All the Way (13 page)

“It's a self-contained society with schools, healthcare, and employment opportunities. We govern ourselves. We have our own laws and tribal council.”

“Would you take me there someday? When this is all over?”

He watched her, wondering how wise it was to plan the future.

Payton dropped back in the hay. “It's quiet here.”

“You thinking of giving up the glitz and glamour and becoming the daughter Tom and Lila never had?”

“Is this a reporter's question?”

“Adriano's asking. Not the reporter.”

She shook her head. “It's a nice vacation, but I wouldn't want to live here permanently.” She became very quiet, the silence swelling between them.

“What?” Adriano asked.

“What happens after I testify against Sherman? When the trial is over, the story has been written, what do I do? It's not like I can go back to my job.”

Adriano didn't have a good answer for her. His testosterone offered some very distinct scenarios, but he didn't dare consider continuing their relationship long-term. They were such different people with different career paths. Being together would require one of them to move. He'd made a comfortable home and a good living in Chicago. Moving wasn't on his radar. Relocating would be too much for Payton with all the stress of what she was currently going through. He could never ask it of her. The fact he was even trying to find a solution that would allow them to indulge their attraction spoke volumes. This was unfamiliar territory for a man who kept a supply of available women always ready to rekindle a noncommittal relationship in every big city—and some foreign countries.

“You have the whole world open to you,” he offered. He didn't like the despair reflected in her eyes. “What about your brother?”

“He has his career and his family.”

“You'll figure it out,” he said. The words were meant to comfort, but they sounded shallow even to him. “You're in a bad place.”

She sat up. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not offering solutions. For just listening and acknowledging how I feel.”

He put the half-eaten sandwich aside and moved closer. He simply couldn't resist this woman. Her unique mixture of tough resolve and innocent vulnerability enticed him. Her unassuming beauty made it hard to keep his hands off her. Stroking her, petting her, kissing her consumed his mind the second she entered his space. He leaned in for a kiss, but Payton pressed her palm against his mouth.

“We had this discussion last night.”

When Lila, he remembered with a grimace, had interrupted them.

“We're not horizontal, so there's no excuse,” she told him.

“Do we need an excuse?”

“People do things in the face of danger they wouldn't ordinarily do.”

“Really? How do you know? I've been in the face of danger hundreds of times, and I've never wanted to kiss my primary source before.”

“We'll regret it when things go back to normal.”

“You're making excuses, angel.”

“I'm keeping a level head.”

“Since you jumped in the SUV, we've done things your way. It's time to start doing things my way.” He wrapped his fingers in her hair, pulling her to him, not stopping until she was underneath him with their bodies pressed tightly together. He angled his head and leaned in to possess her lips, because complete submission was the only thing that would satisfy him. His tongue probed hungrily, releasing the passion he'd been denying himself.

She let him lead her tongue in lavish designs. She was ice in his veins. Kissing Payton opened him up to a level of intimacy he'd never experienced. He wanted to do anything, everything, to keep her with him . . . to have more of her.

He cupped her breasts, enjoying how her head fell back in an open display of satisfaction. He pressed his lips against the sensitive place between her breasts, kissing her slowly while he fought for control. She smelled like sunrises on the beach and was as soft as expensive leather. He gave up so much control for one kiss. Suddenly, overcome with need, he crushed her to him, groping her body with both hands while bathing her face in kisses.

She was so beautiful, silhouetted by the hay where they lay. How could he not want this woman? How had he fought his attraction this long?

“Adriano?” She was breathless beneath him, and it turned him on immensely.

He cupped her cheeks and answered by pressing his lips to hers. His tongue flickered across her top and then bottom lip until he persuaded her to open her mouth and take him inside.

Chapter 15

Sherman Grazicky paced the tight space of the cheap motel room, stopping to observe the raw fear blotching Hiram's face. “You have no idea where Payton is hiding.”

“I've looked everywhere.”

“The reporter who helped her get away?”

“The newspaper loaned the SUV to Jake Richards. Kellie and Marvin have been taking shifts watching him. He went to Payton's and then jumped on a plane back to Chicago. Alone.”

“Did he take anything from her place?”

“Nothing. We have his line tapped, but he hasn't made any calls to Payton.”

Sherman pounced on Hiram, grabbing him up by the collar. “I've paid you a lot of money to get this done.” He slapped the bigger man, sending an echo throughout the room. He shoved Hiram away, breathing hard. “If the next time I see Payton is in a courtroom, you die.”

Hiram stood silent, his jaw rapidly working back and forth.

“I want her. Here. Now.”

“I'll find her,” Hiram said.

“What about the last hit? I had to step in and clean up another mess for you. You killed an FBI agent in front of a busy restaurant during the dinner hour?”

“It was the perfect setup. Looked like a random drive-by. And we got rid of the security guard at the same time.”

Hiram wanted to remind him the security guard had been at Skye the night he'd shot the man and could collaborate Payton's story. Without the man's body, her story was believable because of the blood found on the scene, but there was still some doubt about what had actually happened and her role in it all.

Sherman was so angry his hands were trembling. “You came very highly recommended, but if you don't clean your act up—and fast—your
career
will be over.” He strolled to the door, a powerhouse in a stout body. “If I go to jail, I'll kill you, Hiram. From inside prison, I'll hunt you until I finally send someone to put you to a slow, torturous death.”

Hiram was the one taking all the risks, chasing Payton through the back roads of South Carolina. All to keep Sherman's neck out of the noose. He should shoot Payton the second he found her, despite Sherman's instructions to keep her alive. That would hurt the old man.

What was that about anyway? Why was Sherman insisting Payton needed to be brought to him alive when she was the only one—other than himself—who could sign his death warrant? And he didn't mean prison . . . If the right people found out what Sherman had done, and who he had ordered killed, Sherman's life would be worth less than his fake birth certificate.

“If we can't find Payton, neither can the FBI,” Hiram offered, hoping to defuse the situation before it went too far.

Sherman choked, sputtering his words. “The best you can come up with is if you can't find her, the FBI won't? Are you
insane?
That stupid comment just cost you your life. You couldn't find a dog in a kennel. You're done!”

Before Hiram could pull his piece and put two bullets between Sherman's eyes, his insurance policy sauntered out from the bathroom, a ratty towel tugged around her middle.

“Please. Close your mouth, Sherman,” Cecily said, casually crossing to the bed. She sat on the crumpled sheets where they had just finished playing wicked games, tossing the handcuffs onto the floor without apology.

“Cecily?” Sherman managed.

She took a smoke from her gold cigarette case and made eyes at Hiram to get it lit. He moved across the room, obliging her every whim. Pleasing Cecily would keep him alive if everything went bad.

“What did Payton witness?” Cecily asked, ignoring Sherman's stunned state.

“Cecily,” Sherman glanced at him, “what's going on here?”

“Don't ask obvious questions, Sherman.” She crossed her legs, clearly in control of the room. “I monitor my investments, and right now you're the most costly thing I own. Now tell me what Payton has on you, and let's find a way to fix it.”

Sherman kept a wary eye on Hiram as he stumbled into a seat in the corner of the cheap motel. Hiram waited, keeping his emotions off his face. He waited to see what lie Sherman would tell, because he couldn't tell Cecily the truth. He crossed the room to stand over Cecily, knowing better than to join her uninvited on the bed.

“Don't make me ask again,” Cecily said. She didn't possess much patience. She'd grown up a princess, wealthy and getting everything she wanted and more than she ever needed.

“Money-laundering,” Sherman said, and Hiram could see the lie forming in his eyes. “Payton got her hands on the books for Miami Skye. She knows where the money is coming from.”

Clever,
Hiram thought. Cecily knew the funding for the clubs came directly from her father, and her father's money wasn't clean. She'd want to protect her father, and that would mean joining Sherman in his mission to find Payton.

Cecily wasn't stupid. She looked to Hiram and then Sherman, searching for any sign his explanation might be a lie. Hiram would keep Sherman's secret because he was in deep and he wasn't sure he'd be able to get out alive without Cecily.

“It was Hiram's responsibility to keep an eye on Payton. Look where he got me. The meanest prosecutor in Mecklenburg County has eyes on me.”

“Hiram isn't best known for his intelligence,” Cecily said, running her hand up Hiram's thigh to cup his crotch.

Sherman flinched, but did not speak.

“Tell me the rest,” Cecily demanded.

Sherman completed the lie, weaving in a connection between the guard at Skye and the FBI agent's murder. The story fit nicely with the facts, showing Hiram how expert Sherman was at lying.

“The reporter—Jake Richards—knows something,” Cecily said. “Beat it out of him.”

Hiram smiled down at Cecily. “Crude and to the point.”

“Get your people together and do it,” Sherman shouted.

Hiram understood the ground was always shifting in his business. He wouldn't be foolish enough to think sleeping with Cecily would save his ass forever. He nodded in Sherman's direction and made a move to the door.

“One slight change of plans,” Cecily said, standing and crossing the room to stand in front of Sherman. “Bring her to
me.
”

“Cecily, what are you doing?”

“She knows too much. More than me, and I can't have that. I've been neglectful, not keeping a close eye on what you've been doing at the clubs.” Cecily circled Sherman, wrapping her arms around him from behind. “Payton's an intriguing creature, with those exotic eyes and perky breasts.” She turned her husband to face her, looking him directly in the eyes when she said, “My husband and I want to play with her before she dies.”

 

 

Jake needed Adriano. Together they could bounce around ideas until they figured out what was obviously hidden in the pages of Payton's planner. Mr. Conners stepped into his office, his dark suit immaculate. “Got something,” he announced.

Jake looked up from the pile of calendars, hopeful he'd finally caught a break.

Mr. Conners closed the door before he went on. “Sherman Grazicky is really Simon Grossman.”

“What?”

Mr. Conners handed Jake a photo clearly obtained from a police source. In the picture, a younger Sherman held an identification plaque at chest level. “What did he go to jail for?”

“He has a record of petty crimes in his twenties, but then he started hooking up with old ladies and swindling them out of their money. He married the daughter of a woman who inherited a hotel chain. He got her addicted to drugs and then had her sign over most of her money. By the time the family caught on, she was almost penniless.”

“So that's how he started in the drug business.”

Mr. Conners pushed his fingers through his silver hair, and it snapped back into place as if it hadn't been touched. “Once he went to prison, he latched on to one of the gangs and learned the trade. By the time he was released, he knew all the players he needed to know to get a little business started. He married Cecily, and then his business began to grow.”

“He's using her money.” He and Adriano had investigated Cecily thoroughly and couldn't find a connection between her husband and his wrongdoings. They'd assumed her traveling kept her in the dark. “Do you think she knows?”

“From what you and Adriano have told me, no. It wouldn't be the first time a wife doesn't know everything her husband is into.”

“I've gone through Payton's books a hundred times. I haven't found anything to incriminate Sherman or link him to the drug business.”

“Maybe you're looking for the wrong thing. What've you got?” Mr. Conners took a seat, going over the calendars with Jake.

“What aren't I seeing?” Jake asked aloud and something clicked. “You said Grazicky got involved with the prison gangs?”

“Yes.”

Jake leafed through the stack, finding the latest calendar and pulling out the original, written copy of Grazicky's calendar. “That crafty son of a bitch.”

“What?”

Jake held the sheet of paper up, dangling it from his fingers. “How do gang members communicate with the outside world while they're in prison? How do they run their business from behind bars?”

“Their clothing?”

“Clothing is more of a way of identifying which gang they belong to.” Jake pulled up a file on the screen of his computer. “Look at this. The Charlotte Bobcats' initials C and B can signify the 4 Corner Blasters. Or the jersey can stand for members of the Imperial Gangsters. But those are street gangs. Prison gangs need a way to chatter without the police catching on.”

Jake punched up another screen for Mr. Conners to look at. “It's like the tattoos. Gang members use them for identification, especially if they've been in prison.”

“What about graffiti?”

“Graffiti is the newspaper of the streets. Gangs use it like we use the Internet. It's more of a warning poster than a formal means of communication. It marks territory and advertises drugs. I'm talking about how gang members communicate with the outside without outsiders knowing. Similar to hand signs.”

Mr. Conners's eyes widened as Jake demonstrated. “Sign language?”

“Throwing gang signs.”

“You need vacation time.”

“I'll teach you what I just said later, after we crack this story. The Bloods and Crips have developed an entire written alphabet.” He clicked on a folder that brought the file up for Mr. Conners to see.

“It looks Greek. Somebody actually developed this whole language in order to commit crimes?”

“If only we used our minds for good instead of evil,” Jake said.

“These are the terrorists we should be sending our army after,” Mr. Conners added with unmasked disgust. He had a nephew in Iraq, and he wanted him home. Outside of the job-imposed impartiality restraints, Mr. Conners was very antiwar, and he participated in many efforts to get the troops home.

“That's all I know about gangs, so you've got me,” Mr. Conners said, not quite catching on. “If they're not using one of these methods, how do gangs pass messages in prison?”

“Gangs develop their own language using symbols. The symbols are embedded in pictures or letters to family and friends. Only other gang members know where to look and how to interpret it. This innocent-looking piece of paper probably has hundreds of lines of writing you and I can't see.”

“It's a way to hide evidence in plain sight.”

“Payton said Grazicky got very upset when he found out she was copying his calendar, so she started taking the original schedule, copying it at home, and then returning it. She never had the chance to return this one.”

“You know someone who can read it?”

“Decoding gang communication is an art.”

“You threw those signs pretty well.”

“Adriano has gang contacts,” Jake said, already standing and making his way to Adriano's desk. “Do we know what gangs populate the prison Grazicky was in? Get me that info and I'll have this deciphered.”

“We'll have it in five minutes.”

“We're about to bust this enterprise wide open.”

“And then we can get Adriano back here.”

Sherman locked himself in his office, watching the clock in dreaded anticipation for Cecily's return home. How much did she know? What had Hiram told her? He was in deep crap. He left his seat and paced the room, searching for a way out. He could pack his bags and leave before Cecily returned home . . . but he couldn't leave all he'd built. It would take time to liquidate his assets and transfer his money to his offshore accounts.