A Killer's Agenda (9 page)

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She braked for a stop sign, turning to look at him. “Do you find your chosen career rewarding?”

He started to give her a stock answer and then hesitated,

sensing the sincerity behind the question. “Yeah, I really do.”

When he didn’t continue, she gently prodded. “What made you

decide on security?”

“Believe it or not, you’re the first person that has asked me that question. The answer might surprise you.”

She waited and when he didn’t explain, she continued to prod.

“I won’t know that unless you tell me, now will I?”

“I thought that was your talent, figuring things like that out.”

She turned toward him, raising a brow her gaze searching his.

“Very cute. Are you going to tell me or not?”

He put his hands up in mock defense. “Okay, okay. I erected a tree house when I was about ten or so, made from things the

gardener had given me. It was ramshackle and probably dangerous as hell, but it was mine. It was my refuge. A place to keep the things most valuable to a kid that age. Anyway, I came home from ball practice one day and discovered someone had stolen half my stuff. It wasn’t worth much to anyone but me but it was still my own.”

“That’s awful.”

“After I got over losing the things, I decided nothing of mine would ever be stolen again if I could help it.”

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Anita Whiting

“So you developed a security system at the age of ten?” she

asked incredulously.

“After a fashion. It scared the squirrels, anyway. By the time I was eighteen, I had my first patent. It just went from there.”

“I’m impressed.”

He glanced out at the driving rain. “Thank you.”

He felt her eyes on him, knew he was pulling back but couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t easy for him to open up to anyone least of all the woman sitting next to him. She was too astute, too quick and it made him uncomfortable.

“We’re here,” she announced, pulling in front of a huge old

century home.

His gaze scanned the area. “
This
is your house?”

His company was kept busy protecting houses like these. The

neighborhood was old and very, very exclusive. He took his time absorbing the site in front of him. The house was three stories high with a widow’s walk at the very top. The white brick had mellowed to a pleasant cream color and a huge front porch surrounded the house on three sides with windows so tall a man could walk right through them. Wide-seated rockers were set at various angles, affording whoever sat in them a breathtaking view of the water behind.

“PI work must pay very well,” he said dryly and then cursed

himself for sounding so critical.

There was a flash of hurt in her eyes that was quickly replaced by anger. “You of all people should know not to jump to

conclusions,” she said, opening the car door and grabbing her briefcase and anything else she could carry, slamming it after her.

She marched up the front walk and left him sitting there.

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A Killer's Agenda

Now what? He reached in back and gathered what was left in

his arms and followed her. Damn it! Only Maggie could find a way to make him feel this guilty. She ignored him, unlocking the ornate wood door and flinging it open. He stepped in out of the rain and was immediately captivated. It was like stepping into another era.

The foyer was huge, highlighted by a gracefully curving

staircase in rich cherry that wound its way upward. Tall windows flanked each side of the door, allowing light to spill into the area.

The ceilings had to be at least twelve or thirteen feet high, complimenting the vibrant rose shade on the walls and the cream crown molding. Oddly enough, amidst the old world charm there was a hint of freshly sawn wood and paint. He set what he was carrying down and spun slowly around

“Nice place.”

Two spots of color touched her cheeks. “Wasn’t so nice about five years ago. Much of the inside had been destroyed by fire. The owner collected on the insurance and let it sit for a number of years. What you see is a whole lot of hard work. I bought the house cheap and have been remodeling room by room slowly. Most of the downstairs is done and half the upstairs. I’d have the entire thing completed by now, but that rich PI salary for some reason doesn’t stretch like it should.”

He shook his head ruefully. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like such a jerk.”

“If the shoe fits…” she began.

“You want help with this stuff or not?” he threatened.

She laughed, putting a slender hand out. “Truce?”

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Anita Whiting

He took it, rubbing a thumb along her soft skin. “Until the next time I tick you off? Sure.”

“Then let’s get moving,” she said lightly, handing him her guitar while she grabbed a suitcase.

When he put the last item away, he leaned against the newel

post and took stock. “I have to say I’m impressed, Alex. You’ve taken a shell of a house and made it a home.” He strolled to the mantel in the front room, examining the personal touches that he was beginning to realize were part of her personality. Fat candles sat on the gleaming wood frame along with whimsical statues of dragons and fairies. Antiques paired with the modern. Rich jewel tones covered many of the walls and so did her artwork.

“Why aren’t you painting full time?” he asked, examining a

particularly stunning seascape.

“Because I like to eat,” she shot back. “The term starving artist comes to mind.”

“You’re talented, Alex. These would sell.”

He could see the uncertainty in her eyes and was surprised by it. Since he had met her, the confidence she exuded didn’t lend itself toward her being shy about anything. The contradiction intrigued him.

The doorbell rang just as they were returning to the lower level.

Alex opened the door and smiled at the elderly gentleman that stood there.

“Mr. Newsome, how are you?”

“Can’t complain, my dear.” He handed her a thick pile of

letters. “I saw the car and figured maybe you’d want to look through your mail as soon as possible. I was passing right by the house so I thought I’d drop it off.”

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A Killer's Agenda

Alex put the letters on the foyer table and hugged him. “That was really nice of you.” She motioned toward Brad. “This is Brad Norton. Brad, Mr. Newsome, the most wonderful neighbor a girl could have. He was nice enough to collect my personal mail while I’ve been gone.”

Brad hid a smile as the older man stood a little straighter, blushing slightly as he shook Brad’s hand. “Nice to meet you. If you need anything else, young lady, you know my number.”

Alex nodded. “Would you like to come in for a moment?”

He shook his head. “Can’t, my dear. Eloise is waiting dinner for me.” He winked at Brad. “Don’t want her to think I’m dallying with the sexy single lady down the street.” He started down the steps.

“Remember, call me if you need anything any time, my dear,” he tossed over his shoulder as he reached his car.

“I will and thanks again, Mr. Newsome.” She closed the door, laughing as she turned back to Brad. “The man is incorrigible! He’s also a sweetheart.”

“He certainly thinks you are.”

“You sound surprised,” she said absently, sorting through the mail as she led the way to the kitchen. A frown marred her

forehead as she held an envelope up and studied it. “I wonder who this is from. No address, no stamp, nothing but my name.

Strange.”

She slit the top and removed the single sheet. He saw her

expression change.

“Problem?”

She looked up, holding the paper out to him. “I guess you

could say that.”

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Anita Whiting

He took it, fury rushing through him as he read the typewritten words.

MISS LEAHY,

A NOSY INVESTIGATOR COULD END UP A DEAD

INVESTIGATOR. KEEP YOUR CLIENT IN CHARLESTON OR

YOU’LL REGRET IT.

There was no signature.

“What the hell is this about?”

“It’s self explanatory, Brad,” Alex said calmly. “We’re making someone nervous.”

“Hard to believe, considering we haven’t even started our

investigation yet. What makes you so sure this isn’t in regards to another case?”

“Because all the cases I have going right now are not the kind of stuff that would illicit a letter like this. Besides we
have
started.

You called Russell Ferron and made an appointment and

contacted the police within the last several weeks. I just reopened that can of worms in the past forty-eight hours.” She frowned.

“Strange thing is, you would think they wouldn’t want to tip their hand with this note. After all, it just confirms what we suspect.

That there is someone behind these murders.”

Brad nodded. “You may be right. Then again, maybe he

thought a little threat would go a long way. One thing we do know is that whoever left this letter has to be local. That or our initial investigation has someone twitchy enough to fly in just to drop this off.”

“Or he had someone in town do it for him.”

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A Killer's Agenda

Brad examined the paper again. “This is generic. It’s going to be difficult to trace.”

Alex gathered the rest of her mail and walked to the kitchen, depositing it on the table. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to the police at this point either. This person is getting information from somewhere and until we know who he or she is, let’s just let them think I’m running scared.”

“Somehow, I don’t think your reputation will allow that,” he said dryly.

Her lips tilted. “You may be right.” She took the paper from him and put it on the table. “Come on. Let’s return my parent’s car before they get home. I want you to meet them.”

He regarded her with arms folded. “You think I can handle the whole family at once?”

She laughed, slipping an arm through his. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to protect me from
you?”

“Now that, my friend,” Alex said, eyes dancing, “is your

problem.”

Brad caught her before she could step away, spinning her back into his arms. He crushed her lips to his, the kiss long and passionate. When he finally released her, she was out of breath, her cheeks blooming with color.

“And that, lady, is the way I deal with sass.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to sass more often,” she said,

moistening her lips provocatively.

He moved toward her but this time she was ready for him.

Ducking, she moved to the front door, opening it.

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Anita Whiting

“Come on, muscle man. It’s time for a cold shower. Rain

shower that is.”

“Think it’ll help?”

“It sure as hell couldn’t hurt,” she tossed over her shoulder as she ran toward the car.

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A Killer's Agenda

“Did you follow instructions?”

“Yeah.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. “I don’t like it. Any of it. They’re asking questions they shouldn’t be asking.

You didn’t leave any clues?”

“I’m not stupid. There were no witnesses.”

“You’ve screwed up before.”

“How was I supposed to know the bitch would bend down to tie the kid’s shoes at the last minute? Doesn’t matter. Killing the kid served the same purpose.”

“It also might have made someone suspicious.”

“No way. Worked out even better if the news reports were

anything to go by. No one suspected the kid was killed

intentionally.”

“Then how the hell did they come up with a connection?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. They’ve got nothing.”

“I don’t like the attitude, so drop it. Remember I pay for your services. Very, very well.”

“Yeah, and you need me. Piss me off and I’ll spill everything to the cops.”

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Anita Whiting

“And incriminate yourself? I don’t think so. Listen, keep an eye on them. They get too close, you make them victims number seven and eight. Understand?”

“Yeah, I understand. Assuming you pay me ten percent more

per hit.”

“You’re getting greedy.” The voice exploded on the other end. “I don’t like greedy people.”

“That a threat?”

“Take it as you wish. Just do as I say and you’ll get your damn money.”

“I better.”

There was no response other than a dial tone.

He lit a cigarette as he slowly replaced the phone receiver, drawing deeply, his thin lips curling into a smile. He liked nervous people. They panicked easily. And they usually paid his higher demands the more they panicked. He drew another drag from his cigarette. If he played his cards right, the sucker would be on the blackmail hook for a long time. A very long time.

* * *

It was the kind of morning that made you want to fill your

lungs with the clear air, Alex thought as she stowed her suitcase in the back of Brad’s Mercedes. The sun was shining brightly and the temperature was pleasantly cool. She tucked her guitar case in the corner, pleased that there was room for it. They had compromised on the car. Alex had wanted to drive her Mustang but had to admit that Brad’s car was more comfortable for a long trip. She peeked around the open trunk hood, grinning at the picture in front of

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A Killer's Agenda

her. Brad stood at the bottom of the steps talking to her father like they had known each other for years. Her father knew how to make a person relax, feel comfortable. He always had.

Patrick Leahy wasn’t a tall man, but he had a way of

dominating a room. Age had toned the red hair down some, a color she had inherited, but nothing could dim the bright blue eyes and firm handshake. He was a man of strong convictions and great love for his family and anyone he called friend. Her glance slid to her mother. Petite and slender, with the same dark hair and creamy skin as Alicia, she hardly looked like the mother of five. In her quiet way, she managed the entire family without her husband knowing she did so. Eileen wasn’t as demonstrative but every one of her children knew enough not to cross her growing up. It only took one look from those green eyes to stop them dead in their tracks.