Neither Landowe nor Coleman had ratted him out to Carlson, and since the company had already walked away from the Grays after the press conference fiasco, Carlson didn’t protest too loudly when Ray asked for time off. He hadn’t said so, but he thought he’d take the time to assess his possessions, figure out how long it would take him to pack everything up, and create a game plan for getting the hell out of Nashville.
Except it was days later, and all he’d done was take a single desultory walk around the house. Or cruise by the Gray mansion and check that the squad car he’d pushed Jimmy on when Carlson dropped the case was still keeping vigil. He felt like Hamlet trapped in the middle of to be or not to be. Shit or get off the pot, Ray, he told himself. Make like the wind and blow.
The clichés rolled on and on, and still he did nothing. Just picked up the paper, pulled it free of its housing, and began to read.
The stories above the fold were split between the progress of the police investigation into what reporters were calling the Dead Shot murders (none), and a proposed budget increase for the city’s schools (plenty). But a sidebar below the fold caught his attention:
GRAY TO ATTEND CHARITY ART AUCTION
.
He read the piece with growing amazement and concern. Gillian had withdrawn from the hospital fund-raiser. Now, in the middle of a killing spree, she had changed her mind?
What the hell was she thinking?
He dropped the paper, shot up, grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter, where he’d left it on his way to coffee, and punched in Gillian’s number. Just as quickly, he snapped the phone closed.
No. Not his problem anymore.
He shoved the phone in his pocket.
Returning to the table and the paper, he opened the sports page. The lead story was about a shake-up in Predator management and what that might mean to the hockey team. He tried to focus on the first paragraph, but the words swam in front of him.
Staring off into space, he pictured Gillian entering the hotel. Would her grandparents be with her? Or would she be unescorted and unguarded?
Damn, damn, damn.
He yanked out the phone and entered another number.
Before the receptionist could finish saying, “Can I help you?” he asked to speak to Carlson.
“You handling the security for the charity art auction tomorrow night?” He spoke before Carlson could finish identifying himself.
“Ray?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I thought you were taking some time off.”
“That’s right.”
“So event security shouldn’t be on your mind.”
“Are you handling it?”
“No. Why? What’s going on?”
“Who is?”
“No one, far as I can tell. Whatever the hotel provides.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Ray, I’m not. What’s this all about?”
“You’re going to let her walk in there unprotected?”
“Who are we talking about here?”
“Gillian Gray.”
A pause. “My understanding was Miss Gray wouldn’t be attending the auction.”
“She is now. Front page
Tennessean
below the fold.” Carlson always kept a copy of the paper in his office. Ray waited for him to scan the article.
“Uh-huh,” Carlson said. “So?”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” Carlson sounded completely unconcerned. “You and I both know the woman won’t protect herself or let us protect her properly. She’s a walking time bomb. I don’t want Carleco Security anywhere near her when she explodes. Besides, if I remember right, you said she was a pain in the ass, and you were glad to get rid of her.”
Had he said that? He thought back.
“Right,” Ray said. “Thanks.” He ended the call. He
was
glad to be rid of her.
He reread the article. It not only mentioned the hotel in which the event was being held, but it also mentioned the specific ballroom. It was like giving the killer an address.
This time, he forced himself to stay on the line until Gillian answered.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Well, Ray Pearce, nice talking to you, too.”
“Did you see that article in the paper?”
“The one the police planted?”
“What?”
“The police. They worked with the paper to get it in.”
“The police put you up to this?”
“Well, they didn’t exactly bring me along kicking and screaming.”
“That article is like putting a big fat target on your back.”
“That’s the idea, Ray. And a brilliant one, too, even if it was your pal Burke’s.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Now, Ray, don’t be like—”
But Ray had already hung up and called Burke. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m having me a cup of coffee, Ray. What’s it to you?”
“You’re going to get her killed.”
“Get who—ohhh, you saw the piece in the paper.”
“You’re damn right I did.”
“Slow down there, baby boy. She’ll be wearing a wire. You know the drill. She’ll be fine.”
“Fine? She’s going in alone. That’s the way it’s done.”
“But we’ve got her back.”
“My ass. You locate Kenny Post yet?”
“No, but—”
“You find a connection to her mother’s murderer?”
“We’re looking, but—”
“Truth is, you got nothing, Burke. Bupkis. Zilch. Which means the killer could be anyone. Anyone. By the time you get there, he could have her inside a plastic bag and suffocated, and you know it. And by tomorrow, Benton James will get another picture in his e-mail.”
In another room, over a different cup of coffee, Mad-die Crane also saw the article about the gala art auction. Shock mingled with concentration as she read it. Time, place. It was all there, practically a written invitation.
From the bathroom, Maddie heard the shower turn on. She gazed hard at the closed door, thinking about who was behind it. What would happen if anyone found out.
So like Gillian to splash her whereabouts all over the front page. Had she done it on purpose, or had some overzealous reporter done it for her? Every news station in the country had run tape on the midnight press conference, so Maddie had seen it. Probably on purpose.
Pushing her cup away, Maddie sat back. Needed to think. But the sound of the rushing water intruded. She remembered what she’d done the night before, and with whom. A flush of heat shimmered through her.
She focused on the paper, which sat like a roadside bomb waiting to be detonated. Gillian had provided the perfect opportunity. What was Maddie going to do about it?
Matthew Dobie tapped the morning newspaper thoughtfully, then allowed himself to be distracted by the muscular blond packing literature into a box for shipping.
The young man, sensing his idol’s sudden attention, straightened. Squirmed charmingly with embarrassment. “Everything all right, sir?”
Dobie didn’t like to admit he played favorites, but there was something about this one. Maybe it was the way his arms rippled as he arched over the cardboard. Or the strength and purpose of his jawline as he concentrated. Or that cleft in his chin. Whatever it was, Dobie couldn’t help but appreciate it and had rewarded the boy with extra tasks. Tasks that would keep him close. Like packing up their mobile headquarters.
“Of course,” Dobie said with a dismissive wave. “Continue.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young man bent back over the packing materials, and Dobie tore his gaze away. Now that Gillian Gray had withdrawn her photographs from the Gray Center, he’d almost won, and though he’d claimed victory loudly and clearly on as many networks as possible, there were still a few things left to do. It might be a cold day in hell before any reputable museum agreed to exhibit a Gillian Gray photograph, but he hadn’t prevented her from creating them. And the article proved he hadn’t stopped her from exhibiting either.
Once again, his eyes strayed to the young man’s wide shoulders, and Dobie gave in to the urge to touch. He rose, came around the desk, and put his palm on the hard muscle.
“What’s your name, son?”
The blond giant turned, stood at attention. “David, sir.” He flushed, and Dobie repressed a smile.
“Take a break, David. Sit down.” He pulled a chair to the desk for him, then went back to his own. “Have you seen this?” He showed David the article. Watched as his powerful neck turned a mottled red.
“I can’t believe this.” He looked up, indignation and outrage plain on his handsome face. “We should do something.”
Dobie was enjoying the play of emotions in the younger man’s eyes, so he encouraged it. “Do you think so?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
This time, Dobie let the smile come, a slow, wide, satisfied smile. He reached out and lightly touched David’s strong, powerful fingers. “You know,” he said, “I was thinking the same thing.”
That night, Gillian arrived at the downtown hotel to the sound of shouting. Hotel lights brightened the dark, but the black air split into a deafening clamor as protesters caught sight of her. Enclosed behind police sawhorses, they lined the walk up to the entrance. Their rabid faces and hate-filled eyes glared at her. Mouths twisted in loathing.
“Murderer!”
“God hates you!”
Her heart thudded in time to the chanted beat.
“De-cen-cy! De-cen-cy!”
The steady drumming was like an army of foot soldiers on the march.
Someone lurched over the barricade to wave a threatening fist at her. A uniformed officer rushed to beat him back. Another grabbed her arm and hurried her to the entrance.
“Why didn’t you come the back way?” he shouted over the thunder.
Because she never took the back way. But it was too dark and too noisy to explain. She thanked him and slipped inside. Paused to steady the racket inside her chest.
People stared—bellmen, hotel guests—but she squared her shoulders and went to find the ballroom.
Her grandparents were huddled together just outside the door waiting for her. Like most of the women of her generation, Genevra wore a sequined jacket and long dress, while Chip wore his tuxedo. Gillian had on lavender again. A distressed velvet gown with a low neck that scooped her shoulders, skimmed her waist, and covered her arms.
“You look like something from the rag pile,” Genevra said.
“Yes, but the color matches my eyes,” Gillian replied.
She hadn’t told either of them about the side trip she took to police headquarters or the arrangement she and Burke had worked out. First of all, they’d only try and talk her out of it, and second, she didn’t want them breathing down her neck. But both of them had been baffled by her change of heart.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Chip said.
“It’s a terrible idea,” Genevra replied, straightening her back and raising her chin. “Why else would Gillian want to do it?”
“You’re not also going to change your mind about the museum?” Chip asked.
“No, that’s a done deal,” Gillian assured him, and in an effort to assure herself, she smoothed down her dress. Beneath it, she felt the vague outline of the transmitter taped to her skin.
Genevra inhaled. “Well, if we’re going in, we’d better go.” Like she was a member of the Light Brigade preparing to charge the enemy.
The ballroom was awash in Nashville glitterati. As Gillian and her grandparents wended their way across, business cronies of her grandfather high-fived him from across the room with highballs in their hands. A few of her grandmother’s sequined compadres stopped to compliment her on the bash. A band played “All or Nothing at All,” and Gillian looked around at the fat-cat crowd. Hard to believe a killer might be walking among them. The most threatening activity in this group was overeating.
But Gillian could still feel the deadly pulse of the crowd outside. Would Ruth be there again, disguised as a housemaid? Would Matthew Dobie send someone else? Would whoever it was do more than pull a prank with fake blood? Her gaze moved constantly, seeking out other possibilities. The waitstaff. Kitchen staff. Hotel staff. Must be a dozen ways to sneak in. She closed her eyes, heard the swish of a snare drum, and it seemed to match the rustle of her heart. She breathed, shook off the nerves, screwed down her resolve. Matthew Dobie or the mob, the mob or the monster, whatever was out there, she was ready.
And so was Nashville PD. They were in the room, though she didn’t exactly know where. But Burke had promised, and she’d taken him at his word.
Not that rescue was high on her list. She knew what she was in for. Had known since she was seven. It was just a matter of getting the stars to align themselves. She hadn’t thought to check the sky on her way in. City lights tended to obscure the planets, but, who knew, maybe tonight she’d get lucky.
She shivered with anticipation just as the band finished their song with a flourish, and the three of them reached their table. Since Genevra had chaired the event, and Chip was a major donor, it was centrally placed.