Tell Me No Lies (4 page)

His brother the mayor included.

He turned the sound down as a live shot of the Baker home replaced his brother's overeager face. Limousines had begun to arrive. Hank saw Joe Klimet in the background, checking invitations. Two guys from patrol were standing at attention on the sidelines, faces sober, gazes moving over the incoming throng dressed in suits, sequins, and silk.

What was Alexandra Jane Baker doing at this moment? Something about mat woman wasn't right.

Then she was there in the picture, leading a local news crew through the house. She wasn't wearing that body-hugging sliver of a dress, so he gathered this had been taped earlier.

Sound off, he watched her in pantomime. Her high cheekbones and wide, generous mouth looked good on TV, but there was something cold about her. Something stiff and held back. As though she were hiding the most important part.

His eyes narrowed. Secrets were something he knew all about. What secrets was Alexandra Jane hiding?

And did they have anything to do with Luka Kole?

Hie camera panned a room, some kind of den, even though it seemed big enough to fit two of his bedrooms into it.

He blinked, peered closely into the TV, but whatever he'd seen was gone, and the broadcast returned to the live shot of the Baker house and arriving guests.

His stomach growled, and he thought longingly of the supper Rose was wanning in the kitchen. Maybe he hadn't seen anything. Maybe he'd imagined it

Silently he cursed Parnell for suckering him in with this case, opened the closet, and found a clean shirt and another tie. Dinner would have to wait.

Whether she liked it or not, A. J. Baker was about to see him again.

***

Mikail Petrov turned off the television in the back of the limo. The little report on tonight's opening event had been carried by ABC's national newscast, which pleased him. Soon the whole country would be buying his Renaissance Oil.

"Big night tonight, Mr. Petrov." Jeffrey Greer, the assistant to the assistant undersecretary for Economic Affairs at the State Department gave him an ingratiating smile.

"Oh, yes," Miki Petrov said. "Big night for everyone," He settled back against the leather seat, satisfied that everything was off to a good start. Not bad for a kid from the Moscow ghetto.

But he had always been smart, always done what had to be done, no looking back. And now that he'd taken care of every loose end, he could relax. Nothing stood in his way. After all, money talked in the new Russia, and the man who brought Russian oil to America would have a lot to say. People would listen. Rich, influential people. In the end, he'd have what he'd always wanted. Power.

Perhaps he'd share it with the beautiful Miss Baker.

He looked down at the heavy lump of gold on the little finger of his right hand. Three full-ounce Krugeirands had been melted down into a ring that was so big it swallowed his knuckle. He smiled, admiring the shine and the sheer size of it.

"We set up a photo op with the governor," Greer said, flipping through a notebook. He was a young man, eager to please, with dark hair slicked close to his head and the blue suit and striped tie that comprised the perfectly correct uniform. He was the kind of man Miki knew how to break in fifteen minutes. The kind with too much at stake, career, reputation, who had never suffered, never been tempered in the heat of adversity. These things made him weak and malleable. And useful.

Miki watched in silent amusement as Greer adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, a frequent gesture. "And the mayor, that Bonner guy, has been a pain in the ass about pictures. So you'll probably have to do a meet and greet with him, too."

Miki shrugged, not caring. He liked having his picture taken. He was an important man, after all. "Fine. Whatever is necessary."

"Good. I've worked out the schedule with A. J., and you should still have time to enjoy yourself."

He intended to, and Miss Baker was high on his list of pleasures. She appealed to him, as did the promise in her eyes. Something he could guess but couldn't quite name, like fire blazing beneath frost.

She was young enough to be his daughter if he'd had one, but she had a maturity, a hardness he found intriguing. No doubt she felt the same. He'd never had trouble with women. Almost sixty, he prided himself on looking fifteen years younger. Trim and fit, he had style.
People
Magazine had named him one of their top fifty bachelors two years in a row.

He twisted the Krugerrand ring, enjoying the weight of it on his hand. Tonight he would press Alex. He would see if that cool, knowing look in her eyes was just an empty promise. She would be ready, excited from the success of her event, flush with vodka, exhausted after the strain of playing hostess.

And he would see that she relaxed.

He smiled, completely satisfied. Oh, yes, he'd see to it.

3

When Hank arrived, Sokanan's WBRN studio was in a lull between the six and ten o'clock news broadcasts. He introduced himself to the guard at the reception desk, was escorted into the work area by a producer, and eventually handed off to an intern, who made him a copy of the Baker house tour, including all the B roll the pickup shots of backgrounds and extras that might or might not have ended up in the final piece aired that night.

In a small viewing room Hank went through the tapes, starting with the edited broadcast. He quickly found the section that had caught his eye: A. J. Baker in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase crammed with books, curios, and pictures. Behind her sat a framed photo of a man and a girl. Something about the man had seemed familiar, but even when Hank slowed the tape to stop-frame speed, he couldn't be sure if it was Luka Kole. He ran through the rest of the footage but found nothing else of this particular scene. Imagining things? Probably.

Only one way to find out.

Half an hour later, he swung into the drive leading to the Baker home. Peter Newcomb was at the entrance, stopping vehicles and checking them in. He signaled for Hank to roll down his window.

"Didn't know you were working this gig, Bonner. You're not on the list." Newcomb held up his clipboard. A thirty-year veteran, he was nearing retirement, a balding, big-bellied stereotype. All he needed was a donut.

Hank shrugged. "I'm working a case."

"Here? Tonight? Are you crazy?"

Hank didn't feel like explaining. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Pete." He headed toward the house, Pete's shout of protest lost in the sound of the car engine.

He had a brief argument with the parking valet, who insisted Hank hand over his keys, but his badge quickly put an end to that. Hank parked his car where he could get to it easily and strolled into the house.

Joe Klimet met him inside the door. "What are you doing here, Bonner?" He eyed Hank suspiciously, and Hank thought briefly about lying. But he'd have to fill out a report, and Klimet would find out anyway.

"Chasing down a lead."

Klimet's eyes narrowed. "What lead?"

Hank bit down on a rush of annoyance. "Tell you if it pans out."

Hank tried to pass, but Klimet blocked his way. "You make trouble here tonight, you'll have the whole town on your ass."

"That a threat, Joe?"

"It's a goddamn promise" Klimet flashed his adolescent grin "Hank." He pivoted to let Hank pass. "Don't go screwing this up for everyone," he called to Hank's back. "This town needs a boost."

Christ, if he had a nickel for every time he'd heard that in the last month, he, too, could afford the flower-covered oil rig dominating Alexandra Jane's entrance. Renaissance Oil was a gilt-wrapped gift waiting to be opened by everyone in Sokanan. He just hoped that when they did, the package didn't explode in their faces.

He navigated around the sculpture and plunged into the crowd. Waiters in hard hats and yellow jumpsuits embroidered with the blue Renaissance Oil
R
passed trays of food and drink. Hank snagged a couple of stuffed mushrooms and chomped them down while he oriented himself.

The garden she'd shown him earlier was to the right. Maybe the den was on the left. He strolled in that direction. The house was crowded; he heard snatches of what sounded like French and Russian in addition to plain old-fashioned English. He found a large living room with a photographer set up in the corner. The governor was there, shaking hands, surrounded by several aides in conservative suits. And in the midst of it all stood the mysterious A. J. Baker.

Hank paused to watch her, compelled by something he couldn't name a shimmer of hair, the curve of a shoulder. He'd always had a soft spot for self-assured women, from his mother on down. Even his wife, who'd been so self-assured she'd ultimately discovered no need for him, was someone he remembered with fondness, if not regret. Alexandra Jane seemed stamped from a similar mold, but right now more sensual, her head bent to hear something the governor said, then thrown back in a laugh, the light gleaming off her silvery dress.

A tall, thin man stood on the other side of her. He wore a smooth black jacket and a black turtleneck that draped his slender torso like silk. The effect was high fashion, not informal, the trendy look completed by a thick head of long, silver-gray hair dramatically swept back from his forehead, the light hair a contrast to. heavy black brows. In another situation, Hank might have pegged him as an artist or a thug trying to look like one but Hank knew who he was from the long media coverage of Renaissance Oil. Miki Petrov. One arm wrapped around Miss Baker's shoulders.

She looked up at Petrov, the angle calculated to set off her face to its best advantage. Hank saw Petrov fall for it.

Interesting. Something going on there, below the surface.

Were they lovers?

They made a dramatic picture, Petrov's darkness against her frosty glimmer. Dramatic but unsettling since Petrov was old enough to be her father.

Not that Miss Baker's sex life was any of his business.

Without warning, she glanced toward him, and he ducked behind a wall. He wasn't eager to reveal his presence, especially after telling her he wouldn't be (here tonight. Besides, he hadn't come to see her, not really. He'd come to check out that photo.

He scanned the layout, picked a direction, and saw the mayor of Sokanan approaching. Damn.

"Hank!"

Too late to run, too late to hide.

Benton Bonner dashed up, his crisp navy suit, ocean blue shirt, and red tie the perfect political costume. And from the look on his face, he was as surprised to see Hank as everyone else.

"Hey, Ben."

Ben frowned. "What are you up to? Mom said you weren't working the party. What's going on?"

Hank repressed the flash of irritation his older brother always seemed to arouse. "Nothing."

"Then why aren't you home with Mom and the kids?"

The irritation deepened. "Last time I looked, I didn't have to answer to you, mayor or no."

Ben's face reddened, and a tiny bolt of guilt jabbed Hank. No matter how annoying Ben got, he'd never pulled rank.

"I just meant "

"I know what you meant."

Ben drew in a sharp breath. "Look, can't we even say hello anymore?"

Hank shrugged, "Doesn't look like it."

"You know, if Mom sold the farm, she and the kids could move into a normal house, a place she could take care of. Then you wouldn't have to "

"She's not selling, and you damn well know it." Hank gritted his teeth, knowing the argument chapter and verse. "That place has been in Dad's family for two hundred years."

"Well, Dad is gone, and two centuries is long enough. Look, she can't make it anymore. You know it, I know it. There's cutthroat competition on the wholesale level and cheap imports flooding the market. What our workers earn in an hour is a week's salary to the Chinese. No one can match their price. And you can't make a living selling apples to tourists."

"Ben " He clamped down on angry words and, shaking his head, tried to walk away. But Ben grabbed his arm, swinging him into a corner.

"If you'd just let me show you the figures. Land around here is going to boom in light of this oil deal. I've already talked to several developers. She'll never get a better price. Hank, it will be a small fortune. More than enough to set her up carefree for the rest of her life."

"I don't have time for this, Ben."

As usual, Ben was oblivious to anything but his own agenda. "Make time. Talk to her. She listens to you."

"Only because she knows I'm a disinterested party."

"What is that supposed to mean? Are you implying I have some sort of backdoor deal in the works?" Fury flashed in Ben's eyes. "This has nothing to do with me. It's for her, for the kids, even for you, dammit"

"Right And as mayor, development has always been your top priority, not widows and orphans."

Ben's voice tightened with anger. "You think I'm going to get some kind of political windfall from selling Apple House?"

"You always said you wanted to go to Washington."

Ben looked as if he'd been slugged, and Hank started to retract what he'd said Christ he had a big, stupid mouth, and Ben brought out the worst in him but his bromer leaned in, his voice low and full of venom. "And you always said you weren't a quitter."