Kill and Tell (17 page)

Her hands moved; perhaps he sensed her intention to cover herself, for he caught her wrists and pinned them to the pillow beside her head, and took his time looking her over. Her nipples drew into tight little points under his inspection, and he smiled. Leaning over her, he licked her left nipple, circling the point with his tongue before gently catching it between his teeth and applying delicate pressure. Prickles of heat shot through her. She gasped, fruitlessly wrenching her arms in an effort to free them—not to push him away but to hold him close. He sucked at her, pressing the nipple hard against the roof of his mouth while his tongue worked at it, and she writhed helplessly. She hadn't known her breasts were so sensitive, but the way he was sucking her aroused her so sharply she felt herself, impossibly, building toward another climax.

Bending forward as he was, the tip of his penis nudged at her swollen folds, prodding her opening. Her breath snagged, caught. Her hips arched.

He swore softly, his breath ragged, and reared back from her. He fought his way out of the shirt, tossing it aside, and quickly sheathed himself with another condom. Leaning over her again, he caught her wrists
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in one hand and stretched her arms over her head, arching her breasts upward in tender offering. He took full advantage of her position, sucking both nipples, gentle and ruthless at once. His free hand moved over her belly, down between her spread legs. She was swollen and sensitive from their lovemaking, barely able to take the two big fingers he worked up inside her. She quivered, gasping, and her head tossed restlessly back and forth within the frame of her upstretched arms. A shudder of arousal rippled over him. "You're tight," he murmured, kissing her throat. "Am I hurting you?"

"N-no." She could barely speak. His fingers reached deep inside her, pressing upward. His thumb rasped over her clitoris, circled it enticingly. "Oh, my God." She cried the words, arching tautly. Heat poured through her, drawing her upward like a bow. She could feel another climax building, even stronger than the last. Her shaking thighs were spread achingly wide again as he shifted close to her, taking his fingers out of her and replacing them with the long stroke of his shaft. The spasms boiled swiftly upward. He felt them begin and pressed himself deep. Rhythmic cries shook from her, and her body convulsed. He controlled his own urges and slowly, carefully, rebuilt her desire until she climaxed yet again, and only then did he let himself come. She slept, and woke to his hands on her again.

Night had completely fallen, and he had removed his jeans. Rain still pattered down outside, and the French doors were still open, letting in the damp air. Nothing else in the universe existed but the confines of the bed and man who held her close to his heat and hardness. She didn't think, simply
was
, for the first time in her life, lost to pure physical pleasure. He could have done anything to her, and she wouldn't have protested.

He slid down her body and pressed his mouth to her, the caress so tender and intimate she almost wept, would have if desire hadn't risen again, throbbing insistently in her loins. He mounted her, said, "I'm going to do you hard this time," and did, ruthlessly driving for his own pleasure and making her come, too. She thought she would faint this time, the spasms were so intense. She clutched his sweaty sides and completely gave herself up to him. This savage lovemaking in the dark, rainy New Orleans night was more intensely carnal than anything she could have imagined doing, and she didn't want it to end. This time, he slept, too, holding her so close that sweat formed between their bodies, sealing them together.

The night felt endless. She woke to the same rain and darkness, the hot damp air, the contrasting coolness of the rain-laden breezes. She couldn't see a clock anywhere, wouldn't have looked at it in any case. She kissed her way down his body. By the time she reached his groin, he was awake, erect, groaning. She kissed his shaft, licked the length of it, and felt it grow even more, then she took him fully in her mouth. Torment was a two-way street, and she wanted him to enjoy it as much as she had. She didn't know how many times they made love that night. Her mind was in a fog, her body completely turned over to him. When she was so exhausted she simply couldn't respond again, he cradled her in his arms and brushed a tender kiss across her eyes. "Sleep, darlin'," he whispered in that black magic voice, and it was as if she only needed to hear the words before she let go of consciousness.

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«^»

Hayes was a careful man. He hired competent people, but when someone told him a job was done, he didn't necessarily take it for granted that the job had been done to his satisfaction. He made it a point to double-check everything. His caution paid off, letting him catch and deal with irritants before they became major problems. The people who worked for him considered him a major pain in the ass, but the people for whom
he
worked were eternally grateful for his attention to detail. When Clancy called and reported he had taken care of his assignment, Hayes believed him; Clancy was damn good at what he did. But he still contacted another source to have a copy of the police report on the house fire, as well as the newspaper account, faxed to him on a private, untraceable line. He was competent with computers but more comfortable with older technology; he thought the security was better. With computers, who knew what little puke in Hoboken or somewhere was taking a peek at everything he sent or received?

His source called back the next day. "I can't find anything about a Karen Whitlaw's house burning," he said. "There was a house fire, but the house belonged to a couple named Hoerske." Hayes cursed. It wasn't like Clancy to burn the wrong house. "Do me a favor," he said. "Look in the phone book, and see what Karen Whitlaw's address is."

"Okay. Just a minute." The sound of riffling pages came through the phone line. "Whitfield… Whitfield…

Whitlaw. There's no Karen Whitlaw listed, but there is a K. S. Whitlaw."

"Hold on." Hayes checked the file he had on Dexter Whitlaw's wife and daughter. The daughter's middle name was Simone. "That would be her."

"Okay. The address is… hell, the address is the same as the Hoerskes' house." Hayes felt a headache forming behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fax everything you have to me."

"Sure."

Twenty seconds later, the fax machine was humming as it spit out the requested documents. Hayes didn't bother with the police report; he picked up the copy of the newspaper account: "A fire yesterday morning destroyed the residence of Nathan and Lindsey Hoerske. According to the fire marshall, the flame began in the kitchen. The Hoerskes, who bought the home only four months before, were not at home at the time of the blaze."

Hayes tossed the sheet down. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened; the Whitlaw woman had sold the house. Probably Clancy had looked up her address in the phone book, but phone books were only updated once a year.

He called Clancy. As always, he got voice mail. "Leave a number," Clancy's voice instructed, without identifying himself. "If I know you, I'll call back."

"You fucked up," Hayes said, also not identifying himself.
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"The hell I did," Clancy said, picking up the phone. He sounded pissed; he wasn't used to customer dissatisfaction.

"She didn't live there, asshole. She sold the house four months ago."

"Well, sonofabitch. I hate that, burning down a house for nothing."

"Find her. And this time, do the job right."

Senator Stephen Lake expected to be the next president; a lot of other people expected the same thing. He and his older brother, William, had been groomed for public office from the time they were born, but when William died, Stephen had become the heir apparent. The Lakes were lawyers and judges and politicians, and Stephen was the fourth generation to follow that path. Senator Lake had always been acutely aware that William was his father's first choice, the apple of the old man's eye, and after William's death, Stephen had tried even harder to be the perfect politician, to make up to his father in some small way for the pain of losing his favorite son. He had set a sure and steady career course, building a reputation over the years as a man who always took the high road; an admirable position, Franklin Vinay thought, but the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, not to mention the agencies involved, would be better served by pragmatism than idealism. The DDO didn't like being summoned to the senator's office like a schoolboy ordered before the principal. He went anyway, and none of his distaste was revealed in his expression as he sat in the beautifully appointed office. He did wonder, though, what had brought the senator back to the capital during August; the last Vinay had heard, Senator Lake had been happily settled at the Minnesota estate he so loved. Vinay couldn't imagine anything less than a national emergency luring any of the politicians from their vacations during the worst of the summer heat. Since he would have known before any congressman if there was a national emergency, perhaps even before the president, Vinay knew that wasn't the case.

That made Senator Lake's presence all the more curious, and Franklin Vinay wasn't a man who ignored curiosities.

"Coffee, Frank?" the senator asked, gesturing toward a pot.

"No, thanks. I'm not tough enough to drink coffee during this heat." The senator laughed genially and helped himself to a cup, perhaps to prove
he
was tough enough. Vinay smiled, watching as the senator poured a single drop of cream into his coffee, wondering how many cups the senator would drink before he felt his manhood sufficiently established. He didn't ask why the senator had summoned him. Vinay had been in the game a long time; he knew the power of silence, how to play the subtle game of position: force the other side to come out first. He didn't betray any anxiety, or any secrets, by rushing into speech. That they were ostensibly on the same side didn't matter; Vinay let no one force him into unguarded speech. When he knew what the senator wanted, then he would know how to react.

Unfortunately, Senator Lake was a great one for small talk, rather than getting to the point. "This is the hottest summer I can remember," he said, leaning back in his butter-soft leather chair. "Miserably hot.
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Normally, I take August for vacation—"

Like every politician in D.C. didn't, Vinay thought.

"—maybe get in a little trout fishing. Do you fish, Frank?"

"Not in years." He'd been too busy trying to contain some noxious
isms
, such as communism and terrorism.

"You really should try to get away more. Fishing puts a man back in touch with nature. You get to see unspoiled parts of the country, and you remember that most of America doesn't live in big cities. Our media is so dominated by what happens in the cities that we tend to forget the concerns of the rest of the country."

Vinay opened his mouth to agree, but the senator waved a hand. "Here I am rambling on, and I know you're busy. I'll get to the point. One of my aides informed me that one of your contract agents has been killed in Mississippi. Reassure me, Frank, that he wasn't on an assignment for you, and don't give me the standard quote that the CIA is forbidden to operate within our own borders. Being forbidden to do something and
not
doing it are two different things."

Vinay looked blank, but inside he was furious. The only way one of the senator's aides could find out about Rick Medina was from an inside source in Vinay's department. "Senator, there are no operations inside our borders, period. If a contract agent has been killed—and I haven't heard anything about it—then it was something unconnected to us."

"You haven't heard?" Now the senator looked blank. "But—"

"We use a lot of contract agents. They also work for other countries, as you well know, whenever they aren't working for us. Perhaps this person was on assignment, but not for us, and if that were the case, I wouldn't have any information on him or her. Which is it, by the way?"

"Which—?"

"A man or a woman?"

"Oh—a man. You truly haven't heard?"

"Like I said, if it doesn't concern the Agency, I would have no reason to be informed."

"I was informed this man's son is one of your people."

The senator had been informed of too goddamned much, Vinay thought grimly. And if he really thought Vinay would identify one of his most important operatives, then the senator also expected too goddamned much. "It's possible, but unless the death affected operations…" He shrugged, to show how unimportant it was to him that a contract agent had been killed.

Senator Lake consulted a file. "The agent was Rick Medina. Does the name ring a bell?"

"Rick Medina!" Vinay managed a credible look of shock. "Are you sure of that?"

"My source is very reliable," the senator said stiffly. He wasn't accustomed to having his word
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questioned.

"I've known Rick for years—not well, no one knew him well, but he was one of our most reliable contract agents. Damn!"

"Are you also acquainted with his son?"

"Rick didn't have a family," Vinay lied. "He was a complete loner."

"I see." For some reason, Senator Lake seemed nonplussed. "Well." Vinay stood, his patience at an end. He was glad he was able to tell the truth about Medina not being on assignment for them when he was killed, but the senator knew too much, details of information that should not have come his way. Already, the deputy director was planning how he would bring the mole in his department out into the sunlight—and then fire his ass.