Bannon Brothers (18 page)

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Authors: Janet Dailey

BOOK: Bannon Brothers
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“Sure.” Doris reached out to put them into an empty folder and the cat jumped down to the floor. She took the opportunity to slide everything else back into the bag. “I gotta go. Let me know what's going on with the TV station. Just so I can stay out of Hoebel's way.”
“I take it he didn't approve.”
“He's always ranting about something.” Doris raised an eyebrow. “And he was fuming about you going public from the second you were on the air. If you do it again—are you going to do it again?”
“Like I said, I gotta talk to Kelly.”
“Oh, right.” She used both hands to push her slim self up from the couch. Bannon was on his feet before her, going to get her coat.
He helped her into it sleeve by sleeve. Then she looked into his mirror to adjust the collar. “Thanks for the coffee, RJ. We shall confabulate in the near future. If I can find my keys. May I have a cookie for the road?”
He offered her the plate again and she took one, holding it in her teeth when she began to head out, the bag full of files over one shoulder. Her hands were rummaging through her coat pockets. A few seconds later, she held up her car keys.
“Got'm. G'bye, Ban'n.”
He clapped her on the back. “See you around. Thanks for stopping by.”
Bannon took a break and made himself a plate of food, nothing special, but it was hot and filling.
When he'd finished it, he called his mother. It was good to hear Sheila Bannon's fond voice asking the usual nosy questions about his health and how he was otherwise. They chatted in a desultory way as he wandered in and out of the kitchen. He finally got around to asking her about the song when he spotted the card where he'd left it on the coffee table.
“Mom—remember when you and Dad used to go dancing?”
“Yes, I do. Those were the days.” Her voice was soft.
“I was wondering. Was there ever a song called ‘Girl of Gold'?” He brought the card into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead fluorescents, which were painfully bright. “It has to do with a case—”
“The Montgomery case?”
“Yeah. Gee whiz, you could be a detective.”
His mother laughed a little. “It's the only case you're working on, honey. And you're not even officially reinstated.”
“Don't remind me.”
“Okay, let me think.” He was silent while she pondered, still studying the card in his hand. He squinted at it.
Was he seeing things?
Beneath the bright light, he would swear there were faint pencil lines under the calligraphy of the poem. He squinted harder. The lines, if they had been there, went away. Then he looked at the back of the card. There was a familiar card-company logo. It definitely wasn't handmade.
“Bannon?”
“Yeah?”
“I was talking to you.”
“Sorry. I got distracted for a sec.”
“I can't think of a song by that name. Or lyrics. I guess you could look it up online. Is it important?”
“Maybe. That's what I'll do.”
After another minute or two, they exchanged affectionate good-byes and Bannon examined the inside of the card one more time, which was easier to do when he wasn't cradling a tiny cell phone between his shoulder and his ear.
There were pencil lines. Very faint. But definitely there.
Bannon found his laptop and fired it up, ignoring the antivirus pop-up reminders and others that pointed out the obvious fact that his computer was connected. He clicked on the Internet icon and searched for the phrase “girl of gold.”
Not a song title. Not lyrics. Nothing was just like it. There were some near misses, though, phrased differently, for a great old spy movie and a classic TV comedy series. But it wasn't a catchphrase. The card was one of a kind.
Okay. He wanted a really close look at it.
He got up and went into his bedroom, dragging a wheeled box full of electronic gear, freebies from his brothers, out from under the bed. Bannon separated coaxial cables from game consoles and other gadgets, swearing at the tangle of stuff until he found what he was looking for: a small digital microscope that connected to a USB port.
“Gotcha.”
Deke had given it to him, saying the high-res screen display oughta come in handy for a detective, but Bannon had never had a reason to use it, although he'd installed the software for it. He went back to his laptop and plugged it in, waiting for his hard drive to find the relevant program to run it. Then he switched the microscope on and slid the card under the lens, positioning the lettered part in a small circle of light and looking at his screen.
Bingo.
The lowest magnification clearly showed that the calligraphy wasn't printed but had been done by hand. Using the touch pad on the laptop, he cranked up the dial icon to increase the magnification as high as it would go. Now he could see the way the ink had flowed out of the pen. He took a few screen shots at both levels of magnification and saved them in a folder. Then he shut off the microscope and leaned back in his chair.
Girl of gold.
He wanted to get another look at Erin's handmade card. Not that he could verify a connection between that card and this one, but he couldn't rule it out either.
But how to take it and bring it back without her freaking out was going to take some thought.
His cell phone rang in his shirt pocket, startling him. Bannon stared blankly at the number on the little blue screen, not recognizing it. What the heck? He flipped it open.
“Hello.”
“Bannon. Kelly here. How are you?” Her tone of voice was smooth and seductive.
What did she want? Give it three seconds. No, two. She didn't waste time. “Doing fine. You?”
“Pretty good.”
“Believe it or not, I was just about to call you.”
She laughed, a silvery sound. “What about?”
“Oh, I figured you could update me on the website response. Still getting a lot of hits or what?”
“Some. Snail mail too—enough to fill up a couple of big boxes for you. But it's been dropping. Dramatically. We were wondering,” she purred, “if you'd like to do another. The producer of the segment would rather put you front and center. A high percentage of our female demographic thought you were hot.”
“Really.”
“Well, you are, Bannon.”
He was glad she couldn't see him smirk. Kelly would have teased him unmercifully for it.
“I wouldn't know,” he replied.
“What do you say? Want to come in again?”
He took his time answering. Montgomery and his oily lawyer might blow a gasket if they saw him on the news a second time. Not that he cared. So would Hoebel, though. Bannon did plan to badge up and go back to work. Someday.
And then there was Erin. Whoever was watching him was watching her too. No, he really didn't want to get his face on TV again. Not just now.
It was best to stall.
“Same deal? Scripted questions? No control over the final result?”
Kelly laughed again. “Let's talk.”
“When?”
“My, my,” she mocked. “What a lot of questions you're asking. Mmm, before I forget, I have one for you. Your brother Deke—do you have a contact number for him?”
“I can give him your number if you like. He's on assignment.”
She pretended to sound blasé. “Oh, okay. No big rush. I had an idea for a series—something focusing on the secrets behind the news, if you know what I mean.”
Bannon didn't, but he mumbled something affirmative.
She forged on. “As in super secret. I want authentic stories of real undercover agents and special forces types. Men who risk all. Dangerous dudes.”
That would be his two brothers. But he thought of the lady Linc had sent over, Karen Michaels, feminine and, in a subtle way, fierce. He decided to give Kelly a jab. “No women?”
She didn't miss a beat. “Do you know any who qualify? I'd love to feature them. We could double our ratings if we get both guys and girls watching.”
“Ah—no. Not offhand.” Karen Michaels, or whatever her real name might be, was connected to Linc in some very personal way, and Bannon had no idea if the relationship was even allowed under the ever-changing rules of the military.
Again he heard silvery laughter. “You're lying.”
“Good guess.” He got off the phone after some small talk, making no promises other than to pass her number along. Let Deke deal with her. Kelly was only a couple of years older than his youngest brother. They could be great for each other.
Bannon picked up the card with the bird on it and read the poem inside again.
He might have stumbled on the first clue. Three little words. Sometimes that was all it took.
CHAPTER 10
M
ontgomery sat at a grand piano picking out tunes with one hand. The other hand felt oddly sluggish and he rested it on his thigh. His hard pull yesterday on the reins of a recalcitrant horse had most likely strained the tendons.
The melody line was all he could play of some old song—it was older than he was, he thought morosely. The plaintive notes sounded through the empty house.
No servants, as far as he knew. No guests. No business associates. No Caroline. That suited him just fine.
He had no idea where she had gone. The late-morning sun slanted through the windows, laying down stripes of light on the antique carpet, a treasure of intricate silk that no one was allowed to set foot on. Except for him. She could not refuse him everything. Monty stopped and rose from the piano bench, taking pleasure in walking on what was essentially his money, even if she was the one to spend it.
Not for much longer. The way things were going, he might have to close her charge accounts and take away her credit cards. She seemed to have forgotten that the bills landed on his desk.
Caro's acquisitiveness had amused him when he'd been able to indulge it. Now it sparked fights. Lately he could barely summon up the energy to withstand her outbursts, but somehow, he did. He had to force himself to think straight and pierce the cloudiness in his mind. Montgomery knew that something was the matter with him, but he was damned if he would see a new doctor or endure more inconclusive tests.
The result would be the same. Another prescription. Different side effects. Sleepless nights and a stream of bills. To hell with all of it.
Caroline would pretend to care. She was rather good at that, but her sympathy was edged with desperation that gave her away.
He wasn't going to give her what she wanted. The slow, bitter unraveling of their relationship was following a course that was familiar to him. He had an inkling that she hoped to become his widow more than she hoped to become his wife—if he would be so kind as to marry her and immediately drop dead of natural causes.
Montgomery smiled faintly. She had probably imagined herself in a dramatic but chic black veil and fitted black suit, a bereaved but lovely young woman. Standing by his grave and brushing away a single tear.
He'd always believed that animals could sense the approach of death. Perhaps Caroline's instincts were accurate.
His morbid thoughts grew darker and a heavy sense of foreboding weighed on his mind.
Let it be easy. No fuss. He wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered where no one could walk on them. No memorial. He had specified both in a letter of intent that was separate from his will. That lengthy document left her a reasonable sum, invested safely but nowhere near as much as she probably hoped for. As far as his obituary, she would have nothing to preen about. She would be listed only as his companion, Caroline Loudon.
The newspapers and media would add a tactful line stating that his long-ago marriage had ended in divorce and name his ex-wife—that was routine. But they would not disclose where Luanne lived now.
No one knew that but him, his lawyer, and a trusted relative who had been paid well to keep certain secrets.
And then there was Ann. Given the recent coverage, the polite conventions of obituary writing would be set aside to include a line or two about the unsolved kidnapping. That and only that would make his death newsworthy enough to be featured online and on television with a photo and a brief bio. And images of her.
If she had survived, as he wanted to believe she had, would she make the connection? She did not resemble him.
There were things he could do to ensure that she had that chance. His lineage would be his ultimate legacy. If Ann required DNA testing to prove that she was his child and only survivor, he would arrange for his own genetic profile to be done—and the results safely hidden from Caroline.
He looked around the pretentious room and sighed.
Once upon a time, precious objects and valuable furniture had mattered to him. As the last of the Montgomerys, he had felt dutybound to keep up appearances and play the role of a Southern aristocrat. Not to mention carrying on traditions that had lost their meaning.
No more.
He heard a car door slam, and a minute later, the front door eased open. Caroline entered, clutching the handles of shopping bags printed with the names of expensive stores. She didn't see him as she walked briskly to the bottom of the stairs, going up them fast.
Hiding her purchases, he thought. He went back to the piano and waited five minutes before he sat down and began to play again, just to let her know that he was in the house.
The notes were jumbled this time and the melody unrecognizable. But he didn't notice.
 
Caroline came downstairs an hour later, much more quietly, smoothing her hair as she entered the room. “Hello, Monty.” She walked over to the piano. “Are you improvising?”
He rested the hand he'd been playing with on the side scroll, tapping his fingers on the glossy black wood. “Just playing an old song.”
“Oh.” She looked down at him but he didn't glance up. The scowl on his mouth showed, though. It was going to be another long evening, she thought. Caroline went over to a set of crystal decanters filled with liquor, pulled the stopper from one, and poured herself a stiff drink.
There wasn't any ice and she decided to have the liquor straight up rather than trek to the kitchen.
“Did you send the servants home?”
The butler and housekeeper lived in, but the others didn't. Lately he had been dismissing the day staff by late afternoon, forcing her to fend for herself around the house.
“Yes. They make too much noise.”
“Well, they do have work to do,” she said lightly.
He only shrugged. “My head was aching.” Before she could give him advice he didn't want, he added, “I took something for it.”
“Oh, good,” she replied, going over to him and holding up her glass. “Cheers.”
Monty closed the long lid over the piano keys.
“Don't stop,” she said in a wheedling voice. “I was hoping you'd play our song.”
He looked at her with dull eyes. “What was it again? I don't remember.”
“Monty, is something the matter?” She put a hand on his forehead and he pushed it away. “Sorry. I thought you might have a fever or something.”
“I'm fine.”
Caroline took a big swallow from the drink in her hand. “You don't look fine.”
“Leave me alone.”
She was taken aback by the roughness in his tone, and then insulted.
“Okay with me,” she snapped, downing the rest of the liquor in her glass and setting it on top of the piano, knowing it would make him angry if it left a ring.
The spiteful gesture worked. Monty got up so fast the piano bench fell over behind him.
“Damn it, Caroline!” He swept the empty glass to the floor, where it shattered.
Caroline fled. She didn't hear his footsteps coming after her. Midway up the stairs to the second floor, she halted and turned around, bending to peer into the room where the piano was, looking for Monty.
He was stretched out on the couch, motionless, with one arm flung over his eyes. Maybe he did have a headache. Maybe he was drunk. She didn't care. She hoped he was out cold, because she had a little snooping she wanted to do.
She went the rest of the way up the stairs on the balls of her feet and when she reached the top, she slipped off her shoes to go down the hall and into his study. That was directly above the room she'd left him in.
Caroline turned the doorknob and paused on the threshold, half expecting him to come running up the grand staircase after her to prevent her from entering his sanctuary. It was a good thing the servants were gone. The house was so quiet she could hear the ticking of clocks behind closed doors. But there was one other sound . . . she listened hard to the faint noise and then she smiled.
Monty was snoring down below.
He never took naps—he had to be unwell. But she didn't care. She needed a little extra time.
She went in, not closing the door. She wanted to be able to hear him coming if he woke up.
Caroline went over to the gigantic antique partner's desk, moving past it to get to the computer on a much smaller, jarringly modern table next to it.
She was not exactly a tech type, but she did know what a USB port was. Caroline located it around the back and then found the on switch.
The computer hummed to life. A box on the glowing blue screen asked for a password, which she carefully keyed in.
She'd watched Monty type the same one many times when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Memorizing it had seemed like a good idea, and she was glad she had. Eventually he'd begun to order her out when he was working in here. She hoped and prayed he hadn't changed the password.
The monitor shimmered as another screen replaced the first, with rows of icons. Excellent. This was going to be effortless and fast.
Caroline reached between her bra cups and pulled out a flash drive she'd tucked there. It was a pretty little gizmo, a promotional item from Monty's accountant. His name and title—Sidney Merritt, CPA—were printed on its red lacquer shell, a color that happened to match her fingernails.
In less than five minutes, she'd downloaded as many financial files as she could find onto the flash drive. She closed them all and went through the short rigamarole of safely removing the drive from the USB port. Back it went into her bra. Caroline ran her hands over her breasts, just in case the two-inch-long thingy made a visible lump.
No. Mission accomplished. The drive was snugly tucked deep into her cleavage. She turned to the monitor and keyboard, and shut down the computer. To her annoyance, it promptly started up again but without the rows of icons. Only the box asking for a password appeared.
Caroline exhaled a nervous sigh, then listened again. The silence was oppressive.
She no longer heard snoring, but then she'd moved to the far corner of the room. She began to investigate the partner's desk, sure he hadn't shown her everything that was in it. But pulling out the small drawers revealed the same assortment of office supplies and cache of stationery she'd seen before, orderly and neat.
There were some papers on top of the desk. Mostly bills, she noticed, and mostly from boutiques. She riffled through them, flushing with anger at rude scribbled comments not meant for her to read.
And underneath those was a carbon copy of a cashier's check. Caroline made a mental note of which bill it was under so she could replace it exactly where it had been. Then she studied it under the lamp.
The check part, gone, had been made out in his handwriting to Erin Randall. For fifteen thousand dollars. The lower left corner specified in a few brief words that it was an advance on a commissioned portrait of Take All, and that the total fee was thirty thousand.
She drew in her breath with a hiss. The bastard. He'd lied through his teeth when she'd asked him how much he was paying that girl. Told her oh-so-casually that an unknown artist like Erin only charged fifteen hundred for a painting like that. He considered it a steal.
Caroline had been willing to let that pass with a couple of sarcastic remarks. She had no idea why she'd believed him.
Fifteen thousand would have bought a decent diamond ring—thirty thousand would have bought something worth showing off. But he had other priorities. She had suspected the girl was a potential rival and now she was sure of it. More than ever, Caro knew where she stood with Hugh Montgomery. The hand holding the check carbon shook and the thin paper fluttered.
Furious, Caroline slammed the carbon down on the desk under her flattened palm, then shoved it back into the pile of bills, not caring if it was in the right place. She was going to try to catch him out in his lie; then she would wave it under his nose.
She straightened up and turned—and saw Monty standing in the door.
“Ah—hello.” She controlled her anger—barely. Let him make a fool of himself. “Did you have a nice nap?”
“It was short. But refreshing.” His voice was strong and clear. “I feel better.” Then he held up her discarded shoes.
“Did you have fun sneaking around?” He waved the shoes at the computer, which she hadn't turned off. “Were you in my files?”
“I don't know your password.”
“Really? I didn't leave the computer on.”
Caroline threw him a blazing look. “It just came on. Maybe I touched a key by accident.”
He tossed her shoes to one side and came closer. She saw that he wasn't wearing his, just socks. No wonder she hadn't heard him.

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