The Color of Courage (12 page)

Half an hour later, I unlocked the front door of HQ and relocked it behind me. I wasn’t used to being here at night without the team running all over the place or wrapping up after a mission. The building was dark except for the glow of her computer, and my feet echoed and crunched on the cracked linoleum.

“Kirby?” I called, suddenly nervous.

“In here!” She sounded normal.

I hurried into the office. She didn’t look up from her screen, so I slid a chair over and sat next to her. “What have you got?”

“A website. They hid it, but I found some oblique references on a forum and traced backwards to the CASE site. It’s not a public site, with no links anywhere, and they don’t spell out their organization name on it, so a typical search would have a hard time finding it. Case isn’t exactly an uncommon word.”

“So is there a location? List of members? What?”

“No location. Not sure who’s running it, so it could be anywhere. There’s a list of members in a secure database. I think I can get in eventually. It’s not top level, and I don’t think it’s encrypted, though it could be in code.”

I barely understood what she was saying. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

She turned away from the monitor and beamed. She was excited and happy, and I didn’t think it was because of this website.

“What’s going on?”

“Guess what?” She bounced in her seat.

“What?”

“No, guess.”

I closed my eyes in a long blink. I was so tired. “I don’t know . . . you got laid.”

“Nope.”

“Trace kissed you.”

“Trace did what?” His chuckling voice came from behind me. Kirby gasped, embarrassment glowing around her.

“Nothing, it was a joke.” I swiveled in my chair. “Where’s Summer?”

“Busy with Frank,” Trace answered. “She’s not coming back in. Adam?”

Kirby shook her head. “He was totally wiped out, so I didn’t call him. Guess what happened?”

Trace leaned forward and rubbed his eyes. I saw despair licking at his edges.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Same old thing. That studio fell through.”

“That’s okay. You can stay with me as long as you need to.”

Kirby stiffened, but I didn’t care. If she wanted to make a move on Trace, she could. I wasn’t going to, and she knew that.

“Thanks.” He lifted his head. “I can’t guess. What happened?”

Kirby jumped up, her grin wide on her face again, her white teeth reflecting blue light from the monitor while the rest of her remained partially shadowed. She removed something from the desk drawer and held it between the forefinger and thumb of both hands. It looked like a check.

I squinted. A check with a lot of zeroes.

“What’s that?” Trace asked.

She jumped up and down, twice. “Only the thing we’ve been needing forever. The thing Adam said we wouldn’t get. The thing I wanted to happen because of that
Today’s News
article. Now can you guess?”

“No,” we said together.

Her smile didn’t dim. “We have a benefactor!”

Chapter 12

Despite her excitement and desire to celebrate, Trace and I forced Kirby to go home and did the same ourselves, all of us mentally and physically exhausted. On Saturday, I woke before Trace. I paused on my way to the bathroom. Two empty milk glasses crowded the small table next to the sofa bed. His sheet and blanket were half on the floor, half twisted around his body. He sprawled on his stomach, one arm buried under the pillow upon which his head was
not
resting, the other hanging off the edge.

I quietly dressed and started making breakfast. The coffee finished dripping and the pancakes were warming in the oven by the time Trace stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his chest. I imagined Kirby dealing with a half-naked Trace and had to turn to hide my grin. If his bare, smooth chest didn’t do her in, the rumpled hair and slow-blinking eyes would.

“Daley, you’re an angel.” He scuffed to the coffee pot and poured two mugs. “I didn’t sleep so well last night.”

“I noticed. What’s going on?” I took the pancakes out and set them on a trivet on the table, added a plate of bacon and a bowl of fresh fruit salad, and sat down with my coffee. Trace sat across from me and started dishing.

“Nothing new, like I said.”

I didn’t believe him. I’d never seen him this subdued and serious. But if he didn’t want to talk about it, I wasn’t going to push.

“I had a blowout with my mom last night.” I poured syrup on my buttered pancakes and offered the bottle to Trace.

He glanced up. “About the jumper or the building?”

“Both, kind of. But mostly, about my suicide attempt.”

His head jerked up. “Your what?”

Talking about it with Adam last night made it much easier to do so again today. I wasn’t sure why I did, except that maybe it would make Trace feel more comfortable opening up about whatever his own problem was.

“So you must feel better, huh?”

I shrugged. “Drained, anyway. Maybe she’ll start cutting me some slack about HQ.” I sipped my coffee. “What’s your relationship with your family like?”

Trace chewed and swallowed. “My dad’s like me, only to a lesser degree. He doesn’t know why, but thinks it might be chemicals he was exposed to during the war. So we’re probably closer to each other. My mom . . . I was kind of a challenge as a kid. You know how they say kids have so much more energy than their parents?”

I grimaced. Keeping up with toddler Trace must have been a nightmare. “Does she give you a hard time?”

“They live in Texas now, so I don’t see them much, and they don’t see us on the news. They’re proud of me, I guess. We don’t really talk about what I do.”

I could see that didn’t bother him the way it would bother me, and wished I could be more like him. I didn’t make decisions to please my parents. But I couldn’t blow off their reactions, either. Maybe things would be better after last night, I didn’t know. I’d stood up to my mother more than I ever had before, and maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe she’d thought I was ignoring her. I should let her express herself, acknowledge her concerns, and even address them. Then do my own thing.

That felt right and I straightened, optimistic. One down. One group of extremists bent on our demise to go.

“So what’s up with this Evan guy?” Trace mopped up syrup with his last bite of pancake and sat back, patting his stomach. I wondered if Adam’s abs were as well defined, then remembered he’d asked me a question.

“What do you mean?” My fruit salad wasn’t as fresh as I’d thought. I moved a few mushy blueberries aside and forked a bit of pineapple. If I kept my face down, he couldn’t see my blush.

“Kirby said you thought he was into Summer and investigating us for something, but all week he’s been talking to you.” He shifted with false casualness. “He was here the other day, wasn’t he?”

“He met me first,” I fudged. “Maybe he thinks I’m his best source for whatever dirt he’s trying to get on us.” I fought not to squirm, remembering our kiss and his words about “what’s happening at HQ.” I stared at Trace, a sudden thought halting my strawberry in midair. “Do you think he’s part of CASE?”

He shook his head. “M.O. doesn’t seem right. Tulie says he’s never heard of the guy, and all their incidents came from outside. They couldn’t trace them to anyone at all.”

“I bet we could.” I stood and started to clear my place. “That guy who tried to jump. We should check him out. Maybe he’s a member of CASE, or they extorted him or something.”

“Good idea. I’ll have Kirby do some research. I’ll get that.” He moved me away from the dishwasher. “You cooked.” He started removing clean dishes and stacking them on the counter. My kitchen was so small, you couldn’t get from one side to the other when the dishwasher door was down. “Nice dodge, by the way.” He grinned at me over his shoulder.

“Dodge of what?” I grabbed the syrup and fruit to put back in the fridge.

“Evan. Summer invited him to her dinner party as your date. So she’s not interested in him, even if he started out with interest in her.”

“I suppose.”

“And he’s been calling you, came to see you at HQ.” He kicked the dishwasher door up and opened a cupboard to replace plates and bowls. “And came to check on you the other day.”

“So?”

“So, I think he likes you.”

A suppressed a shiver. I thought he did, too, but I couldn’t tell for sure, despite the heat of our kiss. I hated not knowing if he really liked me or if he was using me to get deeper into HQ.

“Do you like him?”

“What are you, my brother?” Done with my part of the chores, I leaned against the fridge and folded my arms, watching him check glasses for cleanliness before setting them in the cupboard. Ian had never done that. Someone had trained Trace well.

“No, I’m Adam’s best friend.”

I didn’t know what to say. That was such an abrupt segue, right into quicksand territory.

“I don’t—”

“I’m not going any further than that. Just think about it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I turned away and pretended not to hear him when he said, “Of course you do.”

Kirby had arranged for us all to meet with our benefactor on Monday, in a private room at a restaurant called Erlinda’s. Trace was out checking apartments again. Adam’s mother had taken him to the doctor for a follow-up appointment and would drop him off, so Summer, Kirby, and I walked from HQ to the restaurant.

“Why aren’t we meeting this guy at HQ?” Summer asked for the second time.

“I told you, I don’t want his first impression of us to be that falling-down office.” Kirby fell back to walk behind us as the sidewalk narrowed. A line of panhandlers crowded the curb. After we’d passed them, she moved up next to me again.

“Shouldn’t we let him see where we need improvements?” I asked.

“Hell, no. We want to convince him we know how best to use the money, and he’s a silent partner who can rest assured he’s done a good thing for a nice tax write-off.” Her steps slowed as we approached the restaurant. “Thing is, I think I figured out Adam’s reluctance to get a benefactor.”

I stopped walking. “Really? What?”

She was embarrassed. “I think he’s afraid a benefactor will try to take control. Like, ‘Here’s my money, now only take the jobs I want you to take, and while you’re at it, do me these favors.’ Stuff like that.”

It made so much sense I couldn’t believe I hadn’t understood, myself. “Why didn’t he ever just say that?”

“You know Adam,” Summer said. “He doesn’t like to make us feel foolish.”

“Better a moment of feeling foolish, than being stupid for real,” I grumbled. We continued, me a lot less elated about meeting this guy. “I hope you didn’t deposit his check.”

“Not yet. It’s in the safe.”

“Good.”

We walked the remaining half block in silence, except for the click-clack of three sets of high heels. We’d all dressed in our best business wear. Summer wore a snug pants suit that stretched, giving her plenty of movability but also showing off her athletic body to perfection. Kirby was a little dressier, a string of pearls highlighting her royal-blue tailored silk blouse and gray pencil skirt. I wore a lightweight red suit with a white knit tank under it. I knew Trace was wearing a suit, though when he left the house his tie had already been loose. He couldn’t look polished if he tried. But Adam would make up for it. He always dressed professionally for meetings. Hopefully, together, we’d provide an impressive first impression.

Adam’s Prius pulled up in front of the restaurant just before we arrived. We could see him talking—maybe arguing—with his mother before he opened the door, maneuvered his crutches out, and pushed himself up.

My breath caught. I’d seen him in this suit before, I had to have. He hated to shop. But something was different. The midnight blackness of the jacket contrasted with the snow white of the shirt, both stretched wide by his shoulders. The pants broke perfectly on his polished wingtips. Or, actually, one wingtip and the cast on his broken leg. His hair was carefully combed, his face completely clean-shaven. His navy blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, even across the several feet separating us.

Was it the vulnerability created by the cast and his wrist brace that put so much pressure on my chest? Or was the effect due to those moments in the hospital, when he’d revealed his last thought had been of me?

He met my gaze and didn’t look away as he moved closer, graceful even with the crutches. My pulse bounced rapidly in my wrists and neck. The traffic noise faded, and my vision seemed to narrow in on him.

Then Trace barreled up, slapped Adam on the back, and goosed Kirby, and the spell, whatever it was, was broken.

“Let’s go.” Adam led us into the restaurant, where the host took over, weaving through the main dining room to the private room at the back. We’d arrived early, preceding our benefactor by hopefully at least ten minutes.

Adam sat at the head of the table and waited while Kirby and I flanked him, then Summer next to her and Trace next to me. Kirby withdrew a manila folder from her shoulder tote and slid it in front of Adam.

“Everything I could find on Charles Auberginois,” she said.

Adam flipped the folder open. “I could have used this sooner.”

“I know, but it was hard to dig up anything on him. I got most of it this morning.” She fell silent as Adam skimmed, occasionally reading something aloud to the rest of us.

Auberginois was an American of French descent, a businessman with scattered interests. Supposedly descended from French aristocracy, he was both inheritor and generator of more wealth than anyone had been able to measure.

“Articles touting his philanthropy.” Adam set aside several printed news articles. “No criminal record. American citizenship for both him and his mother. His father immigrated as a child. Not much here.” He turned a few more pages, then landed on the final paper. His eyebrows went up. “Seriously?” he asked Kirby. She nodded. But before he could tell the rest of us, the door opened and the restaurant host ushered in a tall, gray-haired gentleman. He inclined his head in thanks to the host, nodding to Adam and Trace.

“Greetings.”

We’d all stood as he’d entered, and now he took Kirby’s outstretched hand in both of his.

“Mr. Auberginois, welcome. I’m Kirby March. We met last week.”

“Yes, much to my great joy.” He kissed both of her cheeks, then turned to Summer as Kirby introduced the rest of us. “
Enchanté
.” He bent over Summer’s hand, his lips grazing her skin, before he slowly released her and came around the table to shake Trace’s hand and do the bend-and-kiss thing with me. Then he finally gave Adam his attention.

“Mr. Tarantino, the leader of this band of heroes. It is a great pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,
Monsieur
Auberginois.” I wasn’t sure if Adam was being deferential or reacting to an accent more pronounced than I would have expected in a second-generation American.

“Please, call me Charles.” He retreated to the lone seat at the far end of the table and waited, as did Adam and—surprisingly—Trace, for the women to sit before joining us.

“It is a great shame to see you injured, Mr. Tarantino.” Charles removed his linen napkin from the table and laid it on his lap, his movements automatic. His expensive light-gray suit allowed his movements to be free and unhindered, though it was tailored to fit him even better than Adam’s did.

“I’ll heal.”

“Of course, and I believe it is to our Ms. Charm’s credit that you have the opportunity to do so?”

I started as he turned his attention to me. His eyes bore into me, as if he, too, could read emotions. After a second of cringing from the invasion, I straightened my spine and stared back at him, for the first time checking his own emotions. I saw nothing but positive. Pleasure, possibly at meeting us, at helping us, though I supposed it could also be pleasure in his perception of power. A hint of anxiety, surprising in a man of his wealth and probable standing, but again, maybe just a social artifact related to how we would receive him. There was also a great deal of pride and satisfaction, but nothing malicious. Nothing like Evan’s suspicion.

My shoulders were tight. I slowly, consciously relaxed them, and Charles looked away. His aura changed the slightest bit, reflecting relief.

That put me on my guard more than anything else would have, and I realized he’d been staring right at me, but hadn’t been blank. I could detect generalized emotions that included me in a group, but if he’d been focusing on me, they shouldn’t have been so clear. Could what I’d seen be masking his real feelings and, therefore, intent?

I’d told the cop at the jewelry heist that I couldn’t be fooled. People couldn’t fake their emotions. But maybe I’d been wrong.