What's in a Name? (23 page)

He thought of Kelli. Even in that short
window, he’d bet she could have logged into Mrs. Madison’s computer
and found Hollingsworth’s schedule. But he wasn’t taking any
chances by letting Kelli be here. He’d left her a note telling her
to reach him via his cell. He gave it a gentle pat through the
fabric of his trousers. The thought of her activating that buzz at
his thigh made him smile. After a restless night on the couch, he’d
left her, sound asleep in his bed. She’d not even stirred when he’d
showered and gotten his clothes from the dressing room closet.

He ran a finger around his collar.
Aside from the confines of a tie, he luxuriated in the touch of
expensive fabrics next to his skin, especially the silk boxers
instead of cotton briefs, enjoying the feeling of power, of control
he gleaned from a black Armani suit perfectly tailored to his body.
He’d dressed with extra care this morning—a black silk shirt, a
black tie with an underlying silver sheen. The butter-soft leather
of his Italian loafers felt like bedroom slippers compared with the
work boots he’d been wearing. After careful consideration, he’d
kept the beard, neatly trimmed. Maybe some of Kelli’s identity
shifting had rubbed off on him.

At eight-fifteen, he heard the ding of
an incoming intra-office email. Puzzled that someone knew he was
here, he checked his computer. From Human Resources. He opened the
file.

Morning. Need anything?
Emily
.

He laughed, then choked it back. People
were arriving who might hear him.

Morning yourself. Don’t suppose you can
give me Dwight Hollingsworth’s schedule?

Ten minutes later he knew Hollingsworth
had a nine-forty-five with Vance Griffith, apparently in
Hollingsworth’s office, since there was no other location given.
Blake searched his memory for the familiar name. Dwight’s campaign
manager.

You sure nobody knows what you’re
doing?
he typed.

Excuse me?
This from
Accounting.

Of course not. She should be able to
cover her tracks. She must have logged into his home computer and
figured out how to access his office system.

Gotta run. Make yourself at
home
, he answered.

He spent the better part of the next
hour catching up on Hollingsworth’s new buyout project, Whittaker
Candies. A small, family-owned company that manufactured specialty
confections, it was struggling to make ends meet. He found the
files in his inbox and started reviewing the financials, looking
into the key players. At nine, unable to concentrate, he headed
back up the stairs and ducked into an empty meeting room. At
nine-fifteen, he heard Hollingsworth’s voice from down the hall
bidding Mrs. Madison a good morning.

Nothing beat a good offense. He
adjusted his tie, shot his cuffs and marched down the corridor,
giving a polite nod to Mrs. Madison, whose mouth opened for an
instant when he strode past her desk into Hollingsworth’s inner
sanctum. He wished he’d had more time to enjoy the fleeting look of
shock as he bypassed her sentry duty. Nobody saw Hollingsworth
unannounced.

“
Good morning,
Dwight.” He gave a friendly smile, his eyes fixed on
Hollingsworth’s face. Some of the surprise would be from his
barging in, but he studied the man’s expression.

The man leaped to his feet from behind
his desk. “Blake. My God, man, where the hell have you been? And
what’s with the—” His fingers stroked his jaw. “Never mind. I’ve
been trying to reach you. I’ve called your cell a dozen times. I
heard about the murder on the news and I was afraid you’d been
caught in it.”

He leaned his hands on the desk and
peered at Blake. “You didn’t get caught in it, did you? I mean, you
were there incognito. It might have been … awkward.”

Right. For whom? You or me?

“
No. Nobody knew I was
anything but a handyman.” Except Kelli and some hired killer, but
what did they matter?

“
I’m glad. Glad you’re
all right, of course.”

The man seemed sincerely upset. But was
he channeling his surprise that Blake was alive into this display
of concern? Blake tried to imagine this at a takeover meeting. He’d
lay the odds at sixty-forty Hollingsworth was sincere. Not good
enough. He hadn’t brought up Kelli yet.

Blake said, “Sorry I didn’t call
sooner. There’s no cell reception in the woods. And, by the time I
got into range, I realized I’d forgotten the charger.”

Hollingsworth lowered himself into his
chair and motioned for Blake to take a seat. “You were due back
yesterday.” His face was deadpan now. All business.

“
Yes, sir. Sorry, but
we were delayed. There was a storm, power went out, roads
closed.”

“
We? You found her?
Did you bring her back?” No more deadpan. Hollingsworth leaned
forward, an expression of eager curiosity on his face.

Shit. He’d almost blown it. Blake
waited a moment to gather himself. “She’s not the woman you were
looking for. But I did give her a lift out of there. She’s on her
way to her next project.”

“
You’re
sure?”

“
Short of a lie
detector test or a DNA sample, which you didn’t ask for, yes, I’m
sure. You sent me because you trust my judgment, don’t
you?”

“
Of course. It
was—never mind. It’s over and I appreciate your efforts. I hope
roughing it wasn’t too much of a strain.”

“
No, sir.” He fingered
his midsection, where he was still wearing butterfly strips. “May I
ask why I was looking for this woman?”

“
Consider it an old
man’s dream. Nothing more. I’ll have your payment this afternoon.”
A slight narrowing of the eyes, a glance away from Blake, and then
the neutral expression of an executive were the only indications
Hollingsworth might be keeping something to himself.

“
How’s the Whittaker
account coming?” Dwight asked.

Back to business as usual. “I’ve been
reviewing the files. I’ll be ready for the meeting next
Thursday.”

“
Excellent.” The
intercom buzzed and Dwight gave Blake a dismissive look. Blake
nodded and left the office, not quite closing the door behind him,
hearing Mrs. Madison tell Hollingsworth that Mr. Griffith had
arrived and Dwight asking her for five minutes.

Blake stopped by the door. Mrs.
Madison’s back was to him. A man who had to be Vance Griffith was
resting a hip on Mrs. Madison’s desk, his attention on her,
oblivious to Blake’s presence. And was the imperturbable Mrs.
Madison blushing? He saw the faint trace of pink rise to her neck
below her upswept silver hair.

“
Now, Rebecca, you
know I’ve told you to call me Vance.”

She giggled.

Rebecca? Blake didn’t think he’d ever
heard anyone use Mrs. Madison’s first name. Almost as if she didn’t
have one. And giggling? Who was this man, and what had he done with
the unflappable, staid Mrs. Madison? Fascinated, he paused.

“
All right … Vance.”
She toyed with a pen. “Mr. Hollingsworth asked if you’d give him
five minutes.”

“
I heard. No problem,
as long as I can spend them with you.”

“
Stop it.” Blake saw
the pink brighten to red and spread from her neck to her
ears.

“
Rebecca, I’ve told
you. When Dwight’s governor, you’re going to be right there with
him. I’m going to insist you stick with him as his personal aide.
You’ll love it in Springfield.”

“
I think Mr.
Hollingsworth is the one to make that decision.”

“
He’s going to—and you
don’t have any ties to Chicago now, do you?” Blake watched Vance
Griffith move even closer to Mrs. Madison, so his face was inches
from hers. “Seriously, Rebecca. Your husband’s been gone for years.
You’re an attractive, vibrant woman. Don’t hide behind this
desk.”

Good Lord, was he going to kiss her?
Right here? Still reeling a bit from what he’d seen and heard,
Blake examined the man more closely. Early fifties, he guessed.
Probably a little younger than Mrs. Madison. Sorry, but he’d never
be able to think of her as Rebecca. Griffith wore an expensive dark
suit, monochrome blue shirt and tie combination. A long, angular
face and prominent forehead gave him a look of intelligence. Tawny
hair with a touch of gray at the temples. Strong chin,
clean-shaven. Camera-ready.

Mrs. Madison’s intercom buzzed and
Blake jerked to attention. He straightened his tie, pulled the door
shut with an audible click and strode forward.

“
Good morning,” he
said to Griffith. He extended his hand. “Blake Windsor.”

“
Vance Griffith. Nice
to meet you. Dwight’s spoken of you.”

“
Nothing too terrible,
I trust?” The man’s handshake was firm, but without warmth. The
practiced touch of a flesh-presser, but the way he studied Blake’s
face was more than he expected from a casual meet.

“
Not at all.” Griffith
smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “I’d like to touch base
later. I might have a position for you.” He stepped past Blake,
knocked once on Hollingsworth’s door, and went into the man’s
office.

Blake took a moment to compose himself
before approaching Mrs. Madison. “Good morning,” he said. He tilted
his head toward Hollingsworth’s door in a question.

Mrs. Madison put the pen down and
picked up the computer mouse, obviously wondering how much he’d
heard. “They’re busy tying up loose ends before he officially files
his candidacy.”

“
He looks more like
the politician himself, wouldn’t you say?”

“
Maybe so, but he
seems content to direct the action. Did you enjoy your
vacation?”

“
Very much, thanks.
But I’m behind, of course. I’d better get back to work. You have a
good day.”

“
You, too.”

He had gotten to the door when she
called after him.

He turned. “Yes?”

She gave him a smile, genuine and
friendly. “I—I like the beard, Mr. Windsor.”

Holy shit. He’d gone away for a while
and come back to an alternate universe. What the hell. He grinned
and winked at her, then walked toward the elevator, resisting the
urge to whistle.

* * * * *

Kelli sat at Blake’s computer, a cup of
instant coffee at her elbow. You’d think a man would at least have
a real coffee maker. She’d downed a reheated slice of pizza and
found a box of not-totally-dried-out raisins. A decent night’s
sleep had left her relaxed and clearheaded.

Trusting Blake would call her once he’d
confronted Hollingsworth, she sucked in a huge breath and plunged
into a search engine. Although her palms sweated, she wasn’t
hyperventilating. Maybe it was simply the right time. Maybe after
five years, the scars were thick enough, so she could deal with
what she’d done. Or maybe it was because she was wearing one of
Blake’s shirts.

An hour later, she pushed the chair
away from the desk and stretched. She’d gone back five years,
starting with the Ensenada newspapers, and had found absolutely
nothing indicating anyone had found Robert’s body in Mexico. True,
her Spanish wasn’t particularly good, but she knew enough to
recognize any articles on the discovery of a body. Short of
revisiting the burial site, which she would never do, she’d go on
the assumption they’d never discovered him.

Maybe she could trace his family. They
must have done something when he didn’t reappear. She sighed and
called up the San Francisco newspaper sites. Still nothing.

Good for her, but how had Dwight
Hollingsworth found out? She fixed another cup of instant coffee
and typed “Robert Kilian” into another search engine.

Frustration built as she plowed into
one dead end after another. She’d been in such need of friendship
it had never occurred to her to dig into his personal life while
they’d dated. He’d been warm, charming, full of surprises, and
she’d accepted him at face value. Who asked a date for ID or proof
of employment? But her searches either gave her thousands of
generic hits, or none when she tried to narrow things down.

When the phone on the desk rang, she
jumped. Two rings later, her heart was back in her chest where it
belonged and she saw Blake’s name on the caller ID.

“
Lunch?” he
said.

She breathed a sigh of relief. His note
had said he’d call and say, “Airport” if things went sour. He
hadn’t left a translation for “lunch” so she assumed it meant the
usual.

“
Sure.”

The connection closed. He must be
coming to pick her up. Probably didn’t want to talk in case he’d be
overheard.

In Blake’s spacious bathroom, she stood
at the sink, peering into the mirror. She’d changed into an Emily
outfit she’d brought with her—dress slacks, a thin silk turtleneck
and a wool blazer. Her complexion still reflected the week’s
stress, but the bags under her eyes were faded to the point where a
little concealer would disguise them. Mascara, some shadow, a
little blush. She lifted her lipstick and twisted up the creamy
cylinder of coral.

It wasn’t simply being Emily, she
realized. A week ago she’d thought nothing of appearing in front of
Blake in sweats, no makeup, unkempt hair. Somewhere, he’d changed
from the handyman to a man. A man she wanted to show herself to as
something other than a frump. Her hand shook as she applied a thin
coating of lipstick, then blotted most of it away, leaving a layer
of tint which she covered with lip balm for a little sheen. She was
here in Chicago because she was tired of being alone.

The glint of gold next to the soap dish
caught her eye. Charles’ wedding band. Of course. Blake wasn’t Bill
anymore. She tugged hers off and waited until the pang of sadness
in her chest went away.