Crazy Cool (27 page)

Dylan. So the wheels were turning and the lieutenant, evidently, was open to slowing things down and letting Dylan catch up to the situation.

“So,” she continued. “Dylan called a friend of yours. Gunny Howzer? And this Gunny told him that the gun had been stolen shortly after your visit.”

“So why are you here?” Hawkins looked directly at Marilyn Dekker, before meeting Loretta’s eyes—and seeing true regret.

“You know the drill. We’re still gonna do the dance. So do you want the drama of the handcuffs, or would you like to come quietly?”

He wanted to scream something truly obscene, put his fist through the wall, and then grab Marilyn Dekker by the throat and shake her until she turned blue.

“No drama.”

“May I have your weapon, please?” she asked.

He gave her the Glock.

“Have you called Francesca?”

“She’s on her way here.”

“Well, you can call her again from the station. I’m sure she won’t mind the extra traveling time. What’s she billing now? By the millisecond?” the lieutenant said deadpan.

“That’s hilarious, Loretta.”

He looked down, and a corner of her mouth was twitching, which just torqued him. This wasn’t funny. It was god-awful.

“Okay, then, let’s go.”

He turned, met Katya’s eyes for a second, before turning a very meaningful gaze on Alex. His message, he hoped, was clear, and by the slightly wild-eyed look he got in response, he felt sure the message had been received: Anything happens to her, something
definitely
happens to you.

T
HERE
was something bracing about being in Marilyn’s presence, Katya thought. For one, she never hyperventilated in her mother’s presence. Never. She didn’t dare. Falling apart emotionally was something far better indulged in with friends and lovers, people who cared more about you than themselves—which left her mother out of the loop. Another nice thing about being in Marilyn’s presence was the playing rules. They were never ambiguous, and they were always adhered to by all parties. Politeness was a virtue above truth. Decorum the order of the day.

Kat was so glad she’d dressed in black.

“Katya, really, you’re far too old for this sort of goings-on.” After a moment of gloating while Hawkins had been marched out the door, Marilyn had turned her attention back to her daughter. “The man is a criminal at best, and a murderer at worst. I don’t care what they said at the pardon. I would have thought you would have learned your lesson last time. Why you
insist
on slumming with him every time you get within a hundred miles of our home state—the state, mind you, that has given us the privilege of serving it in our nation’s capital—is, well, it’s disgusting, is what it is.”

My God, her mother truly was amazing. She’d called out the Marines to give her a dressing-down.

“I actually thought you were in danger. The man is not what he seems.”

“He isn’t?” Kat played dumb. Marilyn expected so little of her, and she’d found over the years that it was best to meet those expectations. The huge success she’d had with her galleries had never really registered on her mother’s radar. It was a refined, sophisticated, cultured career that fit in well with Marilyn’s own image as a refined, sophisticated, cultured politician—and that was all that was required of it. Success would have almost been crass in Marilyn’s eyes, so Katya kept her success to herself.

Truly, her mother wasn’t interested.

“No, my darling. He isn’t. Oh, I’ve missed you.” Marilyn started across the loft, her arms outspread, and Kat actually did brace herself for the perfunctory embrace, the air kisses, one hovering above either cheek, that ensured no one lost any lipstick and no one gained any on their face. It was a set piece between them, known in Katya’s book as “The Greeting,” and it always followed, never preceded, “The Edifying Lecture.”

Marilyn always opened with a lecture. Lecturing created a comfort zone for her. She liked telling people what to do, and she was always right—in which she took boundless comfort.

Of course, she made everyone else feel like hell, but Marilyn didn’t put a lot of stock in other people’s feelings, especially when her own were so much more interesting.

Katya endured the near brush of lips to her cheeks. She endured the tight little squeeze her mother gave her arms, and then it was over and Marilyn was moving back around to the front of the counter.

“Don’t worry, dear. Obviously, the man holds some sort of fascination for you, but that can be taken care of,” her mother continued, and for a second, Katya thought she might hyperventilate no matter how well she’d braced herself. Her mother’s idea of having something “taken care of” was her worst nightmare.

Or rather it used to be her worst nightmare. Watching Hawkins being hauled off by the police was her actual worst nightmare as of about three minutes ago, and she was
not
going to sit idly by while he went to jail. The best thing she could do for him was to keep her mother occupied and away from him, let her feel like she had everything under control. Contrarily enough, that’s when Marilyn was the most manageable and the least dangerous.

And Kat needed to make a phone call—just one.

She had reached for her phone, when she noticed her mother getting agitated. A little warning skittered up her spine, and when she glanced over at her mother’s entourage, she noticed all of them, four men and one woman, watching her mother’s every move, as if they were anticipating disaster. Kat recognized two of the men as aides; the woman, Linda Goodrich, was her mother’s personal aide. The other two men looked like hired muscle, except of course they wouldn’t be for hire. They’d be government guys.

“You should know some evidence has come to light,” Marilyn said, pacing a small area in the middle of the loft, her voice very tight, very controlled.

The comment was obviously directed at Kat, and out of a keen sense of self-preservation, she responded.

“Evidence?”

“Yes.” The word was very short, very curt. “It’s what made all this so necessary this morning, so very,
very
necessary.”

As Kat recalled, her mother had used those same words recently on the news to condone a U.S. military invasion of a small Third World country in Central America:
very
necessary.

“I want you to know that I will
not
let these acts go unavenged.” Her mother’s voice actually trembled, and Kat began to understand why her aides were looking so uncomfortably nervous. Trembling senators were dangerous senators, and the word “unavenged” was nothing short of alarming. “You should have told me, Katya. You should have told me. I could have had him taken care of in prison.”

Oh, God.
Her alarm spiked. There it was again, something her mother could have “taken care of,” and it apparently had something to do with Hawkins. Her nervous skitter of warning rose to a high crest and began taking the shape of a tidal wave.

“The same way he had that man taken care of in prison down in Canon City.” Her mother turned on a dime and marched to the other end of the coffee table. “Not the one he killed outright, but the other one.”

“Wh-what in the world are you talking about?” She barely got the words out, she was suddenly so breathless.

“Katya.” Alex started forward, a look of deep concern on his face, but her mother called him off.

“Stay out of this, Zheng. You have been dismissed, and it’s time she knew. I’ve protected her from the truth long enough.”

And if that wasn’t enough to make Kat’s blood run cold, she didn’t know what was. Marilyn’s idea of protection inevitably came down to some sort of emotional blackmail/mental torture/freaking manipulation scheme that involved anything but the truth. It was as if her mother had been born with a genetic predisposition to spin-doctoring. Everything she said had a spin to it. She actually considered it one of her greatest natural assets—this ability to skirt the truth in any situation.

“I know he got off for killing Jonathan.” Her mother was actually picking up her pace now. “And if there were any way possible, I would get the case reopened to see that justice was done. Big Jon has suffered the pangs of hell knowing his son’s murderer got off scot-free. The pangs of hell, I tell you. It’s why he left public life, and as he has agreed to become my new campaign manager, which includes him making a rather large donation, I feel I owe him justice.”

Oh, yes, Marilyn could be bought, and it truly didn’t take that much money to do it.

“And this thing with Ted Garraty,” her mother continued. “Well, I’m sure Christian Hawkins did that, too, and I hate to say it, but he probably did the world a favor. Now, Kat.” She held up her hand. “I know that sounds harsh, but the world is a harsh place, though God knows I’ve tried to protect you from those realities.”

Kat bit her tongue.

“Ted Garraty was a deviant,” Marilyn said. “A pervert, and the world is a better place without him.”

A deviant?

“Uh, how do you know about Ted?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine that her mother had been to The Painted Pony.

“Why, I’ve kept track of all the boys, Kat. Watched them over the years, waiting for them to step out of line in any way that could be prosecuted. Despite . . .” Her mother hesitated for a moment, an unusual enough occurrence to rivet Katya’s attention. “Well . . . despite the way things were handled at the time, the whole lot of them should have been thrown in prison for what they did to you, and honestly, only a couple of them have proven to be of any worth to society whatsoever.”

Katya didn’t know what to say. Her mother had just admitted to a mistake—a mistake that had weighed on Katya since Jonathan’s death. Her feelings had been so summarily dismissed at the time. Sleeping with Christian Hawkins had completely destroyed her credibility, as her mother had pointed out at the top of her lungs over and over during those awful days. No one had listened to her. No one had wanted to hear how unhappy Jonathan had been. No one had wanted to believe Christian had been a hero on prom night, not a criminal, not a seducer.

All they’d wanted was quick justice and for everybody and everything about the case to simply disappear, whether it was to Canon City or the Bettencourt School for Girls—and her mother had just admitted that things had been mishandled. Katya couldn’t help but feel some long-awaited relief.

“And as far as deviants are concerned,” her mother continued, “there were worse in the lot than Ted Garraty.”

And that had to be Bobby “Bobba-Ramma” Hughes she was talking about, Kat thought. She wondered which two of the prom boys her mother thought had turned out useful, but didn’t ask. She wanted to know about “unavenged acts” and who her mother thought Hawkins had killed in prison.

“What man in Canon City are you talking about, Mother?” She never called her mother “mom.” It just wasn’t done.

Her mother gave her a pained look, as if she would have done anything to have protected her from this, but alas.

“Linda,” she said, “give her the photos.”

Linda Goodrich, a medium-sized brunette with a law degree from Harvard whom her mother was grooming for great things ahead—unlike herself—stepped forward without hesitation and handed Kat a file folder across the kitchen counter.

Kat noticed Skeeter rise out of her chair and start forward, a very grim expression on her face.

She turned back to the folder and flipped the top open—and blanched. There were photographs of dead men stapled to both sides inside. Her heart stopped for one shuddering second as she looked from one eight-by-ten photograph to another. One man appeared to have been beaten to death; the other’s cause of death was unclear. But he was dead, his mouth gaping in a rictus of pain, his legs drawn up, his head thrown back.

“Christian Hawkins freely admitted to the beating that killed Clive Lennox. Unfortunately, the death was ruled self-defense, and there were witnesses who attested to the fact. Of course, they were all convicts, so who’s to say what really happened?” Marilyn asked, her voice full of doubt.

A hand reached across the counter and snapped the folder shut. When Katya looked up, it was into Alex’s eyes.

“He was nineteen years old and in prison, Kat,” he said, his voice low and furious. “You know what the guy looks like. Don’t be naive. It doesn’t suit you, babe.”

“This is none of your concern, Mr. Zheng,” her mother said from across the room, her tone one that would brook no argument.

Another hand slipped into view and picked up the folder. Katya let it go and looked up to see Skeeter, who walked the folder back around the counter and handed it to Marilyn.

“I think your daughter’s seen enough, Senator.”

“And you are?” Marilyn looked down her nose at the polite but horribly underdressed girl.

“Skeeter Bang, Senator Dekker.” Skeeter held out her hand. “I voted for you in the last election.”

“Oh.” Marilyn couldn’t help herself. She smiled and took the girl’s hand. “I think it’s so important to appeal to the younger voters in my district.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Skeeter pumped her hand up and down, and Marilyn handed the folder back to Linda.

“How did the other man die?” Katya whispered to Alex. The photos had been gruesome, utterly awful, and she hated to think Hawkins could have had anything to do with them—but Alex was right. She couldn’t afford to be naive, and she hadn’t been naive, not even at eighteen. She’d known what would probably happen to him, and it had almost destroyed her.

“It was a hit,” Alex said after a long moment. “Contracted for on the outside, probably by Dylan Hart, I think now; he’s got more connections than your mother. The dead man, Wes Lake, had it in for Hawkins in a real bad way. One of them was bound to end up dead.”

“Well, it’s just so lovely to meet you, Ms. Bang, but my daughter and I have an appointment.” Marilyn’s voice rose enough to interrupt her and Alex’s conversation.

“Appointment?” Alex asked, turning to face her mother, his voice suddenly unsure.

“Yes,” Marilyn said succinctly. “The weekend’s events have only brought Big Jon Traynor’s losses more sharply into focus. My campaign kickoff is today, and now we can add a little pleasure to our business. He has often expressed a desire to see you again, Katya. You were Jonathan’s dearest friend, and I think he deeply misses those days when you and Jonathan were always around the house. We’re not getting any younger, Kat, and sometimes it does seem to have all gone by so quickly.”