Authors: Renee Simons
"Thanks a lot, Terence. You're a terrific ego builder."
"Building your ego is not my concern. Helping you out of the mess you created is. And," he looked at her pointedly, "finishing the job we started. If we do this right, the plan will seem like any other campaign to hype an explosive new book and not a scheme targeting Volpe."
"Well, I hope I can carry this off."
"Your father did it for sixteen years, not only because it was his job but also to protect you and your mother. I suggest that if you want to see some justice for him, you use what you inherited of his talents and stick it out the few short weeks we'll need to finish this.”
He gave her that special look of his, the one telling her she'd lost the debate. Resigned, she sat back in her seat, withdrawing from the talk that went on without her as her mind grappled with what lay ahead.
She and Drew wrote an article for the Boston World, the daily with the largest circulation in the city. The paper ran it with a four column headline in 36-pt type and a double byline bracketed with their photos.
The article discussed the accident and its causes, including the findings of union corruption, kickbacks and the bid rigging scheme that had cost the city millions of dollars. It went on to summarize the background of the partners in VolTerre, including their "alleged" mob ties.
Once done, she and Drew went back to the book without knowing what the ending would be.
Jordan
received her third and, she hoped, last lecture when A.D.A. Santorelli discovered what they were planning.
"I can't help wondering what kind of sins you think you're expiating," Dominique commented.
"Please spare me the amateur psychology. I've already been through years of the real thing."
"I'm far from being an amateur, Jordan. In addition to the law degree, I also have a doctorate in criminal psychology."
"Is that what you think I am?"
"No, of course not, but I did some clinical work with crime victims and I'm not unfamiliar with the drives that can motivate someone with your experiences."
"The only drive that motivates me is the search for justice. Volpe damaged me in more ways than you know - with all your background checks and reports. Finally, I have it in my power to see him stripped of everything that matters to him and that's what I will see done."
"But you're going about it the wrong way,
Jordan
, and putting yourself in danger at the same time. Don't you see that by confronting him you're courting disaster? Why couldn't you simply have passed on to us whatever you got from Conlon? We would have done the rest."
"Would you? Can you guarantee me that a jury will convict Volpe and put him away for life? That his power and influence can be eradicated permanently?” She paused to catch her breath and fought the tears that lately seemed to hover just beneath the surface. "Can you restore my youth or my parents? Or give back a future that remains irreversibly out of my reach?"
"What if you'd never met Conlon?"
"Then I would have had no remedy for my pain, no substitute for a future without dreams."
They sat in the sunlit garden, with a pitcher of iced tea on the table between them.
Jordan
poured the beverage into their previously untouched glasses and took a long drink of the sweetened liquid.
"Do you really believe that vengeance is a cure all?" Dominique asked, the expression in her dark eyes as soft as her tone.
Jordan
winced at the accuracy of the woman's question. There were losses that even bringing the Wolf to heel would never remedy. "Maybe not, but it comes closer than anything else I know."
"I would have thought you too intelligent for so primitive an emotion."
"Well, Terence says I've inherited my father's cunning. If that's true, then in me also lives the same angry fire that burned in my mother's heart. Instead of turning the anger inward as she did until it destroyed her, I'll use it against Volpe and perhaps bring myself some peace as a result."
"Not Conlon? Only Volpe?"
Jordan
shook her head. "Not Conlon. He gave me new memories of my father, and a new image of myself. I owe him too much."
"And now he's helped you concoct a scheme to save you from Volpe and you're even more grateful." Dominique leaned forward earnestly. "Don't you see that he's using you?"
"Then I'm willing to be used."
"But not by us?" Dominique asked.
"For what purpose?"
"To complete our case against VolTerre."
"You’re talking about Volpe and Conlon?"
"Yes."
"I don't know if I can do that, Dominique."
"Think about it?"
Certain she could never take any overt action against
Terence
,
Jordan
suddenly felt too tired to argue with the woman. "I'll think about it."
Mrs. Willis appeared on the terrace. "Excuse me, Miss Jordan, but could you please come into the house?"
Jordan
saw the look of concern on her face and rose quickly. "What's wrong?"
"It's Mr. Ethan. He...he needs to see you."
Promising to return momentarily,
Jordan
excused herself and followed Mrs. Willis inside. Once out of earshot of Dominique, the housekeeper whispered, "He's in his room. He's been hurt."
Without waiting for more,
Jordan
dashed upstairs and quietly stepped inside Ethan's room. He lay on his bed, his eyes closed, one battered hand holding his ribs while the other arm lay across his brow, shielding his eyes from the light.
She sat on the edge of the bed, so gently he never stirred, and examined what she could see of his face, noting the cuts and bruises, the dirt and caked blood. Finally, she lifted his arm to view the rest of the carnage. He opened his eyes briefly, then wearily closed them again. A need to hold and comfort him nearly overwhelmed her.
But she could only hold his hand, wondering about the injuries inflicted by a set of bloody knuckles that needed tending as badly as his ravaged face.
"Oh, Ethan," she whispered. "What have you done to yourself?"
He attempted a smile that became a grimace and a laugh that ended in a groan. "You should've seen the other bloke," he whispered hoarsely.
"Does he look like he's been through a meat grinder?" Anger started to build and she forced it down.
"I couldn't say, but he knows he's been in a fight."
"Who was he?"
"One of the jolly giants in sharkskin," he said with his usual dry humor.
"What happened?" she asked. "I thought Terence was going to arrange things for you."
"I don't think Adonis got the message."
"Which one is he? Federico or Richards?"
"Federico. Adonis is his professional name."
"What profession? Stripping?"
"Please," he pleaded as his hands gripped his midsection. "Don't make me laugh. I hurt too much."
"I thought he's a bodyguard. What does he do, moonlight?"
"The bloke told me he's an ex-wrestler. I have no doubt he spoke the truth."
"Not so 'ex,' by the look of you, my friend."
"Yeah, well, if I'd known about his ring career ahead of time, I'd have jumped off the ledge myself, instead of trying to throw him over. He took almost more convincing than I had strength for."
"He went, finally, I take it."
"You take it correctly, love."
She smoothed back the hair from his forehead. "Lie quietly 'till I come back with the first aid kit."
She left him and went downstairs to join Dominique. The woman rose to meet her eye to eye. "Well?"
"I'll do whatever you want."
"What made you change your mind?"
She had to do something to protect Ethan. "I'm afraid Conlon can't be trusted. Just let me know what you want me to do and when." Without another word, she turned and went back upstairs to Ethan.
*
*
*
Jordan
never again met Terence without wearing a wire. Each time she dressed for a session, a tiny transmitter resembling a flesh colored adhesive bandage clung to her skin beneath her bra. The device transmitted her discussions with Conlon to the surveillance team in the vehicle that trailed them whenever they met. Their recordings would provide evidence for the state's case against VolTerre.
To recover a bracelet she pretended she'd lost, Conlon took her first to his office and then to Volpe's. While pretending to search beneath their seat cushions, she planted a bug hardly thicker than a human hair in each of the armchairs. After that she simply kept up the illusion of business as usual.
Terence knew something was wrong between them and the night before her first television appearance he broached the subject. "Why are you angry with me, Jordan?"
She kept her face averted. "I am not angry."
"But you are," he insisted, "and have been almost from the day I returned. Is it because I lectured you?"
Barely able to contain her feelings, she turned to him. "You promised to arrange for Ethan to get into the site. Did you also arrange for the beating?"
"It wasn't a beating. It was a fight." He chuckled with pleasure. "As I hear it, he gave as good as he got. Put Adonis in the hospital and in traction for a week."
"Did you know that Adonis would be there?"
"He's always there."
"How could you do that to Ethan?"
"
Jordan
, I did nothing but clear the way for him to see what he wanted to see. He crawled all over the place. He took pictures. He checked girders and beams. He lifted concrete samples for analysis, took pieces of lathing to examine, and fasteners to test. He stayed too long and got caught. I didn't plan that or make it happen." He put a hand on her arm. "He did what he had to do and if he paid a stiff price, I'd say he got his money's worth."
She pulled away. "You didn't have to doctor him afterwards."
"Use your head. Calling off Tony's handpicked watchdog might have aroused his suspicions, which could have prevented Ethan from getting as much as he did. As it turned out, he got what he wanted and no one was the wiser."
She framed an angry retort, thought better of it and clamped her jaws shut. Admitting he was right would mean admitting she'd betrayed him, and she was in no mood to deal with why that made her feel uncomfortable. Not when she was facing and fearing her first television appearance.
Only Drew's calming presence helped her through the fifteen-minute interview on a local morning magazine show. Later, she viewed a videotape of the segment. She found it hard to believe that the self-possessed woman fielding questions in a steady, confident manner was the same person who'd given back her breakfast in the ladies room once the program was over.
As the week went on, however, the nervousness lessened. By the time Curt Fellows, the host of a late-night talk show, approached the end of his interview, she had a faint hope of finishing the session with her composure intact.
"I understand," he said, "that you've only just found out the truth about your father's identity. He led a double life, and in a sense, so did you. How do you feel knowing that you're not a mobster's progeny, but the daughter of an undercover drug agent?"
After a long struggle for the right answer she said only, "Relieved."
"Does it frighten you to know that what you've told Mr. Caldwell for his book could prove dangerous? That someone might take revenge. Or keep you from revealing more than you already have?"
The frankness of the question stunned her. The danger had been discussed ad nauseam within the group. To hear an outsider voice similar fears only intensified the problem. A soft murmur rippled through the audience.
"Ms. VanDien? Did you hear me?"
"Yes."