he had to have nursing care?” she asked, softly.
“Yes. He called me in a last time. We fought.” Dav rose, knowing he couldn't sit still, couldn't bear her sympathy. He walked to stare upward at the grate, still talking.
“We'd had altercations before, but nothing like the row we had over his making me his heir. I told him I didn't want his business, to give it to Niko. He told me I'd won, that Niko wasn't his choice and would never be. I could, he said, fire all the people in the company, turn them out to starve if I wanted to, leave them jobless and alone, or I could take the reins of the company and make it mine. He no longer cared what I, or anyone else, did.”
“Did you fall for it?”
“Not at first,” Dav said, managing to choke down the last bites of the dry sandwich, using it to give him time to think, to figure out how to explain the dynamic between his dying father, his ruthless brother, and his own desire to be gone from Greece, and free.
She too, was eating, and obviously having just as difficult a time with the dry bread and crusty contents of the sandwich.
“Here, ma'am,” he said, seeking to return the mood to the lightness of their earlier banter. “Let me offer you one of our finest vintages, freshly decanted by our own sommelier,” he joked, unscrewing the canteen and smelling the contents. Water maybe, something that didn't have a strong scent. “I think it's water.”
“Well, let's give it a try.” She held out a hand.
“I'll do it,” he said, taking a cautious sip. The water was fusty and tasted of the interior of the canteen, but there wasn't a taint or anything foul in it. After another sip to be sure, he passed it her way. “Water. Not too bad, not too good.”
“Thanks,” she said, and she took a cautious sip. “If it does rain, we should set this out, make sure it gets filled back up.”
“Now there's the survivalist,” he praised. “Good thinking. That's a good way to begin our conversation about what we're going to do next.” And an excellent way to move beyond his ancient family trials.
The dead kept their secrets, and his father was surely dead even if Niko wasn't. There were some things no one else living needed to know.
Chapter 6
“The grate is too high for us to reach,” Dav summed up the situation. “I don't think the potty over there”âhe pointed toward the aluminum and plastic johnâ“will support either of our weight for any acrobatics, much less the weight of both of us. We have your multitool, the keys, I have some mints,” he said with a smile, reaching down to fish the dented tin out of the topcoat's deep pocket. “Neither my gloves, my wallet nor your purse does us any good here. The chains there”âhe pointed to the wallâ“are rusty and, again, probably no use since we can't stand on them.”
“We might be able to toss them up and climb them to get to the grate,” Carrie speculated, glancing from the chains to the grate and back. “I don't know if I have enough upper body strength though, to pull myself up.”
Dav walked over and tugged at the heavy manacles, dropping them after a few hard tugs showed them to be firmly planted in the ornate carvings.
“Not easily loosed, and since we don't have bolt cutters, there isn't much to do once we get there.”
“True. So,” she said, shifting to sit with her back to the wall.
Dav continued, pacing under the grate, assessing it. “We've got the room, a little bit of food and the promise that they'll be back in two days, at which point they may or may not let us out.”
“And, if they let us out, they may or may not kill us.” Carrie carried that thought to its final conclusion.
“Exactly. Which leaves us with each other, a bit of food and a lot of time on our hands. Too bad we don't have a chess set, eh?”
“I suppose we could make one in the dust,” she said, looking over the room. “I didn't know you played.”
“I do, yes,” he said, surprised that she did. “Do you?”
“Yes, I do too. My father taught me.”
“Tomorrow then,” he said, pleased at the idea of matching wits with her. “To pass the time, we'll play.”
“We should do yoga, to keep us from getting stiff,” she said, unexpectedly, then blushed. “I mean...”
Laughing, he took the opening she offered to talk about their interrupted passion. “Carrie, it is fine. We can talk about it. The situation is dire. We're attracted to one another.” He shrugged. “I've been attracted to you since before I met you.” He turned to look at her, face her and show her the truth of his words. “I watched you, from outside the window before I came into Prometheus that first day,” he admitted. “You were so vibrant, so alive.”
Knowing he would most likely die in the next few days, he decided not to lie to her. “And I've wanted you every day since.”
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“So, you have him,” the older man stated, and then he smiled. Watching from across the room, Niko felt his gut clench. Suddenly, the room seemed colder, the fog beyond the windows more impenetrable. He hated San Francisco, hated the cold.
“You plan for ransom, I presume?” the man continued. “Numbered Swiss account?”
“The Caymans,” Niko finally said, chilled by the implied menace in the other man's smile. There was something different now, something ... off. He'd never seen it before, not in this man.
Niko's confidence faltered, ever so slightly. He knew this manâhis mentor in so many thingsâwas dangerous... deadly, in fact. Niko also knew that he himself was not the one in control here. He did have something the man wanted and thus he was still useful, which meant he would probably live through this encounter.
Probably.
“We've sent the items for proof of life, with instructions. With the money deposited, we'll give the security geek the coordinates to his location.” Niko managed to keep his voice level, professional and without emotion. As when facing a jungle cat or a feral beast, if you showed fear, you would indeed die.
“Good.” The neat white mane of hair didn't move as the other man nodded his approval. “Very good. Where have you put him?”
“The team took him and his lady friend to Belize, five miles from the next dig site. Nothing there yet but the basic block building and the initial dig-out. Ecologic Reserve guards don't care what we bring in or out, given the stipends we provide to them. In fact, we've not seen the guards at all this trip. The team pulled out for a two-day hiatus, to let my unlamented brother stew in his cell.”
“Left with food, though?”
“As per your suggestion,” Niko was quick to reassure. Much as he'd wanted Dav to suffer, along with his woman, he'd followed the guidelines they'd agreed on. So far. “No pain, no starvation.”
“Water?”
“Four canteens.”
“Good.” A faint frown still wrinkled the other man's brow. That worried Niko. He wanted this man happy, not concerned. Before he could say anything, the older man continued. “Let's talk about the next moves. Come, sit.” He motioned Niko to a chair. The guards stationed just inside the office door shifted to behind the desk as Niko sat down, ensuring that he would die before he could pull a gun and make any attempt on their boss. The man had a tendency to inspire mortal fear, blind loyalty or searing antagonism.
Niko was man enough to admit that he came down heartily on the side of mortal fear. As smart and dangerous as he knew himself to be, this man was ten times smarter and at least that much more dangerous. Certainly smarter than their father had ever been, and smarter than Dav in the real ways of the world.
“Here's the plan,” Niko began, outlining the next steps, watching for the frown or smile that would signal his direction.
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“What's the sit-rep?” Ana snapped out the question before they even cleared the door of San Francisco General's chapel. Inside were gathered ten men and women, six of them Dav's team, four “interested observers” from two federal agencies.
“Declan's out of surgery. He's hangin' in. Damon and Thompson're bandaged up, treated and released, but they're both doped up pretty good. Queller and Georgiade are patched up, they'll be here any minute.”
“Good. What else?” Ana knew she'd cry for Declan before the day was over, but for now, she had to focus all her energy, all her attention, on getting Dav back. If they lost Davâshe couldn't even think it. He was Gates's friend, and he'd become hers as well. He'd earned not only her respect, but her loyalty and affection as well.
“No further sign of the small plane we tracked on radar crossing the border heading south,” one of the interested parties chimed in.
“Thank you. Gates, you want to fill them in on the data you pulled up?”
Gates began outlining the division in the Gianikopolis family ranks that had started in Dav's childhood. “Right now, it's the most plausible scenario. I've spoken with our contacts in Colombia. They are waiting for our contract employees, and eager to get started. They are disconcerted”âhe made quotes marks in the airâ“by Dav's difficulties and will let me know as soon as possible if any informants or troops hear anything about a captive American being held anywhere. Same withâ” Gates stopped short, then smiled at the Bureau and Agency suits. He amended whatever he'd been about to say, finishing simply with, “Several of our other colleagues around the world.”
“We've always admired your resources,” one of the men said. “I'm Sewell, by the way.” The man half rose to shake Gates's hand, did the same with Ana's.
The other strangers introduced themselves as well.
“Bickman, FBI,” a tallish woman said.
“Trout, Agency,” an equally tall, dark-skinned man said, nodding to Ana. “Worked with you in Barcelona.”
“I remember,” she said. “Great to have you here.” Trout had a sharp mind and never said a word that wasn't weighed and measured. If he spoke, you'd better listen.
“Carlisle, Agency.” The last brusque introduction came from a gray-haired, round-faced man. His physiology looked jolly until you saw his eyes. Those eyes had seen too much, grieved too many. Ana repressed a grimace. That kind could be either an asset or a liability. They'd had too many ops go bad and tended to be negative. She and Gates couldn't afford any negativity in searching for Dav.
They'd have to see how it went with Carlisle.
“Here's what we know.” Gates picked things up as Ana sat back and watched the dynamics. Dav's security team was feeling defeated, worried and anxious. Already laying blame on their own hearts and playing the “if only” game in their heads. They'd have to shake all of them out of that. The Feebs were alert, attentive. Sewell was taking notes. Trout looked half asleep, but Ana knew he was taking it all in, processing.
A door opened behind them and as one, twelve people pivoted and nearly drew down on the baffled minister who walked in.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, wide-eyed and startled. “I...” He glanced at the door, at the altar beyond them. “I'm supposed to start service in forty-five minutes. Are you here for a loved one?”
“Sorry to startle you, Reverend.” Gates was quick to soothe. “We'll be out of your way in ten minutes if you'd indulge us.”
“Certainly, certainly,” the man said, backing out the door, letting it fall closed. They heard his footsteps hurrying away.
“Let's wrap this up, then.” Gates strode back to his position facing the group, standing in the aisle, leaning on the side of a pew. “Sewell, if you and Bickman would coordinate with the locals, see what they're getting from the dupes hired as distractions? Trout and Carlisle, if you could check in with your sources, anything you find would be helpful.”
“Will do.” Sewell closed his notebook with a soft snap, tucked it away.
Trout just gave a short nod, saying, “On it.”
“Dav's teamâ” Gates called their wandering attention to him. “This is not your fault. Stop second-guessing or going over it. Leave it. It's done. Focus on what we can find out, where we go from here. It's the only way to save him. Got me?”
So he'd seen it tooâthe distraction, the self-blame.
A ragged chorus of “Yes, boss,” and “Got it” answered him. It would be a while before they did get it, but they had permissionâorders even, from someone they trustedâto let it go and focus on the now.
“Ferguson, go check on Declan's status. Meet us in the waiting room. Ana and I will stay here for a while. You and Callahan will take second watch at around”âhe checked his watchâ“eight o'clock. We've got permission to have someone here round the clock. We'll set up turn and turn about, so Jenkins, find somebody and take the watch after Ferguson and Callahan. Now, let's get out of here before they throw us out.”
Volunteers for watches called out, and there was shuffling and general noise. Ana noted that Ferguson stopped long enough to genuflect and cross himself before leaving. Callahan and Jenkins, looking baffled, followed him out, headed for the cafeteria to eat before their watch.
Within minutes the chapel was empty of all but Ana and Gates.
“Gates,” she said, softly bringing his attention her way. “I need to hear you say it, say that you think we can find him. I know the stats, so do you. I'm not some mush-minded, puppy-eyed optimist, but I know I can go on, do this, and do it right, if I hear you say it.”
“We can find him,” Gates said, taking her into his arms. “We
will
find him.”
will
find him.”
The door opened again and a San Francisco detective, his badge clipped to the pocket of his sport coat, looked in and spotted Gates and Ana. Kit Baxter didn't smile, although he held out a hand to them both in turn, giving each of them a brisk, strong, professional grip.
“Detective,” Ana said, shaking his hand. “I'd say âgood to see you,' but under the circumstances...”
“Yeah. Sorry to hear about this,” Baxter said. He'd worked with them the previous year, so the detective knew them both well. “And sorry to add more bad news, but there's been a murder at Carrie McCray's gallery. A young woman.” He referred to his notes. “Inez Martin, a new clerk.”
“New?” Ana questioned sharply, flicking a glance at her husband. “How new?”
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“I never figured I'd feel cold in Mexico,” Dav murmured into the darkness. Night had fallen with tropical suddenness as they gathered up their meager food and finished sharing out the first canteen. Carrie had said nothing about his declaration. Not yet.
“Do you think that's where we are?”
“Mexico or somewhere south of it, could be Guatemala or Belize, perhaps Honduras. Either way, never thought it would get cold.” He smiled at her. “Resorts don't get cold, you know. Not on the gold coast.”
“True. It's always bikini weather there.” She looked around. “We're underground, which drops the humidity and makes it feel colder,” she said. He must have looked quizzical because she laughed and said, “You store art in underground vaults sometimes, because it's cooler and dryer, usually.”
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