FIRE AND ICE (21 page)

T
HEY WERE ALL IN ON IT.
Gil couldn’t wait to brag. “I’m telling you, you should have seen Sophie. She split Wicker’s lip wide open, and I think she might have broken his nose. I sure hope she did. The scumbag howled like the mangy dog he is.”

Gil sounded like a proud uncle boasting about a goal one of his nieces had made at a soccer game. He had just taken his seat at the poker table and was recounting the incident at Harrington’s apartment to the poker regulars: John, Alec, Jack, and Zahner.

“Don’t mess with our Sophie,” John said. “She’ll take you down every time. Aiden made sure she and Regan and Cordie all knew how to take care of themselves.”

Everyone at the table smiled and nodded, everyone but Jack. “That son of a bitch hit Sophie? Where were you, Gil? Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Sophie didn’t need my help. By the time I was halfway across the room, she had already let him have it. It was funny how she did it, too. She put her hand right up in front of his face, then slowly made a fist, staring him in the eyes the whole time—”

“She have rings on the hand she fisted?” John asked.

“Sure did.”

“Good for her. Do more damage when you’re wearing rings.”

“Yeah,” Zahner agreed. “Have enough rings on, and it’s like you’re wearing brass knuckles.”

“Okay, so Sophie made a fist …” John prodded Gil to continue.

“She’s about two, maybe two and a half, feet away from him, and he’s wearing a real smart-ass expression, and then—
bam!”
Gil paused to smack his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “She goes straight at him. No swinging her arm up in an arch giving him time to duck. Nope, just straight on … hard … as quick as a cobra.”

“She should have gotten him in the crotch,” Zahner said. “I always tell my girls, kick them in the crotch.”

“What girls would those be?” John asked.

“The working girls I’m trying to get off the street.”

“You sound like a damned pimp,” Alec remarked.

Zahner wasn’t offended. In fact, he had a good laugh. “I’d make a whole lot more money if I were.”

“What the hell, Zahner?” Jack asked. “When did you get the gold tooth?”

“It’s a snap-on,” he said. “My girls love it.”

“Enough with the girls,” John said, chuckling.

Alec’s brother-in-law, Aiden Hamilton, walked into the room just as Jack asked, “Is Sophie okay? Did that bastard hurt her?”

“Someone hurt Sophie?” Aiden asked as he removed his suit jacket and casually draped it over a chair.

“She’s fine,” Gil said, and then proceeded to tell the incident once again.

When he was finished, Aiden asked, “Are the police going to be knocking on her door?”

“No worries about that,” Gil told him.

“Possibility of a lawsuit?” he asked.

“Don’t think so,” Gil said.

“What are you, her surrogate father?” Zahner asked Aiden.

Alec answered. “Aiden was Sophie’s unofficial guardian for a while. He wasn’t quite twenty-two when he petitioned the court. Did you ever make that legal?” he asked.

“What does it matter now? She’s over twenty-one,” Aiden pointed out.

“I don’t get it,” Zahner said. “She has a father.”

“Yeah, but he was a wanted man back then. Sophie could have gone into the foster care system if Aiden hadn’t stepped in,” Gil said.

“Are you playing poker with us tonight, or are you just stopping by to say hello?” John asked.

Aiden rolled up his shirtsleeves and smiled. “I’m playing.”

A collective groan went around the table. A card shark, Aiden rarely lost.

He pulled out a chair and sat. “You boys ready to lose your money?” He looked at Jack, then glanced over at Alec and gave a barely noticeable nod.

The con was on.

M
ARGARET PITTMAN CALLED JACK TO HER OFFICE FOR A
sit-down. He passed Alec on his way, and from the sympathetic expression his partner gave him, Jack knew he was going to be hearing some unpleasant news.

Nothing could be more unpleasant than where he was being forced to go, thanks to the poker bet he’d lost. Alaska may be a beautiful wilderness, but he couldn’t even say the name of the state without mentally shivering. He hated the cold. Always had, always would.

As it turned out, Pittman also wanted to talk about his leave of absence. Wanting to get him away from the media, she had approved his vacation plans, but now he was asking for something different.

By the time he finished explaining where he wanted to go and why, including everything he had learned about William Harrington, Pittman appeared interested. A little
too
interested, he thought, which put him on guard.

“Uh-hum, uh-hum, I see, I see,” Maggie said briskly. “You want to start your leave today, and you’re going to northern Alaska?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re traveling with Miss Sophie Rose?”

“Yes,” he answered. Sophie just didn’t know it yet.

“Agent Buchanan was just in here giving me an update. He mentioned that Miss Rose has been doing a little investigative work. She’s determined to find out why William Harrington went to Alaska.” Pittman shook her head. “Death by polar bear. That’s a new one for me. I think Miss Rose could write several interesting stories about the Arctic. Don’t you agree?”

The ten-second rule had passed and Pittman was still looking at him expectantly. She actually wanted him to answer the question.

“Yes, I’m sure she could.”

“You know, Miss Rose needs continued protection. Don’t you agree, Agent MacAlister? Of course you do. Now, it’s my understanding that Agent Buchanan and Aiden Hamilton have been paying for security; well, now it’s time for us to take over. The woman’s taken one bullet, and who’s to say she won’t be taking another if she stays in Chicago. I’ve spoken to Detective Steinbeck,” she added, “and he admits they don’t have any significant leads. The shooter’s still out there.”

She put her hand up to block any interruptions Jack might have wanted to make and continued, “We’re not interfering in the investigation. We’re just … observing. Detective Steinbeck knows he can call on us to assist …” she paused to smile and said, “to take over the investigation if need be. We’re not good at assisting, are we? We like to take charge because we know what we’re doing, and we get the job done. Isn’t that right?”

Jack didn’t bother to nod. He simply waited for her to tell him his answer.

“Yes, it is right,” she said before abruptly changing the subject. “By the way, do you have any idea how many hits there have been on that video you starred in? We’re over two million now and still climbing. I’ve had three major networks hounding me for interviews
with you.” She held up three fingers and wiggled them. “You’re the new American Idol.”

He groaned, and Pittman reacted with a glare. “One of my assistants asked me why we didn’t just shut down the video. I told her, why bother? By the time we found out about the thing, it had been downloaded to about eight hundred sights,” she exaggerated. “It’s all over the Web now. And as you probably know, we did try the it’s-all-a-hoax ploy, but that didn’t fly.”

Pittman wasn’t one for idle chitchat. She’d brought up the video for a specific reason. Jack waited for her to tell him her real agenda.

A knock sounded at the door, and Pittman’s assistant peeked in.

“Is that the DVD?” Pittman asked. “Good … good. Thank you, Jennifer.”

The woman handed Pittman a large manila envelope and left.

She removed the disc from the envelope. “I want you to watch this in a minute. You’ll find it enlightening.”

Jack hoped to God he wasn’t one of the stars on the DVD. His mind raced. He hadn’t shot anyone since the hamburger joint.

“The video is the reason I’d like to start my leave today,” he reiterated.

She shook her head. “No, you aren’t going to be taking a leave. You’re going to be working. Your new assignment is Ms. Rose, and she will be your sole responsibility. I don’t want anything to happen to that young woman. Now, I’ll bet you’re wondering why I’m so interested in keeping her alive, aren’t you? For one, she’s a U.S. of A. citizen, and we’ve taken an oath to protect our U. S. of A. citizens. For another, her father. That’s right. She can give me Bobby Rose.”

Maybe in your dreams,
Jack thought. “Sophie’s extremely loyal to her father,” he said instead. “She’s not about to hand him over to anyone.”

Pittman tossed the DVD to Jack. “Put that in the player for me.”

The television sat on the credenza behind her desk. Jack did as she requested while she pushed her chair back

“I understand she’s loyal. She’s his daughter, and she loves him, right?”

She didn’t even give him time to start the silent counting ritual.

“Of course she does. Bobby Rose isn’t a wanted man, not at the moment anyway. I would just like to have a visit with him.”

Yeah, right. A visit. Pittman was too smart to think Bobby Rose would say something incriminating. What else did she have in mind?

She was now searching through the desk drawers looking for the remote that controlled the DVD player.

“He’s been a person of interest too many times to count, and he did spend some time in a holding cell years ago. Couldn’t keep him there, though. Lack of evidence. Every time, it came down to lack of evidence. Of course, there’s also the fact that Rose is probably the most brilliant lawyer I’ve ever run across.”

She located the remote in the center drawer crammed behind a manual, picked it up, and waved Jack back to the chair facing her desk.

“We have had our differences with Mr. Rose.”

Jack wanted to laugh. Differences? Various government agencies had been trying for years to put Bobby Rose behind bars.

“He’s a bloodhound,” she said, nodding. “That man can sniff out money these criminals think they can keep for themselves. It doesn’t matter where they hide it; he finds it.”

“Then he hides it and keeps it,” he pointed out.

“Yes, he does, but we can’t prove that, can we?” She almost sounded as though she admired him.

She rolled back in her chair and turned the player on. “Bobby sent this DVD for us. The DVD was delivered by messenger service, and when questioned the young man said he picked it up at the front desk of the Hamilton Hotel. No one behind the desk knows
how the package got there. The beginning is from the local newscast two nights ago.”

She pushed Play and the overly cheerful voice of a perky newscaster came on.

“And now for an update on the closing of Chicago’s beloved root beer company. The bitter accusations are mounting, aren’t they Tom?”

The screen flashed to Meredith Devoe and her attorney standing in front of the courthouse.

“I’m thankful my father isn’t alive to see this. My soon-to-be-ex-husband has destroyed his company. My father trusted him,” she cried. She paused to dab at her eyes with a tissue before continuing. “He invested the employees’ retirement money in a risky stock fund. The values were overinflated, and now all is lost. Kevin Devoe should be behind bars because of his stupidity.”

The reporter asked Meredith when she had last spoken to her husband.

“I have not exchanged one word with him since I filed for divorce, and I hope I never have to speak to him again.”

The attorney stepped forward to add his two cents. “My client is penniless, thanks to Kevin Devoe’s irresponsible behavior. He gambled and lost everything they owned.”

Jack frowned at the DVD player. “Then who’s paying the attorney bills?” he asked.

“I’d like an answer to that question as well,” Pittman agreed.

The screen went black, and a second later Kevin Devoe was being interviewed.

“I have done nothing wrong. Those stock numbers were inflated, yes, but all the reports indicated they were sound investments. It was Bobby Rose who drove the price up. He got his money out and let the house of cards fall. If anyone should be taken to task, it’s him.”

When asked how he felt about his wife’s accusations, he responded,
“She’s a fool. Her father, Kelly, had faith in me. He was a good man, but his daughter … well, let’s just say she’s a hard, angry woman. I don’t know what I ever saw in her.”

Pittman hit Pause, capturing and freezing Kevin Devoe’s sneer.

“Note the date and time at the bottom of the next frame.”

She pushed the Play button again. The next scene was a dark building that looked like a warehouse. A light hung above the single side door. A beat-up old Ford pickup entered the frame and pulled across the gravel parking lot to stop at the door. The date was yesterday; the time, 3:10 a.m. A man wearing a hoodie got out of the truck. He kept his head down until he heard a faint whistle. When he turned toward the light, his face was visible. Kevin Devoe. No doubt it was him. The door flung open as he rushed to it, and there, waiting with open arms in an open trench coat and little else, was Meredith Devoe. The greeting was hot and heavy.