Haunting Jordan (28 page)

Hattie drew her cape around her, shivering, even though the temperature was quite pleasant. Michael Seavey had been correct—Greeley would crush Charlotte’s spirit within days, perhaps even on her wedding night. Hattie jerked on her gloves. To her dying breath, she would protect Charlotte from him.

People passed her, casting curious glances her way as she stood lost in her thoughts. Though the possibility struck terror in her heart, she doubted Greeley could reverse the terms of her legal guardianship within any immediate time frame. Therefore her focus for the moment needed to be to discover who had attacked Frank. As of early this morning, she hadn’t heard back from Mona regarding her man’s inquiries along the waterfront, which left the task to Hattie.

She withdrew her pocket watch and noted the time. She’d been gone scarcely an hour—she’d have to hope Frank was still resting peacefully. At the next cross street, she turned toward the harbor. If Frank had been attacked
because of the questions he’d been asking on her behalf, then it stood to reason Clive Johnson was involved or would know whether Michael Seavey had ordered it. And she had yet to receive the additional financial information she’d requested. Therefore, a stop at the offices of Longren Shipping was in order.

* * *

W
HEN
she entered the office, her business manager was conducting a conversation with the clerk. Johnson wasn’t pleased to see her, though his expression carried a slight smugness that hadn’t been there two days before.

She greeted him, closing the door firmly behind her. “I was in town and thought to stop by for those account details I requested.”

Johnson shook his head. “I ain’t got time to compile files for you, Mrs. Johnson. You don’t need to see ’em.”

“Indeed.” Coming on the heels of her argument with Chief Greeley, Hattie was in no mood to tolerate Johnson’s insolence. “I expect my orders to be taken seriously, Mr. Johnson, and to be given the highest priority.”

He rocked back on the heels of his boots, looking secretly amused. “I been otherwise engaged.”

She realized what he was insinuating, and it made her nauseous. “You ordered the attack on Frank Lewis.”

His expression turned sly. “Now, what would you be knowin’ about that, Mrs. Longren?”

“It’s rumored around town.”

He laughed. “I don’t think so.”

It was all Hattie could do not to react with violence. Her shoulders rigid, she turned to the clerk. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Timothy, ma’am.”

“Well, Timothy, as of today, you’re in charge.”

Johnson’s amusement turned to shock. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“You’re fired, Mr. Johnson. Gather your personal belongings and clear out. Stop by my house tomorrow, and I will give you your final pay.”

“You can’t do that—I control this business.”

“Not anymore, you don’t.” Hattie placed both hands on the edge of his desk, leaning across it. “You’ve thwarted my every move, blocked every attempt I’ve made to understand and run this business the way Charles would have wanted it run.”

Johnson snorted. “That’s rich, by God. You don’t have no clue how your husband woulda wanted this business run. I was Longren’s friend—I knew more about ’im than you ever woulda, even if he’d lived.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about your trips with my husband to the Green Light, Mr. Johnson, and about the activities you engaged in. They would have been reason enough to fire you, even if you hadn’t given me additional cause.” She straightened and held out her hand. “The office keys, Mr. Johnson. You have ten minutes to clear out.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mrs. Longren.”

The mocking voice had her whirling in the direction of the back hallway. Michael Seavey emerged from the
shadows to lean an elegantly clad shoulder against the wall by the clerk’s desk.

“Eavesdropping, Mr. Seavey?” she asked with as much poise as she could muster.

“I admit to it being a favorite pastime of mine.” He took a moment to light a cheroot. “Haven’t you ever heard the Chinese proverb ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ Hattie?”

“Now see here, Seavey—”

“Shut up.” Seavey didn’t bother to glance Johnson’s way, his tone pure steel. “I suggest you reconsider your position, Mrs. Longren. It would be best to leave Johnson in charge for now. Poor young Timothy here hasn’t the expertise to run the business, I’m afraid, and if you have to close your doors, even temporarily, your competitors will take advantage.”

“I’m not interested in continuing to employ thugs, Mr. Seavey. And it is none of your business how I conduct mine.” She stared him straight in the eye. “In attempting to advise me on this issue, you’re merely seeking to protect your own business interests, are you not?”

He looked amused. “I’ve always said you possessed a keen intelligence. However, my argument is not without merit. Longren Shipping can’t sustain a loss of clients without permanently closing its doors, I suspect, given the financial loss from the South Seas disaster.”

She hated to capitulate in front of Johnson, but she knew Seavey was at least partially correct in his assessment. She was being precipitous in her decision, and for
all the wrong reasons. She was furious with Johnson—he’d as much as admitted his involvement in Frank’s attack—and she’d acted on impulse.

“Very well. I’ll withdraw my demand for now.” She turned to Timothy. “Those files, Timothy. And I expect you to visit me each morning at Longren House—you will report directly to me. Your job depends on your utter frankness with me, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Timothy handed her two file folders while casting a wary glance at Johnson. “I’ll do my best.”

Johnson folded his arms. “I won’t have no employee spyin’ on me.”

“Yes,” she replied quietly, “you will. You have no choice in the matter.”

* * *

S
EAVEY
followed Hattie out to the boardwalk. “You really must control that temper of yours, my dear.”

“You will address me properly, Mr. Seavey,” she snapped.

He executed one of his maddeningly mocking little bows. “As you wish, Mrs. Longren.”

Reining in her temper, she said, “Though you raised good points, I will
not
tolerate your interference in the future. Johnson must go. And I suggest you find some way to replace the business revenue you’ve enjoyed from your arrangement with Longren Shipping, because it won’t be continuing. I intend to unionize.”

He drew on his cheroot, then flicked it into the alley,
where it sizzled in a puddle of water. “Unionization will take time—you can’t convert your crews overnight. And the other ships’ captains using Longren Shipping for their procurement won’t go along with your plans—at least, not initially.”

She crossed her arms. “I beg to differ.”

“You can’t expect people to accept a cut in profits without good reason.” His expression turned wry. “When it comes to money, I believe you’ll find few as altruistic as yourself.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps not, but I will be converting my own ships immediately, and I will also be shutting down any other questionable activities associated with them.” She cocked her head. “Rumor has it you are heavily involved in the white slave trade, Mr. Seavey. Was that the nature of your business with Charles? You control the tunnels, do you not?”

Something flickered in Seavey’s eyes, and he glanced around them. “These are not subjects to be discussed in public—they are far too dangerous.”

Taking her arm, he led her around the side of the building and into the alley. His bodyguards followed at a discreet distance, though they did little to ease her sudden nervousness. It was hardly safe to enter an alley with him, but then again, her thirst for answers overrode her sense of caution.

“Now tell me, Mrs. Longren, why you are asking about this?” Seavey asked once they were well away from passersby.

She debated how much to reveal. Seavey couldn’t be
trusted, but she suspected he had knowledge of Charles’s affairs that no others were privy to. “Do you know whether Charles was involved in smuggling contraband on his ships?”

Seavey stared at her, his expression unreadable. “I suppose it’s possible. Precisely what do you know of smuggling activities concerned with Longren Shipping?”

“I’ll only say that I have in my possession evidence that leads me to believe Charles was involved in something illegal. You’re denying any personal involvement?”

He regarded her in silence, then shrugged. “I might bring in the odd box of cigars now and then, but I have no stomach for trafficking in humans.”

She frowned, unsure whether to believe him. “But human trafficking
is
occurring, is it not? Was Charles involved? Did he use your tunnels for that purpose?”

Seavey’s expression remained bland. “The tunnels run all along the waterfront, Mrs. Longren. I control only a small portion of them. Whoever is telling you this is either lying or has a personal reason to spread such rumors.”

“You’re prevaricating, Mr. Seavey. I strongly suspect you know more than you’re admitting.”

He merely shrugged. “I suggest you cease this avenue of inquiry. It’s an extremely dangerous one.”

“I can take care of myself,” she retorted, though she had no such confidence.

“I doubt that very much.” Seavey moved closer. “I have a proposition for you, Hattie. Protection in return for certain, shall we say, pleasurable ‘favors.’”

She took a step back, in the direction of the boardwalk, casting a glance behind her. “You must be mad—I would never agree to such an arrangement.”

He advanced a step for every one she retreated. “And why not?” he asked lightly. “You might find me to be very … entertaining.”

She raised her chin. “Hardly. I find you distasteful.”

“That’s most unfortunate.” Her back met the side of the building, and he closed the remaining gap between them, reaching out to run a gloved finger lightly down her jawline, causing her to shiver. “I would treat you very, very well—I can guarantee you pleasure beyond anything you experienced with Charles. And Charlotte would no longer need to worry about Greeley’s advances.”

He knew how to tempt her, knew that Charlotte was her Achilles’ heel. Nonetheless, the idea sickened her. “Please step back, Mr. Seavey. Your behavior is outrageous.”

He smiled. “I hope so.” But he acquiesced, stepping back with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. But know this, Hattie—your time as a widow in mourning will soon come to an end. And you need my protection, whether or not you’ll admit as much.”

“I find your suggestion disgusting.”

He nodded. “I understand you’d view it as such. Nonetheless, you’d do well to consider my offer.”

“Never.” With the small amount of poise she had remaining, she stepped around him and exited the alley, her head held high.

* * *

As soon as she was out of sight, Michael’s two bodyguards silently appeared at his side.

“Find out who is spreading rumors about me,” he ordered. All charm had vanished. “I want a name by nightfall.”

Chapter 12

A few minutes before eleven the next morning, Jordan parked her car on the main street running through the heart of downtown Port Chatham. After shutting down the power to the Prius, she sat for a moment, gazing out the window.

Since her arrival, she hadn’t had the time to walk around the picturesque downtown district. Many of the buildings were more than a century old—three-story, imposing Victorian structures built of granite or brick with ornately decorated moldings around their windows and doors. At the street level, galleries and boutiques catering to tourists displayed an array of handmade gifts and custom clothing, while the floors above housed offices and residential apartments.

Given the frigid wind coming off the water, Jordan was surprised by the number of people crowding the sidewalks. Tourists shivered in shorts and sandals, warming their hands around cups of coffee while they window-shopped. Locals, dressed more practically in denim and
flannel, cut through the crowds, walking purposefully with some destination in mind. Between the beautiful old buildings, she caught a glimpse of the ferry departing, and of fishing trawlers coming and going in the bay. The overall effect should have been quaint and charming, but the fact that she was about to face interrogation for murder lent a surreal atmosphere to the scene. Then again, pretty much everything seemed surreal to her at the moment.

She’d parked across the street from the police station, which was housed in a small, one-story, distressed-brick building that blended well with the historical feel of the business district. Three antique divided-light windows at the front of the building were filled with posters advertising community watch groups and outreach programs. A hand-painted white sign saying Police hung above the glass door. Flowers overflowed planters and hanging baskets, trees shaded the sidewalk, and wooden benches had been provided for those who wanted to rest their feet.

Was this the same building in which Hattie had visited Chief Greeley the morning after Frank’s attack? Jordan thought it very possible. She noted the windowless annex on the right side of the building. Had the prisoners Hattie had been forced to walk past been housed there? Did Darcy use that same space now to detain people who obstructed justice by withholding key information during the course of a murder investigation? Or would she simply allow Drake to slap cuffs on her and haul her back to L.A.?

Rolling her shoulders to ease tense muscles, Jordan
once again pondered the enigma that was LAPD Homicide Detective Arnold Drake. People generally liked her, and they instantly felt comfortable confiding in her, a talent she’d put to good use as a therapist. However, Detective Drake appeared to be the exception. Beginning with his questioning the night of the accident, his enmity toward her couldn’t have been more obvious.

When she’d mentioned his reaction to Carol, her friend had written it off as a cop’s knee-jerk suspicion of the spouse in a murder investigation. But Jordan suspected Drake’s feelings ran deeper. She sensed she’d somehow touched off a long-buried resentment, and that his feelings related to a personal incident in his past.