The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance (21 page)

Logan came and stood beside her.

“What an incredible view of Central Park,” she murmured in open admiration.

“Nothing like the view from the mountains back home.”

“You said back home. Isn’t this your home?” she asked curious about his statement.

Pensively he replied, “There are two types of homes – the one where you live, and the one where your heart resides. They’re not necessarily the same. It’s a fortunate man who lives where his heart is.”

“That sounds a bit maudlin.”

“It’s just the reality of modern life. We’ve become nomads, pitching our tents in one place or another for whatever reason, often separated from our loved ones by thousands of miles. Just as often separated by oceans. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any point to it.”

The last remnants of daylight were making way for evening. The city was being lit accordingly. Manhattan was, as always, spectacular. It was a great place to live if you lived well, or even reasonably well. But there was much truth in what Logan had just said, Lauren mused. It applied to so many people, so many families that had been ripped apart because of adverse political circumstances. She herself had relatives scattered all over the globe, some whom she hadn’t seen for years. She doubted they would ever return to the island, find the strength within themselves to undergo yet another major upheaval, because after living abroad for so long, it would be a major upheaval for them. A South African she dated when she was at university in London had once said he could never return to South Africa to live. “You can never go back,” he had told her. She wondered if Logan could.

“Do you think you might come back home to live when you retire?” she asked him.

“It’s not impossible. Come, let me show you to your room. I’ll fix us a drink while you get settled.”

He had a vodka tonic waiting for her when she returned to the living room.

“You are remarkable,” she smiled as he handed it to her.

“Why do you say that?”

“You remember what I drink. You only ever got me a drink once.”

“Call it selective memory,” he smiled faintly. He clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to New York.”

“Here’s to New York,” she echoed uncertainly.

“So,” he asked, “Have you thought about what you might like to do while you’re here?”

Lauren hesitated. In her rush to get away, she hadn’t given it a thought.

“There are some decent shows on right now,” he suggested. “I have tickets to one, if you’re interested.”

Lauren wondered how to tell him she found theater boring for the most part. “Do
you
like the theater?” she asked cautiously.

“Not particularly.”

She gave him a quizzical glance. “Then why did you suggest it?”

“Just thought you might enjoy a good play.” What he omitted to say was he thought the less time they were alone, the better.

“Besides,” he added, “It’s not something you get to do every day. I live here. I can avoid the theater any time I like.”

“Since we’re being honest, I’m not fond of theater either. Let’s give that one a miss,” Lauren admitted with relief.

Well, that’s one potential moment of suffering off the list, Logan thought eyeing her. Curious to know if she also shared his dislike for opera he asked, “What about opera?”

Lauren’s eyes lit up. “I love opera! Are you taking me to the opera? Logan, you are wonderful!”

He thought about her featherweight carry-on.

“Did you bring something to wear to the opera?” he asked with dread.

He could not believe he was actually arriving at the confounded Metropolitan Opera House. Hadn’t he told his personal assistant to toss the invitation? Luckily Bella had done no such thing, though not so luckily now he thought about it dolefully. He would have been happy enough to oblige Lauren with a classical concert or something of that ilk if that was her heart’s desire, but La Traviata of all things? He detested opera! Worst of all, he had been forced into black tie for the occasion. What other unpalatable surprises did the woman have up her sleeve?

He glanced at her, she enthralled with the experience, stunning in a simple red floor length sheath that slid over her slim body. Deciding that, if nothing else, made the experience marginally endurable, he took her arm and they entered the lobby.

“So, here we are at the Met,” he muttered straightening his bowtie.

“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” she gushed, rewarding him with a light peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Logan. You’re a darling! I can’t tell you how much I love La Traviata.”

THIRTY-ONE

A steaming cup of coffee froze midway to Lauren’s lips as Logan said, “There’s something we need to talk about.” His frown deepened as he flipped the omelet out of the pan onto a platter and placed it on the breakfast table declaring firmly, “I really don’t like opera.”

Confused, Lauren gaped at him. “Why did you take me to the opera if you didn’t want to go?” she asked shakily.

Logan shrugged dourly. “Put it down to a moment of weakness.”

Suddenly Lauren laughed. “You’re sweet, you know that?” she teased as relief that she had been spared an inquisition came spilling out. “A bit of a curmudgeon, but deep down you’re a real old softy.”

Logan sat and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Softy or not, there will be no more opera for this guy.”

“Okay, I won’t drag you off to the opera again if you hate it so much,” she promised. “And I won’t cajole you into taking me shopping either,” she added with a devilish look.

“That wasn’t as horrific as I feared it would be,” he admitted grudgingly as he served the omelet. “Little more than half an hour to choose a dress and a pair of shoes is a record. You’re fast. I’ll give you that much.”

“That’s nice of you to say,” Lauren replied with a deadpan face as she attacked her omelet. “This is good,” she remarked after the first mouthful. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a chef.”

“You’re not the only one full of surprises,” he retorted taking a bite.

“Oh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“For one thing, your rather disconcerting passion for opera. But never mind that, you’re forgiven. I wish you could stay longer.”

Lauren stared at him in confusion. The weekend was almost at an end and he had yet to even attempt to hold her hand. She was sure something had gelled at the opera, but they had simply gone for dinner after, returned to the apartment, and then he had bid her a rather aloof goodnight. At one point, it had crossed her mind he might be gay, though somehow that didn’t fit.

“Think you could fly back Monday morning instead?” he asked to her further surprise.

“I can’t, Logan,” she stammered. “I have deadlines.”

“I understand,” he said unconvincingly.

“No, I really do understand,” he hastened to say on seeing her doubtful look. “But that leaves us with just a few hours. Is there anything you’d like to do today?”

“No, nothing really. I’m enjoying just hanging out here. Unless there’s something in particular you want to do.”

“No, there’s nothing in particular I want to do,” he replied with a peculiar glance. “We can just relax here. Order in Chinese or something if we get peckish.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed, wondering what was really on his mind.

They had no sooner finished breakfast than he jumped up and began to clear the table. Lauren scurried behind him to the kitchen with the rest of the breakfast things. Puzzled as to what the rush was, she passed him the plates as, seemingly preoccupied with his thoughts, he stacked the dishwasher. “Lauren, I can only take being a gentleman so far,” he suddenly said.

“What do you mean?” she asked, his meaning not quite dawning.

“Do I have to spell it out? I’m a healthy, normal man and you’re a desirable woman.” He put the last plate in the dishwasher and turned around. “We made a deal. No casual trysts. But it’s been tough having you around.”

A flush covered Lauren’s face as she looked at him looking at her. She wanted him almost beyond endurance. Lying in his guestroom sleeplessly each night, she had fantasized about being in that bed down the hall that seemed too large for one person; making love, waking up with him in the morning and making love again. Now she could see her desire for him reflected in his eyes and the little restraint that was left gave way as he came closer.

She melted into his kiss, her knees weakening as the need for him surged through her, awakening every part of her. Then disconcerted by the intensity of her feelings, she pulled away. “Logan, we’re going too fast,” she murmured barely audibly.

He pulled her back to him, his voice husky with desire. “What do you mean we’re going too fast?” Without waiting for an answer, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her until she clung to him. He let her go.

“Do you really think this is too fast?” he asked, his hazel eyes on fire as they locked with hers. “Lauren,” he pleaded softly, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t exactly a fling, not for me anyway. I’ve realized a few things this weekend. One of them is I’ve been looking for you all my life.”

Tears came to her eyes as she realized it couldn’t work, no matter how much she wanted it. “Logan, it’s too complicated,” she explained weakly. “Our lives are different. We don’t even live in the same country. Besides, there are things…”

He tilted her face upward and looked at her. She seemed fragile, fearful of the thing he knew could come between them if they allowed it to. He held her close for a long time, understanding the reason for her reservation, yet unable to say so.

“Let’s not throw this away, Lauren,” he said at last. “Maybe there are things we’ll never be able to share, but that’s all right as long as there’s trust between us. As for not living in the same country, we can work that out. Just please give it a chance. I don’t want to lose you now I’ve found you.”

THIRTY-TWO

Lunch hour was in full swing at a restaurant near the capital building as the downtown professionals poured in, a few having to wait for tables that were rapidly filling. Already seated and served, Tony Martin played with the food on his plate thinking about the task at hand. Now and then he came back to the present and observed the other patrons with interest. From the snatches of conversation he could overhear, they appeared, by and large, to be professionals. Martin checked his watch. It was just short of one, the end of lunchtime for some, the middle for others. He assumed the majority of the lunch crowd would be back in their offices by two. He would wait and see how busy the streets were at that time. He made a mental note to ask Smith if the session of the Legislature was likely to have media coverage.

The temperature had peaked by the time Martin finished lunch and headed towards the capital building. His shirt was already clinging to his back from the quarter-mile walk when he arrived at the square where the old Colonial building with its red brick façade had stood for more than two hundred years. Martin paused at the bottom of the steps leading up to the arched entrance, noting the two men standing smartly on either side. They were meticulously uniformed in the colors of the island’s police force. Martin climbed the steps and introduced himself. He explained his reason for wanting to see the inside of the building. He was a university professor writing a book. His specialty was old Colonial architecture. Martin repressed a smirk as he spun his yarn. He had gone to great lengths to dress the part – flop hat, dark glasses – Indiana Jones right down to the khakis. Enough of his face was hidden to make it unidentifiable, should the men happen to remember his visit.

As Smith had said, getting into the capital building when no legislative sessions were running was no major feat. The policemen were more than happy to oblige him with a look around. Led by one, Martin stepped into the subdued lighting of the main assembly hall where members of the island’s Senate and House of Representatives were soon to meet. Despite the lack of air conditioning and the now stilled ceiling fans, it was considerably cooler than outside. Martin looked around. It was a stately old building, and beautifully preserved. At the end of a carpeted aisle running the length of the hall was the Speaker’s podium. Behind the podium hung a gallery of portraits. The illustrious assembly of faces staring back at Martin included the governor of the island, the head of state and former heads of state. A u-shaped railing of highly polished dark mahogany framed a balcony overlooking the hall. “What’s upstairs?” Martin asked looking upward.

“Nothing but rooms that used to be offices in the old days,” the policeman explained.

“So there’s never anyone here except when the Houses are in session?”

“No, sir. Only security.”

Martin asked permission to go upstairs and take a look.

His footsteps echoed throughout the building as Martin climbed the old wood stairs and walked the length of the balcony to the area directly above the Speaker’s podium. From where he stood, he faced the main entrance through which the Prime Minister would arrive. It seemed like a perfect shot, but on closer observation, Martin knew it was impossible. He would be using a silencer, but the second Freeman fell, the entire assembly would look around, then upwards. Martin viewed the closed doors on either side of the balcony. They held the possibility of a hiding place within. But, Martin decided, he would be spotted before he could run for the cover of any of the rooms.

He retraced his steps, stopping at the last door. “Is it okay if I take a look inside here?” he called down to the guard. The guard waved his consent and Martin entered the room. A musty smell bore evidence it was seldom, if ever, used. He noticed there was only one window. It faced east. The main entrance was on the north side of the building, so the window would serve no purpose. Martin stroked his chin evaluating the obstacles. Disappointed, he went back down to the main hall, thanked the policeman, and left.

He was descending the steps to the square deep in thought when a building across the street caught his eye. He wondered why he had failed to notice it before. His eyes quickly swept the five-story edifice, stopping at a small window at the center of the fifth floor. Martin studied the window. Remarkably, it offered a direct shot – from a distance of approximately two hundred yards. Curiously his eyes traveled downward from the window to a brass plaque by the front door. He crossed the street for a closer look. The plaque read
Foster & Foster, Attorneys at Law
. Martin surmised getting into the building through the back entrance would probably be the safest bet, thought that could not be done during the day, he knew. Furtively he glanced behind him to see if the guards over at the capital building were observing him. Engrossed in conversation, they were oblivious as he continued down the street for a few paces and turned into an alley separating the law offices from the building on its left.