FrankenDom (39 page)

The Roadrunner led Wile E. Coyote over the edge of another cliff, but Barrett could
hardly breathe, much less laugh. His eyes kept wandering to the stairs. What was taking
the firemen so long?

Suddenly his dad slammed into the house. Leaving the front door hanging open, he raced
past both of them and took the steps two or three at a time. Dusty tried to follow,
so Barrett scooped him up and started after his dad.

He was on the second step when he heard a loud crash. Tightening his grip on the baby,
he hauled butt up the stairs.

“Oh God, no!” his dad cried. “Jesus, Karen, please no!”

Barrett was running now, huffing with the weight of the toddler in his arms, fear
turning his bowels to water. It was really bad, he knew it was really bad. Stumbling
over the splintered bedroom door on the floor, he landed in the middle of the room
and stared into the master bath.

“Jesus Christ, Karen, why? Why? Oh God, why would you do this?” His dad was hugging
his mom on the bathroom floor, and he was bawling, too. “I love you so much, Karen,
please don’t leave me!”

Mom didn’t have any clothes on and there was red stuff all over the place. Was it
blood? Barrett couldn’t see her face behind Dad’s chest, but she wasn’t moving.

“Mommy?” He was too big to call her Mommy and he never did any more, but he was so
scared…

“Barrett!” His dad looked up at him, his face twisted and red. “Oh God, son, please
take Dustin downstairs and tell the firemen where we are.”

Barrett didn’t want to go. He took a step toward the bathroom, the baby in his arms
fussing at being squeezed so hard. “Is Mom dead?”

“Barrett, don’t look! Just go tell—”

Masculine voices calling out and the thunder of running feet echoed up the stairs,
but he couldn’t take his eyes off his mom’s body, so limp and white on his father’s
lap, until he was shoved out of the way by all the men who crowded into the bathroom.

His dad came out and plucked Dusty from his arms. Sinking to his knees, he held them
both tight against him. His clothes were all wet and smeared with red, and he smelled
weird and he was shaking so bad…

“Oh God, Barrett, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed against Barrett’s neck. “So sorry.”

Barrett’s stomach twisted as he stood there watching the men try to save his mother.
It was too late. He knew it. He’d waited too long.

Tears burned in his eyes and he blinked hard. It wouldn’t do any good to cry now—she
was gone. His mom was gone and she was never coming back.

Swallowing the sickness in his throat, Barrett wiped the back of his hand over his
mouth and felt Kristi’s bracelet scrape his cheek. Without bothering to look at it,
he tore the braided cellophane off his wrist and let it tumble down his father’s back
to the floor.

Chapter One

Hotels were just like people—you couldn’t tell from the way they looked that something
was seriously wrong inside.

Shifting his Suburban into park, Barrett left the engine running while he inspected
the Mahoney Tower Tulsa. Sunlight reflecting off the building’s copper windows made
him squint even through his sunglasses, but from what he could see, it looked like
business as usual. A few cabs and a limo were lined up in the parking circle, and
a uniformed attendant manned the valet stand despite the brutal heat of an August
afternoon. If the lush, manicured lawns and blossoming flower beds were any indication,
other employees were hard at work, too.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t some kind of weird shit going down in the hotel.

Glancing at the dashboard clock, he put on his regular glasses and stowed the sunglasses
in the overhead compartment. Then he gathered up the employee files from the passenger
seat and shoved them into his soft-side briefcase. He’d had to skim them on the drive
from Kansas City, since he’d barely walked in the door when Carla dropped the case
in his lap, but judging from what he’d read, there was probably more going on here
than just the disappearance of the general manager.

His stomach rumbled. Too bad he hadn’t stopped for something to eat on the way down.
Burger King beckoned from across the street, but it was too late now. The staff meeting
had started ten minutes ago. Not that he minded being late—employees’ reactions to
his tardiness were always interesting—but he wanted to look around the common areas
before he made his appearance.

Tucking the briefcase behind the passenger seat, he braced himself and shut off the
engine. Without cool air blasting him from the vents, he broke into a sweat before
he even got the door open. Shit, and he’d thought Kansas City was bad. Why couldn’t
it have been the San Francisco manager who disappeared? Or Seattle? The coast was
great this time of year.

By the time he made it through the revolving door, sweat was rolling down his temples.
Fortunately, the lobby felt like a meat locker. It was a wonder his glasses didn’t
fog over in the chill.

Whistling through his teeth, he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a little
stroll around the main level. The Tower was scheduled for a facelift next winter,
but it still looked pretty damn sharp. From the high, coffered ceiling to the marble-tiled
floor, everything gleamed like it was well taken care of. Shiny greenery fluttered
in the breeze from the fountain, the cherry furniture in the conversation groups glowed
from a recent polishing—hell, even the nap on the area rugs stood at attention like
it had never been walked on.

The scents of lemon oil and coffee filled the air, and as he passed Mirabella, his
stomach growled urgently at the savory aroma drifting from the restaurant’s closed
doors. Damn, he didn’t know what was cooking, but he sure as hell knew where he was
eating tonight.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Inside, a blonde in a cheap business
suit was too busy putting on lipstick to get out, so like the gentleman he occasionally
was, Barrett stuck a hand out to keep the doors from closing. When she saw him in
the mirror, her eyes widened. Rolling her lips as she put the cap on the tube, she
looked his reflection over thoroughly before turning.

“Hi,” she said with a seductive smile, dropping the lipstick into her purse.

He grinned back. “Isn’t this your floor?”

“Not if you don’t want it to be.”

“Honey, this is definitely your floor.” Barrett let his smile grow hard and hers disappeared
at once.

“I was just leaving,” she said as she swept by.

She didn’t look back but strutted directly through the front door to a waiting cab.
Barrett rolled his eyes at the cloud in her wake. Nothing said working girl like a
shitty Giorgio knockoff, and hell if she didn’t smell like she’d just bathed in the
stuff—right after she humped the Chiefs’ starting lineup. Hopefully some punk would
be kind enough to put a bullet in him before he got that desperate for sex.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Barrett focused on the front desk. The spit-shined coed behind the counter wore a
pleasant smile, but she watched him with wary eyes. He didn’t blame her. His monogram
wasn’t BIG for nothing, and he probably looked like he was sizing up the joint for
a robbery. The girl’s stock went up a couple more points when he realized her finger
was poised over the alarm button.

“I’m Barrett George.”

Her eyes flickered over his clothes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t recognize
the— I mean, we expected you at…”

Pink bloomed in her cheeks and he grinned. “No problem—I’m used to it. So, no Friday
casual around here, huh?”

“No, sir.” She reached for the phone. “The rest of the staff is up in Summerhall F.
I’ll call up there and—”

“Thanks, but I’ll head up and introduce myself in a minute.” He ambled over and rested
an elbow on the desk’s cool, polished surface. Checking out her nametag, he said,
“So Amanda, did you see the lady who just left?”

“Hand-me-down suit, loud purse, slutty shoes?”

He stifled a smile. There was nothing wrong with her powers of observation.

“That would be the one,” he said. “Is she here a lot?”

She bit her lip. “Define a lot.”

I’ll take that as a yes.

“Never mind. Any word on Alderton?” At her mute headshake, he straightened and touched
his fingers to his brow in a small salute. “Carry on.”

Since his knee was stiff from the long drive, he bypassed the elevators and headed
up the curving staircase, wondering what other nasty little surprises awaited him.
That rumble in his stomach was turning to a burn, so he pulled a roll of antacids
from his pocket and peeled off a couple, grimacing as he chewed them up. He liked
wintergreen, but all they’d had at the convenience store this morning was fruit-flavored.

At the top of the stairs, Barrett hung a left into the conference wing and headed
down the hall. Voices drifted from the open door to Summerhall F, so he slowed his
approach to get a preview of the conversation.

“I don’t know how long he’s going to be here,” a whiskey-smooth female voice declared.
“All they said is that Mr. George will be the interim GM while a new management team
is assembled.”

That had to be the hotel’s accountant, Jillian Fox. He took a covert look around the
door frame and nearly purred in appreciation. A redhead, his favorite flavor. She
leaned against a table at the front of the room, her posture patently defensive. Though
her short-sleeved shirt was buttoned almost to her throat, her crossed arms framed
a promising abundance of feminine flesh, and her trim calves stretched a long way
between the conservative hem of her business skirt and a pair of low-heeled pumps.

Tall, stacked, and a redhead—shit, it was like he’d phoned in his order ahead of time.
Too bad they were working together. Maybe after he’d wrapped up this case, he’d spend
a night or two unwrapping her.

“What’s that supposed to mean,
new management team
?” a man asked. The asshole tone raised Barrett’s hackles, but he couldn’t get a look
at the speaker without revealing his presence. “What the hell’s the matter with the
old management team?”

Jillian’s eyes bugged as she threw her hands up. “
What
management team, Darwin? Our general manager’s been AWOL for almost a week now and
we haven’t had an assistant manager in over three months.”

Ah, Darwin Patton. His was one of the files that had caught Barrett’s attention.

“Hey, money lady, don’t get all snooty on me. We have a tight team right here and
this place is running just fine without some corporate fancy-pants sticking his nose
into things.” After a few murmurs of agreement, he continued, “Why’d you have to go
and call them, anyway? We’ll probably all be out on the street looking for another
job once this new team shows up.”

“Gee, I don’t know—maybe because the pay period ends next week and there’s no one
in-house to sign our checks?”

“You could have signed them.”

Barrett’s brows went up. Hell of a suggestion from the security chief.

“The last time I checked, forgery was against the law, Darwin, but thanks for the
vote of confidence.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not like you’d be—”

“Drop it, Darwin.”

There was a little grumbling and then someone said, “Miss Fox?”

“Yes, Berta?”

“Can you tell us anything about Mr. George?”

Barrett was tempted to step in, but he made himself wait. Jillian Fox had handled
the security twit without any help and he was reasonably sure she wouldn’t blow his
cover. Besides, he wanted to hear what she had to say about him.

* * * * *

Jillian shook her head at Berta’s question. “I’ve never met the man.”

“But have you heard anything?” Mike asked.

Actually, she’d heard from one of the executive secretaries in Kansas City that the
hotshot investigator they were sending down had a reputation for being a hard-core
player, but she wasn’t inclined to pass on that bit of news, especially at a staff
meeting. And since Barrett George apparently wanted to play secret agent man, she
even had to keep the fact that he was a hotshot investigator to herself.

It really
was
lonely at the top.

“Not a word,” she said flatly. “I assume the executive suite is ready, Berta?”

“Sorry I’m late,” came a deep baritone from the door.

Jillian jumped to her feet, silently cursing the heat that rushed to her cheeks. A
mountainous man in horn-rimmed glasses and a polo shirt was strolling toward her,
his hands shoved into his pants pockets. Good Lord, Abby had said he was tall, but
she hadn’t mentioned he was built like a linebacker. She’d expected more of a low-rent
James Bond, but obviously her concept of a hard-core player needed updating.

Maybe Abby had meant to say hard-core
football
player—the guy had definitely been eating his Wheaties.

But no, she’d said specifically, and with obvious relish, that he was a breast man,
a detail that had taken some of the shine off Jillian’s excitement at finally getting
a little help down here. She’d been tearing her hair out for weeks and the last thing
she needed was some corporate Lothario talking to her chest for an indefinite period.
Her mother had always been flattered when good-looking guys couldn’t drag their eyes
from her cleavage long enough to notice she had a brain, but nothing turned Jillian
off faster.

Except maybe being spied on. How long had he been out in the hall listening to them
talk?

Swallowing, she forced a smile. “Mr. George, I presume?”

“Live and in person.” His disarming grin was no doubt designed to put everyone at
ease, but it made her wish she’d worn her blazer. “You must be Jillian Fox.”

He pulled a sun-browned hand from the pocket of his khakis and offered it to her.
Fighting the urge to wipe her damp palm on her skirt first, she shook it firmly.