Slow Burn (38 page)

“I’m afraid so,” Doyle said, his tone
remorseful. “They have agents searching for him even as we speak.
But he cannot hide for long.”

Ashley bit her inner cheeks to stop her from
yelling, ‘Liar!’ Frankie couldn’t pull a disappearing act like that
without someone with means and connections helping him, someone
with something to hide. She was through being a listener.

“What exactly does Frankie do for you, Mr.
Doyle?”

Anger flashed in Ryan’s eyes, then
disappeared. “I beg your pardon.”

“What duties does he have in your home or
company? From what I heard, he doesn’t exist. He’s never declared
his source of income or paid taxes. He doesn’t have an address or a
social security number.” Ron tugged at her hand in warning, but she
ignored him. “So what exactly does a man they call a ghost do for
an upstanding businessman like you, Mr. Doyle?”

Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know where
you get your information—”

“The L.A.P.D.,” Ashley snapped.

He looked toward Ron’s grandmother. “I refuse
to sit here and be interrogated like a criminal. I came to see your
family in good faith, Penelope.”

Mrs. Darden’s expression didn’t change. She
still smiled as though they were discussing the weather. “I know
you did, my dear Ryan, but the child has a point. What exactly did
Frankie do for you?”

The man’s gaze bounced from one face to
another, his dark eyes flashing. “He was head of my security for a
while, acted as a chauffer when one was needed. That he chose not
to pay his taxes is none of my business. I don’t understand the
point of this interrogation.”

“The point is everyone who was in Carlyle
House the night of the fire, with exception of Ashley and my
mother, is either dead or has been attacked,” Ron cut in. “All in
the past two weeks. Ironside, Dunn, or whatever his real name is
tried to get to Ashley several times and failed. Her uncle is
fighting for his life and you,” his voice became more scathing,
“would have us believe Frankie was in your employ for twenty-five
years and you had no idea whatsoever of his criminal
activities.”

Doyle pinned Ron down with a cold stare.
“Young man, I’m a busy man with offices all over the country and
abroad. I can’t keep tabs on all my employees.” His glance shifted
to Ashley. “Ms. Fitzgerald, I’m sorry for what Frankie’s put you
through. I hope you told the police because I think he’s more
dangerous that I’d thought. Is your uncle feeling better?”

“He regained conscious long enough to finger
his attacker and the people he worked for,” Ashley said, watching
Doyle to see if he’d react. He didn’t even flinch.

“One thing keeps bothering me, Mr. Doyle,”
Ron said, his voice hard. “Perhaps, you could explain it. Why would
Frankie burn Carlyle House ten years ago? Was he following orders?
Did he act alone?”

“From what Vaughn told me, three
ex-firefighters worked with Frankie. I don’t know whether they were
running a scam or being paid off, but they miscalculated with
Carlyle House.” Doyle’s gaze swept the faces in the room before
returning to Ron. “I knew your father, son. He was a hardworking,
honorable man. I promise you that Frankie will face trial for his
death.” His glance moved to Ashley. “I might not have known Keira
and Damon Fitzgerald personally, but I was touched by their music.
Frankie must—”

“Stop.” Ashley jumped up. How dare he? He
wasn’t fit to mention her parents’ name or talk about their death
as though he cared. If she didn’t leave now, she was going to
denounce him for the liar that he was and damn the consequences.
She pulled her hand from Ron’s, then remembered Mrs. Darden and
Gregory’s presence. The older woman’s expression was filled with
concern. Her son’s could have been made out of a rock. “Mrs.
Darden. Mr. Neumann. Excuse me, please.”

As she turned to leave the room, Ron jumped
up, said something to his grandmother Ashley didn’t hear and
followed her outside. He gripped her arm and directed her to the
hallway to their left, pushed open a door and ushered her inside a
blue and white marbled bathroom with three sinks and a long
mirror.

Ashley planted her hands on the expansive
bathroom counter and said through gritted teeth, “That man’s a
lying piece of shit.”

“I know,” Ron said, reaching for his cell
phone.

“I want to...,” her hands fisted, emotions
strangling her and making it difficult to talk.

Ron placed his hand on her nape and nudged
her down. “Put your head between your legs and take deep
breaths.”

She pushed his arm away. “I’m not about to
faint,” she snapped. “I’m mad.” To know that Doyle was behind her
miseries, but was out of her reach, twisted her insides. She
dropped her head and took deep breaths.

“He’ll get his once we have proof.” Ron
massaged her back, his cell phone on his ear. “Kenny? Have you
heard anything about an arrest warrant for Frankie Higgins? Yes.
Sure, I’ll wait.” He pressed a button and placed the phone on the
counter beside the sink. “I turned on the speakers so you can hear
him.”

For a moment, there was silence. “Ron?” Kenny
asked.

“We’re both here. What did you find?”

“I just spoke with Eddie, Ashley’s cousin.
There’s no arrest warrant for Frankie, so Doyle is lying. But we’ve
had some interesting developments, too.”

“What?” Ashley and Ron said in unison.

“Remember the letters that started this
investigation? I traced them to the Doyles. They leased an entire
floor in the building where your offices are located, Ron, and are
going to use it as their downtown branch. The paper used in the
letters you received was delivered to their offices a month
ago.”

For a moment, Ashley just stared at Ron.
“Does that mean someone in their office started this whole
thing?”

“Sounds like it,” Kenny answered.

“Who, in his company, would want to finger
Doyle and why?” Ashley added.

“Must be Frankie.” Ron quickly explained to
Kenny the story Ryan Doyle had told them. “Maybe Doyle found out
about Frankie and decided to turn the tables on him.”

“Or Frankie got tired of being Doyle’s hitman
and wanted out,” Ashley added.

Kenny chuckled. “No honor among thieves, I
guess. I’ll tell the good detective about this.”

“Sure, and keep us informed if anything else
turns up.” Ron switched off his cell phone and returned it to its
holder. “If Doyle and Frankie had a fallout, why come here with his
story? Why not go to the police?”

Ashley shrugged. “I guess there’s more going
on here than we’ve been told.”

Ron reached for her hand. “Let’s go back in
there and call his bluff.”

Ashley shook her head. “I can’t.”

He threw her an impatient look. “Can’t
what?”

“I can’t be in the same room with that man
and not accuse him of lying. He has an excuse for everything.” When
he sighed, she added, “Unless you want me to embarrass you in front
of your grandmother, you’d better go without me.”

He studied her with narrowed eyes, then
nodded. “Okay.”

***

Ron left Ashley under an umbrella by the pool
after showing her the pool house, where Simon the housekeeper had
put their bags and where they’d be spending the night. He made sure
she had something to a drink before he hurried back to the den.

His grandmother and uncle were having a
whispered conference. They looked up when he entered. Penelope had
abandoned the Louis XV chair for the one behind the huge mahogany
desk by the bookshelves. Doyle was gone.

“Where did
he
go?”

“If you’re talking about Doyle, he couldn’t
wait to leave as soon as you two left. How is Ashley doing?” his
grandmother asked.

“She’s doing fine.”

“Just like her mother,” Penelope added with a
chuckle. “I like a girl with fire in her blood. It takes backbone
to stand up to someone like Doyle, or your mother.”

Ron didn’t want to discuss Ashley, but the
way his grandmother was laying it on thick meant something was up.
Ron took the chair Doyle had previously occupied and studied the
faces of the two people he’d loved all his life but had never
understood. There was more going on here, and before this meeting
was over, he would know what it was. There was no reason for Doyle
and his grandmother, two people who moved in different circles, to
become chummy over a ten-year-old crime.

“Why was Doyle here?” Ron asked.

Penelope exchanged a glance with Gregory, who
stood beside her desk, then sat back and pursed her lips. “I told
you the boy was too smart to be fooled. It’s about time he knew
everything. After what I witnessed today, I believe he’s
ready.”

Ron ground his teeth. His grandmother and her
cryptic sentences were the bane of his life. “Ready for what?”

“For the truth, darling. Tell him, Gregory.”
She folded her arms and leaned back against her seat.

“Anything to drink, Ronald? Mother?” Gregory
asked as he walked to the bar and poured himself a shot of
cognac.

“Not for me, dear,” Penelope answered.

Ron glanced at the assortment of spirits on
the tray. Times like this called for something stronger, but he
didn’t want to dull his senses with alcohol. A clear mind was vital
when dealing with his uncle and grandmother. He got up, picked up a
bottle of Perrier and a glass then resumed his place on the
chair.

Gregory shed his coat, loosened his tie and
collar button and chose a leather armchair to Penelope’s right so
the two of them faced Ron. Ron wasn’t sure whether this was an
intimidation tactic or not. Even seated, his uncle was an imposing
figure—broad shoulders, wide girth and those sharp intelligent eyes
that never missed a thing. The tension inside Ron shot up a
notch.

This reminded him too much of one of the
Ron-you’ve-screwed-up-again sessions he used to have with them—his
grandmother a quiet presence behind the desk, his uncle seated
across from him with a disapproving expression and doing most of
the talking. Yet there was never doubt as to who was in charge—his
indomitable grandmother. Ron ignored the cold sweat forming on his
forehead, filled his glass with water and took a sip.

His uncle’s glance briefly touched his
grandmother before shifting to Ron. “I’m happy we’re finally having
this talk, Ronald. Keeping things from you was never our
intention.” He put his glass down and leaned back against his
chair, his expression hardening. “But for a while there, we weren’t
sure whether you’d outgrow your recklessness and rebellious habits.
Your grandmother, however, always believed in you. She used to say
you just needed time.”

Like hell she did. From her constant
lectures, she’d always thought he was a great disappointment to her
and the family. Even after taking the position of managing director
of the Californian branch, she never stopped looking over his
shoulders. Ron shot her a look, but he didn’t say anything.

“You’ve turned out to be an upright young
man,” his uncle continued, “a man trusted and respected by his
peers. The family business will be safe in your hands.”

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair. A
week ago, his uncle had doubted he could pull off a multi-million
dollar contract, today he was the new wonder boy. Why did he feel
as though he was being fattened up for the slaughter? “I appreciate
what you’re saying, sir, but I’m more interested in what Doyle was
doing here, why he felt the need to talk to the two of you about
Frankie, which, by the way, is a lie. There’s no warrant for
Frankie’s arrest.”

“We suspected as much. Tell him, Gregory,”
Penelope Darden’s voice whipped out.

“Ryan came here to collect money he’s owed,”
his uncle explained.

Ron choked on his drink. “Are we having
financial problems you guys forgot to tell me about? And since when
do we borrow money from men like him?”

Annoyance flickered in Gregory’s eyes. “We
don’t. Your father did.”

Ron’s stomach dropped. “My father?”

“Not for himself, you understand,” Penelope
rushed to reassure Ron. “Your father was a thrifty, hardworking
man. He gave up being a firefighter for your mother. When he
learned that Nina was pregnant with you, he enrolled in college,
earned his business degree and worked his way up the ranks here at
Neumann before we sent him to California to manage the branch
there. You can continue now, Gregory.”

Gregory took a long swig out of his glass and
put it on the side table. “Nina never learned how to manage money.
She was convinced she’d get a break in the show business if she
wore the right clothes and jewelry, attended the right parties,
things your father couldn’t always afford. Mother often covered
most of her expenses, but Nina refused to curb her spending.”

“I now know it was my fault,” Penelope added
in a reflective tone. “I spoiled her and she expected your father
to pick up where I left off. He adored her and was willing to do
anything to keep her happy.” She nodded at Gregory and sunk back
into her seat.

“But what he didn’t know was how much she was
using company charge accounts or that the Californian branch was
sinking deeper and deeper into debt,” Gregory continued.

Ron’s gaze swung between his grandmother and
uncle. “What does all this have to do with Doyle and the money my
father owed him?”

“To cover what Nina had done, your father got
involved with Doyle and his get-rich-quick investments. Or should
we say insurance scams. By the time we found out, he owed the man a
quarter of a million dollars. We offered to pay his debt, but your
father said no. He created the problem, he’d fix it, he insisted.
But Doyle didn’t want money. He wanted Carlyle House instead. The
house was worth about half-a-million at the time and he was willing
to pay the difference.” Gregory drained his drink. “Your mother
refused. She knew Doyle had targeted your father because he was
obsessed with owning Carlyle House. Even when we were young, we’d
catch him peering in from outside. She swore she’d rather see the
house torched than in the hands of Doyle.”