Kiss (38 page)

“Bad day, all around,” she said gently.

“You here to make it worse?”

She shook her head and lowered the pitch of her voice, hoping it would lower both his defenses and her worries about what this encounter might hold. “You think Wayne would break up my face and then send me here after you all by myself?”

“I don’t bother trying to second-guess that man anymore.”

“I need you to try to second-guess him for me just one more time. As a favor.”

“Why would I do that? What kind of favor could I possibly owe you?”

“This could work for both of us, Frank, if you’re open to a deal.”

Frank moved to the old brown sofa and lowered himself onto it. He reached for the sweating glass of scotch on the end table.

“This oughtta be good.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. She sat on the cushion next to him, crowding his personal space a little. “You’re thinking, ‘Frank, this girl is your worst nightmare. This girl keeps showing up on your watch, and you did
not
sign up for so much trouble.’ Am I close?”

“You’re a mind reader then.”

She put her hand on his knee. She couldn’t get it to stop shaking. “You could say that.”

He picked up her quivering hand and moved it to her own knee. “Then go read Wayne’s mind.”

“I’m on my way. But first, like I said, I need a favor.”

“You’re the one who hasn’t named it yet.”

“I need to know where Wayne works in Houston. Where he would go if things got hot.”

“And if I knew that, why would I tell you?”

“Let’s try an easier question then. Why does Wayne want to kill me?”

Frank chuckled. “Is it so hard to guess how you could drive a man to kill you?”

Shauna painted her face with an expression of taxed patience. “You need to know that I am not the problem here, Frank. Wayne is about to present you with a much bigger problem than me.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Yes you do. That’s your instinct talking, but you can speak freely with me. Because you and I both know Wayne for the wolf that he is. Now am I right or am I wrong that you are just plain tired of getting yanked around?”

“No one yanks me around.”

Shauna hoped to be an exception to his rule. But this would not work if she could not keep her nerves under control. She focused her mind and began to spin a fiction, a story she had concocted on the drive to Frank’s home, hoping it would lead her to truth. “Wayne has tipped the police off to you, Frank.”

Frank guffawed. “Wayne thinks I’m dead.”

Yes, well, that bit of news would force her to think on her feet.

“Austin PD thinks you’re very much alive. Wayne set this in motion before he got fed up with you. Cops found your prints in Corbin Smith’s apartment.”

Shauna still believed that Wayne was responsible for Corbin’s death. But if she could get Frank to believe Wayne had framed him, she was sure she could swing Frank to her side.

The claim wiped the smirk off Frank’s face. His cheek twitched, but he said, “Who’s Corbin Smith?”

“A very dead photographer. But aren’t you more concerned about why Wayne would have planted your prints at his home?”

“Actually, I’m wondering how you would know this.”

“Friends with the lead detective.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask her to prove it. “It’s only a matter of time before they bring you in, Frank.”

“Cock-and-bull story.”

“About me, or about you?”

“Get to the point quickly now.”

“That knife you left in the hotel’s pretty door frame? I took it with me. They’re looking at it as the murder weapon.”

Frank’s laugh was strained. But he swiped his palms across the legs of his jeans, darkening the fabric with sweat.

“That’s Wayne’s knife,” he said.

“I know. Wayne used it to try to kill me.”

“You’re babbling now. I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Where’d you get the knife, Frank?”

Frank swore again.

She took a deep breath and hoped she wasn’t transparent. “I know this is upsetting, but if you don’t get yourself jackhammered into the ceiling, I think we can help each other.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Oh you don’t now? Why do you think you haven’t been arrested yet? Why do you believe no murder or kidnapping charges have been filed against you?”

Frank took a swig from the glass, then leaned toward her to breathe scotch on her face. She managed to keep her eyes open.

“You tell me.”

His stench nauseated her, but she lifted her finger to the bottom of his chin, a test of her ability, and a request that he look at her. Her touch did not generate a thing.

She didn’t have time to finesse this plan. She stood and leaned over him, pressing his shoulders against the back of the couch. She put her face much closer to his. The shaking in her hands had moved down to her knees. She silently berated herself.

“I don’t have to tell you what you already know, Frank. Because I am not police. I am not here because I care about what happens to you, or because I’m looking to start a new career. I am here because I think Wayne Spade needs to come back down to earth with the rest of us humans, and because I think you feel the same way. And if you do not, you should. Because after that escapade at the hotel—and I’m so sorry to have ditched you like that—I’m sure you are among the least of his favorite people.” Her fingers alit on his chest where the bruise was. The slightest pressure of her fingertips would keep him from moving. “Two botched jobs in as many months. That can’t be good for you, Frank.”

She thought she could hold his stare longer than he could hers, but in the end she dropped her gaze to his lips. Two seconds more and he would have surely called her bluff.

He finally said, “What do you propose?”

She squatted in front of him, resting her hands on his knees. “Help me, Frank. Help me bring him in and there’s a reward for you in it. Chief among them, I won’t press charges for your part in trying to kill me.”

“I never tried to kill you.” He moved to stand, but she pressed her palm into his bruise and he gave up the effort. She took his hands in hers, halfway surprised when he didn’t snatch them away.

“No, you set me up. But unfortunately, to the police it’s pretty much the same thing. It was that rat Rick Bond who actually rammed me with the truck, wasn’t it? You made me swerve, sure, but he was the one who pushed me over.”

Shauna placed Frank’s left hand against the side of her cheek and held it there. His palm and fingers nearly covered the side of her head. He didn’t move.

Her heart was about to thrash its way out of her ribs.

She whispered, “So tell me, Frank, how is it that Rick got paid so hand-somely? Did you ever see any of that settlement money? Did Wayne ever keep any of his promises to you when I didn’t roll over and die?”

Frank did not move, and Shauna hoped her knife had gone in deep enough. Slowly, cautiously, she kissed his hand. “We can help each other, Frank.”

His fingers stiffened and slipped over the back of her head. He squeezed the back of her neck, tipping her head back.

“Or I could kill you now.”

Dear God, don’t let me die.

She made eye contact with him, keeping her voice even and low. “You could, but you won’t. You wouldn’t give Wayne the satisfaction.”

That, and he wouldn’t risk getting his own hands dirty.

He believed her, and she knew it. She knew it because in that moment he decided that he hated Wayne more than he feared Shauna, because in that moment she was in, with his grip still firm on the top of her spine. His mind opened, memories sprawled beneath her this time like candy from an upended trick-or-treater’s sack, and she had her pick.

Her pick, and only a matter of seconds to decide before he disconnected from her. She rolled her mental hand over the top of those candy memories, trying to reduce the mountainous heap to a single layer, spreading them out for a bird’s-eye view.

There were just so many.

She needed to find Wayne. She needed to find Miguel. She needed to know anything that would help her get inside Wayne’s mind, tell her why he wanted her dead—anything at all that she could use to save Miguel’s life.

If she was lucky, she would pick a memory that Frank wouldn’t miss. A memory that, when brought to light like a confession, could be re-created for the rest of the world by evidence.

If she was lucky.

35

Landon McAllister had grown accustomed to sleepless nights in the two decades since his first run for political office. Since he’d announced his candidacy for president, though, he rarely slept more than five hours a night and had come to thrive on this way of life. Uninterrupted hours of reflecting and strategizing while the rest of the world slept gave him his edge.

Tonight, he could have packed in seven hours, a luxury he occasionally indulged in. Instead, at midnight he sat awake at home, by Rudy’s bedside, only half-aware that he couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to.

Rudy slept trouble-free.

The house was silent, empty except for the security detail that Landon found ways to ignore. Patrice had left after dinner, gone to Houston for a public appearance at a pediatric hospital first thing in the morning.

She had kissed him good-bye at the garages.

“You seem distracted tonight,” she observed.

“I was thinking about some of the things Shauna said.”

Patrice set a small overnight bag in the trunk of her car, then returned to Landon, who held her purse and coat. “Don’t you know by now how to prevent that girl from keeping you up at night?”

“Yes. In fact I’ve become quite good at it.” He helped her into the jacket. “Maybe unfortunately good.”

Patrice faced him. “Well, try to get some sleep tonight.”

“You do the same. We’ll need it in the next couple of weeks.”

She smiled and ran a light hand down his arm. “I’m not planning on sleeping much at all in the next four years.”

He kissed her on the nose. “Then I’ll spend my waking hours tonight planning to make insomnia a reality for you.”

She wiggled her eyebrows at the double entendre and kissed him once more before heading out.

Instead of devoting his mind to the elections, though, Landon’s thoughts turned to his daughter.

His daughter, who was so much like her mother—beautiful and passionate and stubborn—that at times Landon found it painful to look at her. Shauna reminded him of a life he’d lost long ago, a loss he’d had to turn his back on, just to survive it. The distractions of politics and the selflessness of his sharp-witted wife, Patrice, who had done all she could to help with Shauna’s upbringing, had made it possible in some ways. Rudy, however, was the heart-beat of the new life Landon created for himself.

Shauna, on the other hand, behaved like some gangrenous limb that wanted to be amputated.

Her continued insistence about that campaign money disturbed him. Hadn’t her doctors said she’d lost half a year’s worth of memories? Those kinds of details got buried under more pressing matters. Even so, how had she recalled their argument, and why was she so fixated on this thing? She had never shown an interest in his business or political affairs. She’d separated herself from them years ago.

He’d always thought Shauna’s spats with Patrice and her vocal aversion to the political world was a means of seeking attention.

If he were honest, though, he would have to admit that Shauna had no more propensity to lie than her mother.
Xamina
. . . Landon sighed. Xamina, the Guatemalan beauty with a name as exotic as expensive perfume, had never failed to tell him the truth with take-it-or-leave-it frankness. Shauna, as a child anyway, had behaved much the same.

Pressed to think it through, he could think of no time she had stopped being as direct and hopeful as her mother.

If it’s big enough to kill for, it’s big enough to destroy everything you’ve ever
worked for.

Was it possible that Trent Wilde had misappropriated MMV’s funds for the purposes of this election? The idea turned Landon’s stomach to acid. He had entrusted the business to Trent for so long that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d studied an annual report. He’d been briefed by Trent at every board and shareholders’ meeting, which he sometimes attended by proxy. MMV had always been a healthy company. But recent years were especially fruitful. They’d set profit records every year since—

Dear God. Every year since Trent had insisted he could take the presidency. They’d started talking about that during his second senatorial term. Seven years ago.

If the money was dirty . . .

Could it be that the car accident was not Shauna’s fault? That she had been targeted for her questions about the funds? That Rudy was just a bystander in all this?

His
children!
Why would Trent harm them? He loved them—Landon had never second-guessed that truth.

No, if something criminal was going on, someone other then Trent must be the instigator. Leon Chalise, for example.

Landon patted the blankets spread out over Rudy’s outstretched legs and stood. He needed to go find a few reports. Look back through his e-mails to see if Shauna had ever sent him anything that he might read in a different light now. She communicated so little, it wouldn’t take long to review.

He would study what he could find, then call Trent when he got on the road tomorrow morning. Put all this to rest. Begin an investigation into Leon if they had to. Get a jump start on damage control.

Turning into the hall outside of Rudy’s room, Landon stepped past the plastic sheeting that protected the rest of the house from his remodeling project. Pam wasn’t exaggerating when she said that Landon hadn’t spared any expense to take care of Rudy. The wall between two bedrooms on this wing had been knocked out, creating one large therapy room, filled with cutting-edge, high-tech contraptions related to Rudy’s rehabilitation therapies. The work was scheduled to be completed before the elections.

Just in time to leave his son behind.

Landon sighed and turned down the hall that led to his office. He could get a lot done in the next few hours. He looked at his watch. Eleven fifteen.