Shattered Trust (11 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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“Where, exactly, on Grand Cayman did this happen?” Akhan asked, glancing at Najira, Steve, and Jamal quickly, and then returning his gaze to his friend.
Braithwaite let out a long, weary breath. “House owned by Caldwell-Carter family. You know 'em?”
 
 
What had started out as crazy had become next to insane. Laura sat in the hotel room of the Watergate with her eyes glued to her laptop screen while James lay prone and snoring across the bed. Too wired to sleep, she worked. The CNN television crawl at the bottom of the screen caught her peripheral vision, and made her stand. Two officers murdered in Grand Cayman?
She sat down again quickly and pulled up each news service as fast as she could, then simply froze. Instinct sent a panic rush through Laura as she speed dialed Steve's cell, and waited. Why hadn't they called? She was about to wake James on the second ring, but Steve picked up.
“Where are you?” she breathed out in a rush.
“An island. A big one, with shaky cell phone reception—that's why we hadn't called before. Getting an outbound signal's been a bitch. But we're safe.”
“Good, anybody hurt? You heard?”
“No. We're cool and, yes, we heard. Where's James?”
“Asleep. But I'll wake him.” She quickly walked over to James, shook him once, and he sat up fast. “Steve. They had to move. I'll explain later, not on the phone.”
James nodded and took the phone from her. “Talk to me, man.”
“Up at Braithwaite's. We're good. Must be living right, because it was close. The old man had a vibe and moved us out.”
“Cool,” James said. “Stay in touch.”
“No problem,” Steve muttered, and then disconnected the call.
James instantly turned his attention to Laura. “What happened?”
“They found our house in Grand Cayman and sent a clean-up man. It's all over the BBC.” Laura wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself. “They might not have made it. He'd rigged the house to blow from a cell-phone unit. What if they'd been there?”
“They're with some guy named Braithwaite,” James said carefully, his line of vision following Laura around the room as she paced.
She stopped walking. “That's the last name on the ID I gave Megan,” she said quietly. “From Akhan's contacts—his man in Jamaica.”
“I know,” James said, flopping back on the bed with his arm across his eyes. “But there's nothing we can do about that now. Get some rest, and save the fight for tonight.”
 
 
“I can't cover for you any longer,” Polanski said into the telephone, his gaze darting around the room. “This is so thoroughly out of control that we all stand to lose more than money.” His voice became a strained whisper as only silence responded to his entreaties on the line. “Maybe we should just hold off for a little while, give them some time to react with a reasonable counteroffer and divest, or try to open lines of communication—now that they see things are serious?”
Receiving no response, Polanski mopped his brow, his voice pleading. “We can sway the contracts on the New Orleans clean-up jobs ... we can make up the difference once they rebuild there—you know the feds will get eminent domain on the most lucrative areas and we'll get a piece of that as developers. We can probably also cut a deal to build resorts near the gaming districts in Mississippi, once the original residents get bled out by insurance companies that won't cover total losses. There's no reason to go after the old Philadelphia land sites that we lost, given how sloppy this whole operation is becoming.” His voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Just think about it. I know this is personal, but it's getting too much visibility.”
Again, only silence filled the line. Then an abrupt click ended the call, making Polanski close his eyes with a slight shiver.
Chapter 11
J
ames stared in the mirror as he worked his black bow tie into a knot. Everything was set. Their extra clothes and sets of false ID had been sent to Jamaica via FedEx, guaranteed arrival the next day. The limo had been called, sent from Steve's contact, Caluzo's Philly people, to be sure there'd be ample security and a driver packing heat. The rental had been ditched and traded in for a new one under a different name, also parked only a couple blocks away from the Smithsonian, with two untraceable nine-millimeters taped under the dashboard—just in case.
He spied Laura through the mirror as she passed by the bathroom, readying herself for the event. Even under these circumstances, the woman was a knockout. She was wearing a backless white sheath with iridescent crystal beads that seemed like raindrops had splattered on her breasts. But the spiked, beaded satin heels were killer every time her legs swept through the slit in her gown. He stopped fumbling with his bow tie to give her an appreciative glance. “You look absolutely beautiful,” he murmured. “Remind me to show you proper, once we do this thing.”
She gave him a strained smile. “Not bad yourself, in a tux, Mr. Carter.” She came to him, brushed his mouth gently, as not to disturb her flawless makeup, and then tied his bow tie knot for him.
As fantastic as her husband looked and smelled, they didn't have time to lose focus. Sean had blown her Blackberry up with new data that James needed to be aware of.
“Got a transmission from Sean,” she said, smoothing James's black tuxedo lapels.
He just stared at her as she walked away to find her beaded clutch and sheer white wrap.
“The kid is brilliant,” she said, offhandedly. “The old man who founded Micholi also had the same attorney as Haines before he died. Seems a then-very-young Alan Moyer Senior became the general counsel for that foundation. Polanski, Moyer, Haines, and Sutherland were all in school together. Harvard.”
“Hold it,” James said, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. “Sutherland, the doctor who slept with Haines's wife and killed Haines, was in their crew?” He smoothed his hand over his clean-shaven jaw and shook his head.
“Isn't it always the way?” She kissed James's cheek and then brushed the faint lipstick mark away from it with her fingertips. “That's why the old Mafia adage holds true: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The old boys on the Main Line invented nepotism and inner-circle deceit. I'm not surprised. I just needed to know.”
James pushed away from the door and collected his wallet with phony ID. “If Sutherland is serving hard time, along with Alan Moyer, Jr., then we find old man Moyer and Polanski at this bull tonight, and lean on them a little.”
“Just enough to let them know that we know,” Laura said with a dangerous smile. “The only problem is, Sean's info didn't show any common assets that they might have held together. But where there's smoke, there's fire.” She nervously fingered the beads on her purse as she hoisted the long strap over her shoulder. “One guess who also had Moyer as his attorney?”
“Senator Scott, for five hundred,” James muttered with disgust.
“Five hundred goes to the man with the right answer,” Laura said, no amusement in her tone.
“Suggestion,” James said, looking up from the table and stashing his wallet in his breast pocket. “We go in with the media rush, have a glass of wine, walk the room before dinner, say what we've gotta say, and then be out—while the full media is still around to make it too visible to do a hit.”
She nodded and draped her wrap around her shoulders. “I'm right there with you, brother. Shall we dance?”
 
 
She kept her gaze steady as their limousine pulled up to the grand entrance of the Smithsonian museum. Paparazzi were everywhere for the gala. Oddly, that helped her relax and she just hoped that those who were after her and James would employ enough patience and decorum to wait for a less visible moment. True, there was a debt to settle, but she doubted that they would be so foolish as to make a hard public statement; it wasn't like they were JFK or anything. Then again, one could never be sure.
When the limo stopped and the driver got out to round the vehicle and open the door, she took a deep breath. James squeezed her hand, and they exited the vehicle in high style as though they had actual invitations.
She gently threaded her hand through James's extended elbow and kept a media smile on her face. As they approached the small guest admittance podium just inside the huge glass doors, a small rush of butterflies escaped within her belly. What if Sean's little guest-list-addition trick hadn't worked? Then she remembered the oldest ruse in the book: Dress the part, speak the part, confidently appear like you belong, and that was half the battle—act like you know. Laura tipped her chin up and feigned the bourgeois attitude of entitlement.
“Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, from the American Education First Foundation—guests of the Micholi Foundation.”
She felt James's bicep tense, but her man was cool ice on the outside.
“Oh, yes,” the greeter said, after peering at the register a moment. “A late add-in, and we are so glad your schedule permitted you to attend. Welcome.”
Laura gave the young White House intern a pleasant but dismissive smile and walked forward with James. They were in. She immediately felt his bicep relax as they scanned the room.
“This is your thing, baby. Work it. I don't even know what these guys look like,” James muttered quietly in her ear.
“First off, smile,” she said, ribbing him lightly. “Then when a butler comes by with wine or champagne, select a glass and sip it slowly.”
He cut her a sidelong glare. “That part I've got.”
She chuckled and swiped two glasses from a passing tray. “Then why aren't you smiling?” she asked, and handed him a chardonnay.
She watched him take the glass and try his best to smile. The man seemed pained. They had to go deeper into the soiree. The old boys always arrived early to give the best media sound bites and then shake the refuse of reporters so they could get down to business. The real VIPs and keynote speaker would make the final grand entrance. If her hunch proved correct, Polanski would already be here, and hopefully Moyer would, too.
Casually glancing around the room, she scanned the environment with purpose, soon spotting James Devereaux.
“Husband, let's take a walk,” she said, moving in the opposite direction of Devereaux. It was all about timing, patience, allowing the targets to see her and to think that she hadn't seen them yet. “The Redevelopment Authority contact is here, which means so is his inner circle.”
“Where?” James said under his breath.
“Six o'clock, but don't turn around. I see some folks from Harrisburg that we'll briefly chat with—state level, and then I'll give my condolences about the loss of a solid senatorial seat ... and
then
we'll go see the people whose ticket we slid in here on.”
The tension within James's body and within his strides was palpable as she made the rounds, exchanged phony air kisses, and engaged in small talk. But it was a necessary evil. Soon she'd glimpsed George Townsend, another member of the Micholi team, and had watched him slowly go over to Devereaux, confer, and then glance in her direction. That was her cue. She looked up, smiled, and raised her wineglass ever so slightly to let them know she'd be over to greet them in a moment.
“You don't mind if I scoot over to chat with some old friends from Philadelphia, do you?” she asked the small group of state officials standing near her and James.
“Of course not, Laura,” the head of the Department of Community Economic Development said with a pleasant smile. “We hope to see you back in the game soon.”
“Thank you, John,” she said, gracefully slipping away as James nodded, shook hands, and followed her across the wide, marble floor.
They had to do this fast, she noted. There were too many people gathered within this Who's Who affair that knew her real name, and all she and James needed was to be summarily kicked out for crashing the event. Beyond the mere humiliation of that consequence, it would definitely create a credibility problem. Those being researched needed to be surprised by her presence, as though it were a mere coincidence. The goal was singular: to catch them off guard. So far, that had worked. Once they were sufficiently flustered, she could move in to possibly negotiate a deal.
“George,” she cooed, coming up close to George Townsend and then turning to Devereaux. She touched his arm and smiled warmly. “And James Devereaux, you are a sight for sore eyes. What's it been? A year ... maybe more, since Donald's funeral?” She shook her head as they blanched at the mention. “We should all do better at staying in touch, and that was such an unhappy circumstance to have had our last sighting.” Before they could answer, she threaded her hand through James's elbow. “Let me introduce my husband, James Carter.”
“Gentlemen,” James said stiffly, extracting himself from Laura's hold to shift his wineglass to his left hand, and to then shake their hands. “Laura's told me a lot about you,” he added, receiving a smile of approval from her.
The two men before him guffawed and stepped back with strained smiles.
“Wow, well ... this is new,” Devereaux said tensely. “Congratulations.”
“Yes, welcome, uh, congratulations,” Townsend said. “Really, Laura, you are always full of surprises.”
She chuckled and sipped her wine, peering over the glass at them. “Always, gentlemen. A little sun in the Grand Caymans can change a woman's perspective.”
They raised their glasses toward her and James, but their eyes belied the smiles on their faces.
“So, are you back home now, in Philadelphia?” Devereaux asked. “The landscape has dramatically changed since last year.”
“Yes, we just got back, and are consolidating households now. We're looking at property up in Radnor, maybe Chestnut Hill,” she lied, glimpsing James from the corner of her eye as he simply sipped his wine without emotion.
“Are you thinking about restarting Rainmaker's, Inc.?” Townsend asked coolly, polishing off his glass and setting it on a passing tray to claim another.
“I don't know,” Laura breathed out with a sad sigh. “I've lost my passion for it.” She turned to James and gave him a brilliant smile. “We're both semi-retired and looking into real estate investments as a quiet option.”
Both Devereaux and Townsend fixed their gaze on James.
“Ah, it's coming back to me,” Devereaux said, his smile containing a warning. “You were the officer in that big, nasty case with Paxton.”
James chuckled, and the sound of it startled Laura into taking another sip of her wine.
“Yes, I'm the one,” James said coolly. “But like Laura said, I'm semi-retired. Figured if I can't beat 'em, might as well join 'em. She has a way of developing the sweetest compromises.”
Both Townsend and Devereaux laughed, but the sound was brittle.
“Please tell me Mike Polanski is here?” she crooned, giving James's arm a little shove, like a love pat for theatrical effect.
Again the two men before her and James exchanged nervous glances.
“Yes, uh, I believe I saw him a bit ago,” Devereaux hedged.
Laura glanced around the room and spotted him in deep conversation with some men she didn't know. “Well, before the night is over, I must say
hello
to him.”
“We'll let him know you're here and asked for him,” Townsend said after a healthy swig of his wine.
She kissed Townsend's cheek and gave Devereaux a brief hug. “Thank you, gentlemen. You know I wouldn't miss giving my best to Mike for the world.”
 
 
“OK, break it down,” James said under his breath as they melted back into the milling throng of dignitaries. “What's with the real estate and whole Cayman thing?”
“I needed to let them know I was back, or make them think I was, and that I was fishing for an in ... which meant that I was oblivious to the attacks—or didn't associate myself with them, but that I was also holding real estate aces. Second point was, I blithely told them about the Caymans so they wouldn't know whether my comment alluded to the fact that I'd not yet heard about the attempted bombing of our home, or that I had. Keeping the bastards off balance. They'll kiss and tell Polanski, who, if they're still connected, will inform Moyer. Just some cheap insurance that word will make the rounds, if we can't tonight.”
“I love how your mind works,” he said, pecking her cheek.
“Not bad yourself. You didn't blink or stutter when they made you as the cop that shot Paxton. Very cool, Mr. Carter. It let them think you came in here on the guest list as yourself, and don't have a clue that anyone's been after us.”

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