Ace Is Wild (37 page)

Daniel didn’t buy it. Big surprise.

“Why would Patrice want me dead after all these years?” he wanted to know.

Vivi hadn’t gotten over the fact that he’d answered his phone after seeing her number on the display, let alone that he was actually carrying on a conversation with her. Making a good argument was currently beyond her ability. “I don’t know” was all she could come up with.

“You don’t know, or is this more of your psychic rambling?”

“
This
has nothing to do with my psychic ability. Patrice was there at both of the first two attempts on your life.”

“The bachelor auction was publicized, and anyone could have seen me at Cohan’s. I was there a couple hours before Hatch and Flip showed up. Plenty of time for someone to call them.”

“You just don’t want to believe your judgment is that bad, Ace. If you put your personal feelings aside—”

“Are you sure my personal feelings are the issue? Maybe you’re jealous. And don’t call me Ace.”

All the breath leaked out of Vivi’s lungs, and she rubbed a hand over her chest in a futile attempt to ease the ache there. He didn’t want to talk about her feelings, but he’d use them as an excuse to bury his head in the sand so he didn’t have to examine his own feelings where Patrice was concerned? Fine. It was his life.

“Think whatever you want.
Daniel.
The facts are right there in front of your face. If you choose to ignore the truth that’s your business.”

“The truth as you see it.”

“You don’t want to believe me because I lied to you, I get that. You can ignore the possibility and hope I’m wrong, or you can do what I did. Look at everything without your feelings getting in the way.”

“It won’t matter without a reason,” Daniel said. “Give me a motive, and maybe I’ll consider that a friend I’ve known for years wants me dead.”

“Fine,” Vivi shot back, and disconnected. Mr. Show Me wanted a motive, she’d get him one the only way she knew how. By making a little social call on Patrice Hanlon.

Chapter 25

VIVI THOUGHT PATRICE WAS TRYING TO KILL HIM.
Daniel thought Vivi was a nutcase. If Patrice hadn’t tried to kill him after her brother was murdered in prison, why would she want to kill him now? It made no sense. Hell, none of it made sense. The whole thing had been a cluster fuck from day one. Every lead was a dead end, every ploy he attempted turned into a
Three Stooges
routine, and even when he got a break, nothing broke. This last claim of Vivi’s was just the icing on the cake. Trying to steer the investigation in Patrice’s direction was like saying Bambi’s mother had shot herself to make deer hunters look bad.

The trouble was, he was fresh out of ideas. He didn’t have a clue where to look next. Flip was in federal prison, keeping his mouth shut—at least in the interrogation room. Hatch was still at large. The puppet master was lying low.

Daniel had gone home, mostly because he refused to run anymore. But it wouldn’t have hurt his feelings if there’d been another attempt to kill him. Hell, he was practically begging for it. The house was anything but secure. Repairs had begun, the front wall framed in but covered only with flimsy plastic. Squirrels and raccoons might have issues with the plastic, but Hatch should have no trouble coming in after him. And Daniel was ready.

There were weapons stashed all over the house, and if all else failed, he could use his fists. Vivi thought only the weak-minded resorted to violence, but she’d never seen him this way, all but choking on frustration and impatience, not to mention the other things that were bubbling around inside him, emotions he didn’t want to admit to feeling in the first place. He wanted this thing over with, wanted to get on with his life. But a nice, sweaty fistfight would have gone a long way to working off some of the pressure.

There hadn’t been any more murder attempts. He didn’t believe the threat had passed, but if he couldn’t flush out the soldiers and get one of them to lead him to the mastermind, he was doomed to spend God knew how much time looking over his shoulder.

And then Vivi called with her wild theory. Much as he hated to admit it, she was right—but not about Patrice. Vivi was right about going back through the case, removing himself and all his preconceptions, and looking at the facts again. Maybe some new angle would present itself—and okay, he was going to look at Patrice while he was at it. But only to rule her out.

It still felt ridiculous. Patrice had no criminal record, no ties to organized crime—except her uncle, Joe Flynn, who had absolutely no use for her, since she fraternized with the enemy. And after all the years and all the kindnesses Patrice had shown him, Daniel thought, here he was wondering if she wanted him dead. If she found out, his suspicion would be a worse betrayal that what Vivi had done to him.

But what if Vivi was right? He hated the thought, and he wasn’t too happy with Vivi for planting it in his head. But the agent part of him kept whispering that trust was a mistake, and the lawyer part of him agreed. And since the guilt-ridden part of him knew he couldn’t be objective until he ruled Patrice out, he headed for the only resource that came to mind. Flip might be acting like he took a vow of silence, but Daniel was prepared to do the talking, starting with the big question.

“Ever heard of Patrice Hanlon?” he asked, barely waiting for Flip to settle into his chair in the little interview room at the prison.

Flip just sat there, sullen, nonresponsive, clearly not faring well in jail, judging by the black eye and split lip. He kept his gaze level, but Daniel swore he saw a flicker of . . . something in Flip’s eyes. He picked up his cell and called Mike.

“Yo,” Mike said. Mike wasn’t big on small talk.

Neither was Daniel at the moment. “Run Patrice Hanlon,” he told Mike, his eyes on Flip, waiting for him to blink. “Maiden name Patrice Flynn. You won’t find a criminal record, but I’m looking for something else. Call me with the results.”

Flip blinked. He fidgeted, too, cuffs and shackles rattling. “She’s my cousin,” he said. “Second cousins, actually, on my mother’s side.”

“Hatch?”

“What about Hatch?”

“How does he know Patrice?”

“He doesn’t,” Flip said. “And anyway, what does Patrice have to do with anything? I thought you were looking for the guy behind the contract on you.”

Daniel sat back in his chair, asking himself the same question Flip had asked him, and wondering the same thing Flip was wondering. What did any of this have to do with Patrice? Unless she’d suddenly developed a split personality, he still had no clue why she’d want him dead.

“So who is behind the contract, and why does he want me dead?” Daniel asked Flip. But he’d lost his momentum, given Flip time to get his composure back, and to remember what was at stake for him.

Flip crossed his arms over his chest and kept his mouth shut.

“You’re really going to spend the rest of your life in jail for someone else?”

“At least I’ll have the rest of my life.”

“You’re forgetting this is a federal crime. Massachusetts may not have the death penalty, but the U.S. government hasn’t made as much progress.”

Flip turned pasty.

“Your new complexion doesn’t really go with prison orange,” Daniel said. “But don’t worry about it. They have a nice doctor on staff here. He’ll be happy to put you out of your misery.”

“Tell them not to put a poem on my gravestone,” Flip said, looking like the bravado was making him feel better. “I hate poetry.”

“Funny.”

“And nothing too heavy for my last meal. There’re few things sadder than a fat corpse.”

“Who’s behind the contract?”

Flip shrugged. “The one-armed man? Ma Barker? Maybe Jack the Ripper stopped in for a visit— No, Jack likes to do his own dirty work.”

Daniel half rose from his seat, hands fisted. And his phone rang. He kept his eyes steady on Flip’s while he pulled his phone from the holder on his belt, glanced down at it, and let it go to voicemail. He didn’t recognize the number, but he was grateful to whoever it was since the call had kept him from throttling Flip. Throttling Flip would have been satisfying, but Flip’s lawyer would have a field day with it, and the balance of power would shift away from Daniel.

Not that Daniel had all that much power. His only real ace in the hole was the death penalty, and that wasn’t working. Yet. A few more days in prison and—

His phone rang again, the same unfamiliar number. This time Daniel needed the distraction, so he stepped out into the hallway to answer it. He listened very carefully, just as the caller instructed, then clipped the phone back on his belt.

The guard was getting ready to escort Flip back to his cell when Daniel entered the interview room again. Daniel shoved Flip back down. Flip missed the chair.

“Police brutality,” he shrieked, hauling himself back to his chair. “My civil rights have been violated. I’m going to sue you and the government. I’m going to be a millionaire.”

“For falling on your ass?” Daniel snorted. “You’ll never win a lawsuit with that. Especially since you don’t have any witnesses.”

Flip looked over at the guard, who’d resumed his station by the door.

The guard held Flip’s gaze for a beat, then turned his head to stare off into the far corner. If he’d covered his eyes, it wouldn’t have made the message any clearer.

“Now,” Daniel said, placing his hands palms down on the table and leaning forward, “you’re going to answer my questions.”

Flip rolled his chair backward until he hit the wall. The guard headed for the door.

“Stick around,” Daniel said to him, keeping his gaze level on Flip’s. “Somebody needs to make sure I don’t kill him.”

PATRICE LIVED IN BEACON HILL, IN A REDBRICK AND wrought-iron, ivy-swathed town house along a steep, narrow street with brick sidewalks and perpetually burning streetlights. Louisburg Square was within walking distance, and there were tasteful boutiques and highbrow cafés along the main thoroughfares. The entire neighborhood would have breathed a collective gasp of horror if Vivi had tried to open for business anywhere within five miles of Beacon Street. As it was, she half-expected someone from the historical commission to race up and tell her only tourists and residents were allowed to infiltrate the enclave. And the residents were only tolerated as a necessary evil, as long as they didn’t dare to change more than the baking soda in their refrigerators.

She hated to admit it, but Daniel would have been right at home in this neighborhood—the nine-to-five Daniel, anyway, the Daniel who wore designer suits and patronized charity events with a view to running for public office.

The Daniel who preferred to solve his problems by shooting, beating, or exploding his way out of them would as soon cut off his right testicle as live in Beacon Hill. But that Daniel was only a temporary throwback.

Maybe she should call Mattel, see if there were any licensing possibilities. Barbie might stick with Ken, but real women everywhere would take one look at a Daniel doll and probably have catfights in the doll aisle of the toy store. And if she was any judge of female behavior—and she was—it’d be FBI Daniel rather than Federal Prosecutor Daniel that was to blame for the bitch slapping and hair pulling. And speaking of bitch slapping . . .

Vivi climbed the steps to Patrice’s front door, which probably cost as much as her entire house. The sidelights were stained glass, the appointments were polished brass, and the statement was pretentious. Patrice, when she answered the door, looked anything but. She wore jeans, a sleeveless cotton sweater, and a pristine white bandage on her left upper arm, and her feet were bare. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and with her freckled face almost completely bare of makeup, she looked like the she ought to be the maid or babysitter.

Her carriage and tone, when she spoke, were lady of the manor, all the way. “Can I help you?” she asked politely. And then the recognition came into her eyes, and everything about her sharpened. “Aren’t you . . .”

“Vivienne Foster. We met at Cohan’s the night you were, uh . . .” She made a vague gesture.

Patrice’s right hand flew to the bandage on her left arm. “I was a little out of it when Daniel introduced us.”

“Not so out of it that you missed the part where he said I’m a psychic.”

Patrice took that in, one eyebrow inching up. “Why would that matter to me?”

“That’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question, isn’t it?”