For The Love Of Laurel (7 page)

Chapter 10

William Steadman sat at an outside table near a bar at the edge of San Diego Bay. He’d rather be inside where he could hear the country music coming through a pair of massive speakers, but from where he sat, all he could hear was the intermittent pounding of bass. There were several other tables, but no one was taking advantage of them. Stupid putzes had bought into the no-smoking law in California. At first, there had been some resistance, but when people began to get thrown out and even fined for lighting up inside a public place, the damned idiots surrendered instead of sticking up for their rights.

William liked cigars and didn’t want any trouble, so whenever he came here to grab a beer or three, he played the game. Seemed like all his life he’d played the game, until one day he decided he’d had enough.

He chugged half his beer, and then set it on the table too hard. He was getting a real buzz. In one way, he loved the feeling, but it had its drawbacks. Heavy drinking always made him think of home.

He didn’t miss anything about Louisiana except his mom. She always sang “Billy Boy” to him. Even now, he whistled the tune often. She knew every verse, and it made him feel special because that was her pet name for him: Billy Boy. His pa just called him Billy Bastard whenever he was pissed and drunk, which was most of the time. William could still feel the belt hit his back if he thought about it.

He remembered the cat they’d had. She was a good mouser. But his pa hated cats in general and every time she had kittens, he’d drown them, saying he didn’t want them running all over. Billy had asked him why they couldn’t just give them away. His pa had accused him of being soft like a girl. “Sometimes I think you’re queer, boy, way you talk.” The funny thing was, William thought now, Pa was right without knowing it. He figured if the son-of-a-bitch had known what his son would grow up to be, he’d have drowned him at birth, too.

One day, his pa hit him too long and too hard. By then, Billy was a muscular eighteen-year-old. He’d fought back and ended up killing the slime ball. Realizing he felt no remorse, he’d walked into the kitchen where his mother was cooking up a fine-smelling possum stew and told her what he’d done. William recalled she didn’t even react. Maybe she was relieved. He’d told her he loved her, but had to get out, promising to write as soon as he knew where he would be. He never did. Was she still waiting for that letter? Was she even alive?

He relit his cigar and puffed a few times, watching smoke rise and disappear. He recalled riding the rails to California.

California.

He had seen pictures of it in a magazine at Zeke’s Barber Shop. He’d dreamed of becoming a famous movie star but was quickly disabused of that notion and took whatever work he could get. He didn’t have many skills but was a quick learner.

He’d rented a hole-in-the-wall apartment and invested in a black and white TV, determined to listen every night to the way the actors pronounced words so he could lose his thick Southern accent. He could feel people looking at him as if they thought he was stupid when he spoke. He’d practiced and practiced his el-o-cu-tion, a fine word that he liked to separate into syllables every time he said it—a word that meant he was just as smart as uppity Californians. He was gratified when he no longer spoke differently. Everybody else treated him better, too. Still, if he got over-excited or angry, that damned Loosiana drawl snuck back into his speech as if it were just waiting to remind him he wasn’t as far from home as he thought.

He let the cigar go out, went back into the bar, and then ordered another beer. He stood for a few minutes, taking in mumbled conversations and occasional shrill laughter. Patsy Cline sang about falling to pieces. He tipped his beer to the speaker and went back outside.

Another smoker stood looking out over the water. He turned when he became aware he had company.

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

“Nice evening.”

“Guess so.”

“Well, have a good one.” The man threw his cigarette in the water and went inside. William felt disappointed. He’d hoped the guy was flirting.

He recalled a bar like this one, but at that time, you could still smoke in bars. He’d smoked cigarettes at that time—didn’t start cigars until later. As he sat at the bar staring at nothing, a man had slipped onto the stool next to him and ordered a Dewar’s. He’d drained it in one gulp and signaled for another.

“You wanna make some good money?” the man had asked as his next drink came.

William had heard him but didn’t answer. The guy obviously wasn’t talking to him. He’d checked the guy out in the mirror behind the bar. The guy’s reflection looked at William’s.

“Pardon?”

“I asked you if you want to make some good money.”

“You a pimp?”

“No.”

William had turned to look at the guy who now stared directly at him. “Doing what?”

“About what you’re doing now plus a little extra.”

“I’ll pass. I don’t need the law after me.”

“Who said they would be? I’m Ben Carruthers, by the way.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“No. Just being polite. If we’re going to do business together, we should at least know who we are dealing with.”

“Well, we ain’t . . . aren’t doing business together so I don’t need to introduce myself.”

“You’re right about that, Steadman.”

William had dropped his beer. What was left of it ran off the bar onto the floor. The bartender shook his head and got a mop.

“How do you know who I am?”

“I get paid to know. Paid very well. And so will you. Just one job. Real easy.”

William had ordered another beer and thought a bit. “Naw,” he’d said. “Not worth it. I ain’t hankerin’ to go to jail.” Goddamn accent. Settle down, William, he’d silently ordered himself.

“Would it make any difference if I tell you I know you’ve killed two men and I have evidence?”

“What are you talking about?”

Carruthers had given him what his mother called the evil eye. “Well, first was your dad. The local police always thought it was you, leaving so quick and all, but your mommy insisted she did it in self-defense. She never went to jail, in case you care.”

William had felt a sharp pain in his chest. His mom had taken the rap for him and he’d never even written or called her. Christ almighty.

“Then, there was the guy in the bar—you like bars a lot, don’t you—who heard your accent and made the mistake of calling you Bayou Bill. That was a particularly nasty murder.” Carruthers had shaken his head slowly and clucked his tongue.

How could he know these things? William had been terrified. If he had evidence, he could find evidence from any random murder and use it to implicate William.

“What do you want me to do?” he’d said, resigned to the inevitable.

Carruthers had pulled a picture out of his pocket. It was a good-looking woman in her twenties. “She frequents a bar downtown. A lot of sailors on leave are there and she doesn’t mind saying yes to some of them. Her old man found out and he’s not too happy. He’s decided she needs to be taught a lesson.”

“He wants me to kill her?” William had said in disbelief.

“No. Just make nice with her, get her to go with you out to the alley behind the bar, and act like you’re going to rape her.”

“Act? But don’t really do it?”

“Right. Her father wants her to stop the reckless behavior.”

“Why doesn’t he just tell her?”

“If that was an option, he would. But he’s afraid it would just make her all the more rebellious.”

“How does he even know about it?”

“Not important.” Ben had opened his jacket and flashed William a .38 in a holster. “So, do you wanna make a hundred grand for an hour’s work, or end up as fish food in the bay?” He’d pulled an envelope out of his shirt pocket and put it on the bar. “Five thousand up front, the rest when it’s done.”

William got incensed every time he thought about how dumb he was that night. He should have demanded a contract, but five K was too much to pass up. He’d done what he had to do, but Carruther’s boss was out of the country incognito. Carruthers had assured him he would get the balance soon, but it never happened.

It wasn’t until he saw an article in the newspaper about Gerald Avidon’s death that he knew he was gonna be rich. He opened the paper he kept with him most of the time. There were several pictures spanning a twenty-year period. In one, Avidon was getting in a limo and the door was held open by the chauffeur. It was Ben Carruthers. William didn’t know if Carruthers had kept the money designated for him or if Avidon just hadn’t paid it, but from what the article said, Avidon was well-respected, a pillar of the community, one of the good guys. Blah, blah, blah. And he was loaded. He just didn’t seem the type who would hire someone then not pay them. William assumed Carruthers pocketed the dough.

He concentrated on the newspaper and read the article for maybe the fiftieth time. Then he took a slug of beer and began to plan.

He was owed ninety-five grand. With interest, it would be one nice piece of change. He could demand as much as he wanted. Now that he knew who the main player was, he intended to get it one way or another, even if he actually had to rape the rich bitch after all.

Satisfied he had a plan, he went back inside for another beer, whistling “Billy Boy” under his breath.

Chapter 11

As promised, there was pizza. Dylan arrived five minutes early and he could tell it wasn’t the kind Laurel had mentioned. It smelled too good. Mari showed him into the dining room. A formal pizza dinner?

“Please get yourself a drink and join Laurel on the indoor patio,” Mari said. Her tone was polite, but without its usual warmth.

Uh-oh. None of this boded well. Mari being snooty?

He poured himself a Coke. No alcohol tonight. He sensed he would need all his faculties in top form. He made his way to the patio. The only light was from bamboo lamps around the outside plus candles on a table for two complete with red and white checkered tablecloth.
It looks more like a seduction than a lecture.

Laurel sat at the table in a blue sundress with spaghetti straps. She acknowledged Dylan as he stood in the doorway. “Come and sit down. The pizza will be here shortly. Sorry it’s so dark. Daddy never had lights put out here for some reason.”

So much for seduction
.

Mari brought in a salad, put some on two plates, and set the plates in front of them.

Laurel was drinking water. Dylan was glad he’d opted for soda. She took her fork and started on the salad. He did likewise. She picked out the tomatoes and set them aside. He might just as well not have been there. He finished his salad first.

“More?” So she
had
been paying attention.

“No, thank you. You?”

She shook her head and blotted her mouth with a linen napkin. “I’m surprised you aren’t drinking scotch. I thought Daddy’s expensive stuff was your favorite.”

“That stuff tends to dull the edges. I figured that was the last thing I needed right now.”

She gave him a half-smile. “But it may be the first thing you want when I’m through with you.”

Mari brought in her homemade pizza and put it on the table. It was the perfect size for two. The aroma of garlic, onion, and sausage was irresistible. The crust was thick and flaky. The sauce was freshly made from Mari’s secret recipe. Dylan had once asked her to share it with him, but all she would say was that it involved cooking her own tomatoes until they were rendered down to a perfect consistency and adding spices. Which spices, she wouldn’t tell. Next came a layer of cheddar and mozzarella cheese. Sausage and onions were sautéed together, and chopped olives usually completed the dish; except tonight, she had added sliced mushrooms cooked in wine.

He and Laurel each took half and savored the mixture of spicy flavors. When they had finished, they both spoke at once.

“I know . . .”

“What . . .”

“You first,” she said.

“I know why you called this meeting.”

“You aren’t stupid. I made damn certain you knew
I
knew . . . things.” She went to the side table, picked up some papers, and dropped them on the table.

He glanced at and then ignored the papers. “Stupid of him to leave his email logged in.”

She paused a couple of beats. “He didn’t.” She sat back down at the table.

“You hacked into his email?”

“I figured out his password.”

He sat back in his chair, stunned. “How?”

“You think I’d tell you? I’m not crazy. Next, I may try yours.”

“Hell, I’ll give it to you. I have nothing to hide. I delete most of them anyway.”

“And the ones you don’t?”

“By all means, read them. I don’t care, but I warn you, unless you want to know how to keep your prostate healthy or enlarge certain body parts, you’ll be bored to death.”

Her lips quirked. “I get those, too. So what is it?”

“What is what?”

“Your email password.” He could tell she didn’t expect him to give it to her.

“dyl5dea8kra95. Username dyl.krft. At Gmail. Want me to write it down for you?” His tone was suddenly heavy with sarcasm.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

He stood. “I’d like that drink now. Will you excuse me a moment?”

“Sure.”

“You want anything?”

“No.”

He was back within a minute. She hadn’t moved. He set a shot glass on the table and filled it from the bottle he held in his other hand then tossed it back like water and poured another. He sat down, putting the full glass and bottle on the table.

Hesitantly, she reached out and put her hand over his. “Dylan, what’s the matter? It’s just an email address and I already had it anyway. You know that because I wrote to you. I just wondered if you would give me a different one.”

He left his hand under hers for a few moments, basking in its softness and the sympathy she conveyed with that one small act. Reluctantly, he pulled away and picked up the glass but didn’t drink. “It’s the only one I have at the moment. Aren’t you going to ask me what it means?”

“All right. What does it mean? I get d-y-l and k-r-a.”

“The numbers are for my sister.”

“Your sister? I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Sandra.” He dropped the name like a stone between them. “My twin sister.”

“Is that her birthday—and yours?” Laurel said, her voice just above a whisper.

“It’s the day she died. Drug overdose.”

“Oh, Dylan. I’m sorry.”

He shook off her pity. “She got in over her head before she realized what was happening and she couldn’t get out, no matter how hard she tried. My parents and I did everything in our power, but drugs had an insidious pull she couldn’t conquer. I decided the only way to keep from killing myself after she died was to do something positive. Thus, the remaining part of the password.”

“Dea? DEA? Oh, God, you worked for the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

“Work.”

“Still? You work for the DEA? Then what are you doing here?”

“It’s part of my cover. I don’t need to tell you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Of course not. Did my father know?”

He stared into her eyes. “He is . . . was part of it, Laurel,” Dylan said. “He had, first Ben Carruthers then me, to keep you safe, courtesy of the government. You are a prime target for any drug lord who would like to get to Gerald through you, either by getting you hooked, killing you, or kidnapping you to draw him into the open.”

“But now that he’s dead, they can no longer hurt him, so what would be the point in hurting or killing me?”

“You don’t know these people. Their vendettas run long and deep.”

She pointed at the papers on the table. “And these? What’s all this about?”

He picked them up and scanned them. “What about them? They’re two years old.”

“But they make Miles Gunderson part of the equation.”

“That’s true.”

“Is he DEA, too?”

“No. He’s a plastic surgeon, as you know.” He stared at her, inviting her to get it.

She read the emails. “I don’t really understand this. It sounds like my father went someplace to infiltrate and kill people.”

“Sounds like it,” he said.

She read them again. “Oh. I think I see. Miles is a plastic surgeon. He was going to alter Daddy’s appearance, if necessary.”

“Smart woman. I knew you’d get it.”

“There are a couple of things I don’t get. First, why use email instead of a phone?”

“Phone conversations can be monitored, but emails can be encrypted. Ours were. Gunderson was stupid not to delete the decrypted messages.”

“Why was my father wherever he was in the first place?” She studied the emails once more.

Her expression change as she began to understand.

She sounded faint. “It
is
what I thought. He was an assassin.” Cold, blunt, unrelenting words. He could tell she didn’t want to believe it.

“No.”

“That’s what he was. What else could ‘neutralize’ mean?”

“Granted, it’s a euphemistic way of saying someone was killed, but as I told you before, these are the bad guys. The ones I’m protecting you from and the ones your father tried to eliminate so people like my sister would live a normal, healthy life. Assassin isn’t the word I would use.”

“Hit man?”

“Asset.”

“Asset? Are you serious?”

“I didn’t coin the term.”

“Assassin, hit-man,
asset
, whatever. It’s still murder.”

“Justified. You would believe and understand that if you had a Sandra in your life.” His tone was unyielding.

She looked away. “Of course. You’re right. It’s just hard to think of one’s father in that capacity.”

“Well, while you are, there is something else you should know. I didn’t work for your father. I worked
with
him. I’m paid by the government. Same with Ben Carruthers. He went on to other assignments for the DEA and I was charged to take his place. At some point, I, too will be replaced when I’m needed elsewhere.”

“And my father? Did the government pay him too?”

“Yes, but he was already wealthy before they hired him.” He swept his hand around. “You don’t think he could afford all this on a government salary, do you?”

She stood and walked out the patio door onto the lawn. Dylan followed her out.

“I feel as if my whole life is a lie,” she said.

He put his arms around her and gathered her close to comfort her. She put her head back against his chest and sighed. “Don’t let go yet.”

“I won’t. I’m right here for as long as you need me.” He put his cheek against hers and felt her tears.

“Why, Dylan? Why did he get involved in something like that? If what you say is true, he didn’t need the money or the aggravation. So why?”

“I don’t know what caused him to join the DEA. I asked him once and all he would say is, ‘For the love of Laurel’.”

So much unsaid. So much unknown. When Dylan left, he said he would do a quick perimeter check of the property before heading to the apartment. Laurel still felt shell-shocked but she knew she had to take advantage of the opportunity to get into his email before he could move or erase it in case it contained anything that could help sort the truth from the lies. She acknowledged it was a slim chance, but she might as well try it.

She hurried to her home office and booted up the computer. She logged in with dyl.krft, still not believing the password would work. But it did.

Suddenly his account was right in front of her. There were no new messages in the inbox. Nothing sent, either. He had one folder called Misc. She clicked on it. There was an email, but she had no idea who it was from because the sender wasn’t a name, but numbers and letters. She stared at the text.

z1Y2UuTk5OSJPXIMsDv11KR2vYT6HBWNxgIId==

It looked like something a two-year-old child with keyboard access might type, but she knew better. It had to be some kind of code. After trying for a couple of minutes to make any sense of it, she gave up, highlighted it, and then copied and pasted it to a Word Document to save it.

It was late and she had a full day tomorrow. Besides, she knew someone who could probably crack the code for her—even if it was a high-level government code.

Dylan walked the grounds with a flashlight. Normally, he did this during the day, but his conversation with Laurel had unsettled him, and he wasn’t ready to go inside just yet.

He was surprised at himself for telling her about Sandy. He’d never told anyone. He didn’t know yet if finally sharing it with someone would make things worse or help ease the ache in his heart whenever he thought about her. It had killed his father, and his mother tried to be stoic, but every time he saw her or spoke to her on the phone, she would break down. He knew he should be in touch more, but it wasn’t easy for him, either, so he took the coward’s way out. She undoubtedly felt the same. She never initiated contact. Sometimes he almost hated his sister for what she’d done to the family, but guilt would set in immediately. Who was he to judge? It could just as easily have been him. He wished it
had
been.

Nothing looked suspicious so he went inside. He put the flashlight in a kitchen drawer. Too keyed up to sleep, he logged onto the computer, wondering if Laurel had been in his email. He couldn’t fathom why he’d given her the information to make it possible. Maybe he was getting tired of all the crap and subconsciously decided it was time she knew the truth. If she didn’t have the ability to decrypt on her computer, the message would be indecipherable. If she did, fine. If not, and she knew someone who did, fine.

He knew the rather intimate moment they’d shared in the yard meant nothing to her. She was shocked, needed a steadying hand, and he happened to be in the area. But it got to him. He wasn’t in a position to fall for her. He had nothing to offer. He was too jaded, too angry. He’d seen too much of the bad side of life to even consider he might ever taste the good side. She was used to luxury from money Gerald made before joining the DEA. He’d invested it wisely, which was why part of his cover was to handle the investments of Chaber Pharmaceuticals. His ability to make money was almost uncanny. Dylan had once asked him how he did it but he couldn’t explain. “It must be inborn because I could never teach it.”

He checked his email, but there was no answer to his last message. Was Laurel even now looking at the same screen?

For the love of Laurel? Dylan never knew what Gerald meant by that, but suspected it involved regret and guilt—something Dylan was more than familiar with. If everything he did was for his daughter, there must be a lot of guilt in him because he put his life on the line every day, much like Dylan did for his sister.