All The Queen's Men (Fantasy Heights) (6 page)

Jerod’s denial was forceful. “No. Thomas never threatened Ridley. I was sitting right there. I heard what he said. Not every word, maybe, but I got the gist.”

“What’d he say?”

“He warned her to stop presuming to connections she didn’t really possess. Word would get back to DriveRate that she was making claims, and they’d shut her up, one way or another. And it sure as hell looks like he was right.”

That wrinkled a few brows, but not Amanda’s. She could easily see Thomas cutting right to the chase that way.

She remembered feeling offended when Scott told them he had also ruled out Derek O’Shay as a possible DriveRate operative. Why would Scott even suspect Derek? Wasn’t he the victim? And what about Nicole?

When asked, Scott said results were less conclusive for Nicole. He would need something else to compare against before he could rule her out.

To the surprise of no one, in hindsight, Scott was able to prove with one-hundred percent certainty that Brent Johnson, the fired IT guy Derek had interrogated, was a DriveRate operative. His computer activity matched up to the targets. Perhaps even more incriminating, the suspicious computer activity had dwindled down to near nothing after his dismissal.

Jerod Hughes spoke up. “Amanda could be targeted. Not only is she high-risk because of her association with Josh and Thomas, but as far as Brent’s concerned, she was helping Derek dig into DriveRate. Brent is still out there, somewhere. And he could very well be a murderer.”

Beneath the table, Josh had reached for Amanda’s hand at the same time she’d reached for his. They held on while Scott told them that no one else’s crosscheck was conclusive.

Everyone was distracted away from the thought, however, when Jerod Hughes spoke up once more to thank Scott for all his assistance. He was working like a slave without charging the resort a dime.

Marla had snorted. “Oh, trust me. I can guarantee he’s not doing it for free.”

“You’re right.” Scott radiated disgust Marla’s direction. “Since you and Dad blew me off when I asked for help, I came to Thomas and Wade instead. I help them with this, they help me with my problem.”

“Like it’s really a problem,” Marla said.

“People are missing.”

“Who cares? A bunch of flabby, zitty social outcasts rage-quit a video game. Maybe they finally trickled out of Mommy’s basement and found a life.”

Scott hadn’t reacted well. “You are such a bitch. No wonder he won’t marry you.”

Something interesting had happened, then. Scott and Marla had started to yell. Others yelled at them to shut up. But then Josh sighed. Not loud, not deliberate, but its effect rippled down the table, silencing the chaos, as if the high school principal had just walked into a boys-room brawl.

Calm restored once more, Scott had taken the floor again. “This part is gonna suck.” He looked right at Amanda and Josh. “That letter Derek sent you. The good news is he sent us a crap-ton of evidence on an SD card taped to a blank piece of paper. The bad news is, the card was damaged—crushed before it was taped to that paper, somehow. We’ve reconstructed what we could, and then passed the card along to someone who might be able to restore the rest. That’ll take a while, but we learned a lot from what we’ve already got.”

A murmur had gone around the room while Amanda’s stomach climbed up to the ceiling.

Scott said, “Derek was digging into DriveRate. He started out hoping to prove to Nicole that they were frauds. But from the files he left on this SD card, it looks like Derek ripped open Pandora’s can of worms, let out all the crazy, until all that remained was a great big glob of what-the-fuck sauce.”

Marla had looked perturbed. “For those of us who don’t speak Idiot, what does that mean?”

“Judge for yourself.”

Scott played an MP3 file stored on the SD card the day before Derek and Ridley were found. The entire group fell silent as the sound of Derek’s voice crackled to life, mid-sentence.

He sounded half terrified. Borderline incoherent, but they all got the gist. He was mad as hell at Nicole. “…know that DriveRate has someone just as good as Kara, if not better. I never recognized Yvette. Never once, and I must have done that damn office-romance fantasy of hers fifteen times. But you knew the whole time. Yvette said the whole thing was your idea. And guess what? This broad is not rational. She blames you for what happened. The bitch is crazy terrified of Thomas Bishop. That’s why she never came back, after that day Thomas showed up to observe with Amanda. Do you have any idea how much danger you’re in? How stupid you’ve been to sign a contract with these people? You have to get—”

The playback stopped abruptly.

Amanda had watched the implications hit Josh that morning, like body blows. Josh had leaned forward in his chair, pinching his eyebrows together. Waves of anger were palpable.

All she felt was her stomach climbing down from the ceiling to seek refuge in the darkest depths of the nearest sinkhole.

Jennifer was skeptical. “It’s only a recording. Don’t take it as gospel just because Derek is dead.”

Fiona reached over and placed her hand on the back of Jennifer’s.

Jennifer snatched her hand away. “I don’t care if I sound insensitive. Yvette isn’t intellectually or emotionally capable of prolonged organized behavior. Plus we’ve confirmed she’s been out of the country for several weeks. She can’t be the queen bee at DriveRate. Someone else has to be in charge.”

Fiona turned to Scott. “Is there anything on his SD card about their upper management?”

“Not really,” Scott said. “But he had a copy of that contract he mentioned. Nicole had already signed one. Ridley wanted in, too, but they wouldn’t have her, either. The company is called Trebizond Resource Management. It’s owned by Harvestment, the same parent company that owns DriveRate. Derek confirmed that Trebizond was launched one year ago. It’s basically the same as the Paramour Project, only completely unscrupulous.”

The entire room sobered, except for Jennifer. She turned to look at Fiona. “Find Yvette. That bitch is going after my market share.”

Things had gone downhill from there.

Amanda focused on Mr. Hughes once more. “That’s all I really remember.”

Lie. Scott Milazzo had pulled her aside afterward and broke the bad news about the resort’s computer system. Brent had worked at Fantasy Heights for two years. According to Scott, Brent must have spent most of his time riddling the place with enemy hard- and software. With all the tampering going on in the scheduling and personnel records, they needed to do something drastic without delay.

Their efforts were need-to-know only. Mr. Hughes did not need to know.

The DA sat silent, staring down at his list for a moment before crossing off Scott’s name.

His hand slid farther down the page to draw a firm line through Derek. The simple action had a complicated effect. To Amanda, there was a terrible, heartless finality to the act.

Mr. Hughes said, “And after that, you were interviewed by the local police and the others? Tell me about that.”

The meeting with the local cops hadn’t been much of anything. They had done much the same as Mr. Hughes was doing now: using her to corroborate or refute other people’s versions of events.

The meeting with the Arizona detective had been a bit more informative. Taxing, too, but not in the way Amanda might have expected. Somehow, she had gotten the impression from Thomas that the detective he’d been dealing with had been male.

Detective Raquel ‘Rocky’ Dussault was definitely not male. Leggy, beautiful, really long sun-streaked hair, and elegant, refined features. Gorgeous in jeans, knee-high brown boots, white cap-sleeved t-shirt and a khaki-colored suede vest.

Friendly
enough. They met upstairs in Jerod’s office. The detective was attempting to piece together how Nicole had gotten from Fantasy Heights to Arizona, and anything out of the ordinary beforehand. She was particularly interested in the whisperer who’d surprised Amanda during the staff group fantasy, plus the warning itself:
They have plans for you. All of them. And there are no white hats around here. Leave before they steal your life.

“And you believe Nicole was the one who said it?” the detective had asked.

“I don’t really know. Derek seemed convinced, though.”

Detective Dussault reached down near her feet, into a leather satchel. She came out with a small black carrying case about eight inches long, three wide, and half an inch deep. After placing it on the table, she pulled at the case’s clasp with a thumbnail and opened the lid to show Amanda the contents. Inside were nestled two narrow-barreled syringes, one with a yellow cap, one with a black cap.

“Have you ever seen anything like these before?” the detective asked.

“Like what? Syringes?”

“A black case containing two syringes.”

“No. Or at least I don’t think so. People carry all sorts of things around the resort in discrete containers like that. I have one that I use for… Well. I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a case exactly like that one, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean. This case was found in a trash bin outside Nicole’s hotel. The substance in the yellow-capped syringe was present in Nicole’s blood. A second carrying case exactly like this one, only with red- and black-capped syringes, was found near Derek and Ridley’s crime scene in Washington State. The substance in the red syringe was present in Ridley’s blood. It’s not the same substance used on Nicole.”

Amanda raised her eyebrows. “So they’re using different drugs?”

“I guess so. I showed the case to Thomas. He asked me to show it to you and Josh, too, and said you should keep on the lookout for cases like this. If you see one, report it instantly, but don’t confront anyone or touch anything. Both the yellow and the red-capped stuff are bad news. We’ve got two top CDC docs burning massive amounts of daylight to identify and synthesize them for testing.”

“Great. How long will that take?”

“No idea, but I hope they hurry up. Initial impressions say this stuff makes Rohypnol, maybe even Scopolamine, look like herbal tea in comparison.”

Amanda remembered looking down at her hands, and clasping them in her lap to stop them shaking. “And what’s in the black syringe?”

“A sedative. Strong, but nothing exotic.” The detective then tilted her head, looking as if she were struggling to form a question. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask. How do you do this? I mean, you seem so… normal, and yet you have sex for a living.”

Amanda struggled not to feel affronted, and took the time to consider a neutral, utterly noncommittal answer. “Everything’s safe and consensual. I wouldn’t stay here, otherwise.”

“Uh huh. Don’t forget I’ve met your cohorts. If I had a Josh Taylor and a Thomas Bishop trailing along after me, I’d stay, too.”

Feeling curiously proprietary all of a sudden, Amanda couldn’t resist. “I’m sure something could be arranged.”

“Claws in, claws out,” the detective said. “We’re done. If you think of anything else, I’m sure you’re clever enough to find me.”

Agents from Washington followed. If Amanda could get through this recollection with Mr. Hughes, she would be almost home free. This was the dodgy part, the emotionally sticky, difficult-to-disguise-her-discomfort bit.

Jerod had accompanied her into the interview, and she’d been glad of it. To begin with, anyway. She wasn’t sure what was more upsetting: to see two seasoned agents visibly afraid of the case they were working on, or to discover midway through the interview, thanks to a casual brush of the elbow and hint of soap, that she was sitting right next to her mystery client.

Keeping her composure had been a chore. She’d struggled to concentrate on the agents’ questions about the last time she’d seen Derek and Ridley while her mind started inserting Jerod—very young, very ambitious Jerod-freaking-Hughes—into all those fantasies. First in the
Eastern Star
on the dance floor. Then the playroom. And Haynes House, and finally the
Eastern Star
again when he’d observed for her and Neil.

What was she supposed to say to him? She wasn’t a good enough actress to hide the fact she had figured him out, but oh God, how excruciatingly awkward it would be. They had gotten deeply intimate on set. She’d felt a connection, but now that she knew who her mystery client was, she didn’t feel it anymore. Jerod was a nice kid. Handsome and smart, but way too young. What if he still felt the connection? Or even more potentially embarrassing, what if he had liked his anonymity?

By the time she and Jerod left the interview, her discomfort had escalated considerably. She thought about the note Jerod had slipped her. She thought, too, of possible alternative reasons Thomas might not want anyone to know Jerod was her mystery client. Jerod had wanted Andrew West’s job, and he had conspired with Steph to get it. And Jerod was supposed to be a good guy?

Anger began to course through her veins, seeking Thomas and not finding him. Why hadn’t he told her? Would it really have done any harm to tell her the truth?

The confrontation with Jerod had not gone well. He’d walked her out of the interview, took one look at her, and knew that she’d figured him out. He’d held his hands up. “I can explain.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Amanda, please. I’ve been trying to find a way to come clean, but Thomas and Josh are so damned touchy about you, I can’t get close. And what difference would it have made anyhow? I can’t change what I did. I couldn’t take it back, so I tried to make the best of it, and steer you in the right direction.”

“By running me up against Thomas. And leaving me sitting there in that network booth feeling like a total idiot.”

He sighed. “I did what I thought I had to do. You can hate me. I wouldn’t blame you. Thomas does. He has, ever since that night Gail went bonkers and he figured out I was your mystery client.”

“Oh, he does not hate you,” Amanda had argued. “He’s been protecting you all along.”

“Protecting me? Try again. He filled me full of some bullshit about sending a message to Steph, but I know the real reason he’s covering for me. He thinks my ambition makes me a soft target for the enemy. He’s just concealing a vulnerability. Nothing more.”