Cover Me (17 page)

Ray stood, and when he did, he caught a flash of sunlight reflecting off something. He walked over and picked it up. It was a ruby ring that had been
left behind. He picked it up and stuck it in his pocket. When he did his fingers touched something—a folded sheet of paper.

With everything that had gone on last night and this morning, he’d forgotten about it. He pulled it out of his pocket, unfolding it as he walked over to the window.

As he looked closely at the printed words on the sheet and the handwritten notes in the margins,
his hands began to shake. This was it! The most damning piece of evidence Molly had shown him all those years ago. This was the original memo that Molly had saved, because as loyal as she was to her brother, he was a thief and an embezzler, and she was too inherently honest to destroy the evidence of his crimes.

Ray let his gaze skim the incriminating margin notes written in purple ink in
Martin Hennessey’s precise, neat hand and thoroughly annotated and initialed as only an attorney would do.

That bumbling idiot Acles had dropped the most valuable thing he’d taken from Molly’s house. The question was, had Molly had copies in the safe? Would whoever sent Acles to rough up Molly and steal the incriminating evidence against her brother think he had everything? Or would he believe
Molly still had the most damning piece of evidence and come after her again?

Ray carefully refolded the sheet of paper and put it back into his pocket. He made sure Molly’s house was locked, then he got into his rental car and headed for the Sixth District Police Station. He wasn’t taking any chances. He had the proof he needed to take down Hennessey, or at least start a thorough and highly
visible investigation into his practices as head of the Louisiana Disaster Avoidance Task Force. He wasn’t going to wait another hour to turn the memo over to the local police and have charges filed against Martin Hennessey.

When he got there and told Detective Fortune he wanted to file some evidence, the detective invited him to have a seat. “I’ve got some information for you,” he said.

Ray wasn’t sure he could sit, so he perched on the edge of Fortune’s desk. But as soon as Teague started talking, he pulled up a side chair and sat.

Chapter Six

When Molly got to Martin’s condo, he and Thrasher were in his bedroom, voices raised. She walked across the foyer and through the living room to the double doors to Martin’s bedroom.

“Oh, hell, no. You can’t do that to me!” Thrasher yelled. “I won’t let you.”

“Flan, I have to think of my health. My family,” Martin said quietly, but Molly could hear the strain
and fear in his voice. “I’m not going to let you make this decision for me.”

“You’re not going to
let
me?” Thrasher’s voice rose in pitch and volume.

Molly shoved the doors open and stomped in. “What’s going on?” she shouted over Thrasher as she marched straight to Martin’s side and took his hand. “Martin, oh, my God. You look awful!”

Martin was propped up against pillows on his
bed, wearing a pair of maroon satin pajamas and leather house slippers. Thrasher was pacing back and forth beside the bed, one hand pulling on his goatee.

She was shocked to see how gray her brother’s complexion was. She’d seen him a few days ago and he’d been fine. He’d always seemed so big to her. At sixteen years her senior, he’d looked like a grown-up ever since she could remember. But
now, he appeared small and frail—and old. He was only forty-two, but for the first time she saw gray hairs at his temples and mixed in with the dark brown.

Martin smiled faintly. “Thanks, Molly. You always flatter me. I guess I had a heart attack,” he said, sounding as if he was having trouble getting enough breath to speak.

“I’m sorry,” she said, kissing his forehead and noticing how
clammy it felt. “Why aren’t you still in the hospital?”

“It was mild,” Thrasher said. “Nothing to worry about.”

Molly shot Thrasher a withering glance. She wanted to tell him to get out of her brother’s bedroom. Turning back to Martin, she asked, “What did the doctor say?”

“Well,” Martin said, his hand squeezing hers, “the doctor seems to think it would be a good idea for me to
have surgery—”

“That’s ridiculous,” Thrasher broke in. “You’re as healthy as a horse. Bypass surgery is the latest trend. We’ll give them a million to start a new cardiology wing and they’ll change their minds.”

“Flan,” Molly cried in frustration, “shut up! Could you give us a minute? I’m trying to talk to my brother.”

“Martin,” Thrasher said, ignoring Molly, “we’ve got to go over
your speech for the campaign kickoff dinner.” He looked at his watch. “And in an hour, I’m holding a press conference at campaign headquarters.”

“A press conference?” Martin repeated, sounding exhausted. “Why?”

“Because somebody at the hospital is going to leak that you were rushed there at midnight last night—if they haven’t already.”

Martin sighed and laid his head back against
the pillows. “Could—could we have a few minutes, Flan?” he asked. “Then we can work on the speech.”

“Oh, no,” Molly said. “You’re not working on anything. You’re going to rest. In fact, you may be going back to the hospital, if I decide you need to.”

Thrasher sent Molly a menacing look, and for an instant, the dark expression on his face seemed familiar. But before the thought fully
formed in her brain, he turned and left, slamming the double doors behind him.

“Ugh,” Molly said, making a face. “I don’t know why you let him act like that. You know Jan can’t stand him. If you’d get rid of him she’d come home. I know she would.”

He sighed. “I’m tired, Molly. It was a long night.”

She touched his forehead. “Why didn’t Thrasher call me?”

“He— We didn’t want
to worry you.”

“Marty, come on. I’m your sister.” She gave him a small smile. “Do we need to have the
Molly’s a grown-up now
conversation? Again?”

His expression lightened a little.

“Okay.” Molly reached for the bedside table phone. “If you don’t tell me exactly what happened right now, I’m calling an ambulance and taking you back to the hospital.”

Martin scowled at her. “Molly—”

“I mean it.”

“Fine. Flan and I were having a discussion about—” he paused briefly “—about some specifics of campaign funding.”

“You mean an argument,” Molly interrupted.

Martin sighed. “Call it what you will. We disagreed and Flan started ranting,” he said. “I was waiting for him to run out of air, but before he got winded, my chest started hurting.”

Molly’s heart skipped
a beat. She couldn’t imagine life without her brother. He was her only family.

“Flan brought me some ice water, but it got worse, so he drove me to the hospital.”

“Well, thank God. I’m surprised he didn’t try to argue the pain away.”

Martin smiled. “He did, but I raised my voice.”

Molly couldn’t help but smile. “You raised your voice? Really?”

He shrugged. “I knew what
was happening.”

Her smile faded immediately. “What do you mean you knew?”

“I’ve had chest pains a few times before.”

“Marty! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“They were nothing serious.”

Molly threw her hands up. “Oh for goodness’ sake. Why didn’t you stay in the hospital?”

He leaned his head back against the pillow, looking sheepish. “Flan was worried about the media.”

“Flan was worried.” Molly propped her hands on her hips and glared at her brother. “Do you know how much I care about what Flan thinks?”

“How could I not?”

She turned on her heel and stalked toward the double bedroom doors.

“Where are you going?” Martin called.

She held up a hand without turning around, then pulled the doors open. “I wanted to make sure Flan isn’t out there.”

Her brother shook his head as she sat down on the bed next to him and spoke in a low voice. “When you said that you and Flan disagreed about campaign funding, what did you mean?”

Martin’s pale face turned paler. “Nothing important.”

With a sigh, she took his hand. “Martin, I’m all grown up now. I need to know what’s going on—and yes, I know something is. I want to ask you a question
and I want you to promise me you’ll tell me the truth.”

“Molly—”

“Promise me. I’ll call the ambulance. I swear I will.”

Martin laid his head back on the pillows and closed his eyes. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said. “God help me, I’ve lied to you and everybody else long enough.”

His words frightened her, but she’d come too far now. She had to know. “Is Flannery Thrasher blackmailing
you? Is that why he’s always here? Why you always do what he says?” For a long time, Martin didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. She waited, her head bent over his hand, which she still held. After a moment, she realized his hand was shaking. Then she noticed that his whole body was shaking.

She looked up. His eyes were still closed, but tears were slipping out from under his lids and coursing
down his cheeks. “Ah, Molly, I made so many bad decisions. I’ve done so many people so wrong—” He swallowed the last word on a sob.

“You always told me that everything would be okay if I’d just tell the truth.”

“It all got so out of hand so fast. Patrick said it would be easy.” His breath caught in a sob again and he coughed.

Molly reached for the glass on the bedside table and
handed it to him. “Patrick? Did you say Patrick?”

Martin nodded his head and sniffed. She took the glass and handed him some tissues from a box. “It was all Patrick’s idea. And then, when it all fell apart, he betrayed us.”

“Betrayed you? How?”

“It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead.”

Molly thought about the expression she’d seen on Flannery Thrasher’s face. “Martin, you didn’t
answer my question. Is Flannery Thrasher blackmailing you?”

Martin looked at her and she saw the answer in his face.

“Oh, my God, he is,” she gasped.

Martin sighed heavily. “He just showed up at my door one day, about five years ago, talking about going into business together. He had a scheme for bilking people out of their homes, fixing them up on the cheap and reselling them.
When I told him I didn’t want any part of it, he started talking about the Disaster Avoidance Task Force. You know, the LDAT. Talking about how people would feel if they knew that I’d skimmed moneys that were supposed to go to reinforcing the levees. I was terrified. How could he know about that?”

Molly listened, stunned. What she’d told Ray had been true. Martin had changed after Katrina.
It had made her feel less guilty about never coming forward with what she knew about the skimming of funds. But now the past was catching up to him.

“Oh, Martin, we’ve got to call the police. This can’t go on. What do you know about Thrasher anyway? Where did he come from? Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He just showed up with threats and demands.”

“Does he remind you of someone?” she
pushed.

Martin looked up at her. “What do you mean? Who?”

Molly couldn’t get Thrasher’s face out of her mind, nor the eerie sense of déjà vu she’d felt when he’d glanced at her sidelong. There had been something there—something about the eyes. “Do you know for sure that Patrick Flay is dead?”

Martin’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Do you think Flan looks like him?”

“Like Patrick?
No. I mean, I never thought about it, but—” Martin paused, frowning. “What are you trying to say? That Flan is Patrick? That’s ridiculous. I mean—he’s totally different. His hair’s a different color. His nose is completely different. He’s got a beard.”

“All those things can be easily changed. Even the nose.”

“I don’t understand. Where is this coming from?”

Molly sighed. “I didn’t
want to upset you,” she said, “especially now. But someone broke into my house last night.”

Martin gasped.

“Are you all right?” Molly asked.

He held up a hand. “I’m okay. Just a little queasy. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Molly waved that question away. “When I got home, the man was there, in my guest room. He knocked me down and forced me to give him the memos and financial reports.”

“The memos and reports you found in the files.” Martin nodded bleakly. “The ones you gave that FBI agent back before the storm.”

“I’m sorry, Marty. I couldn’t get rid of them. You know how I felt about what you were doing.”

“And if it hadn’t been for the hurricane, you’d have helped that FBI agent—” He paused.

“Ray Storm,” Molly supplied.

“Storm, right. You’d have helped
him put me in prison.”

Molly felt tears stinging her eyes. She shook her head. “I never understood why you took the chance of ruining your life by embezzling federal grant funds.”

Martin’s eyes turned red and damp. “I told you, it just happened. It’s so much money. You think you can just take a little bit. That you’ll put it back. But then that money’s gone and nobody notices, and you
think they won’t notice if just a little more is missing. Then it gets out of hand.” He spread his hands. “I’m sorry, Molly—” He coughed again.

Molly looked at the glass, but it was empty. “I’ll get you some water.” She picked it up and took it into the bathroom, rinsed it out and filled it from the tap. When she turned the water off, she heard Martin’s voice.

“Oh, God—”

She ran.
“Martin! Are you—” The glass flew out of her hand and shattered when it hit the floor as somebody grabbed her arm and jerked her sideways. Before she could recover, an arm came around her neck from behind and she was jerked backward against Flannery Thrasher’s body. Instinctively, she grabbed at his forearm, but he was strong. Too strong.

She’d gotten a fleeting glimpse of him out of the
corner of her eye as he’d grabbed her, and underneath the paralyzing fear she felt that eerie sense of déjà vu again. She tried to scream but his arm squeezed more tightly.

“Give me your phone,” he growled.

“I don’t—” she started.

“Give it to me or I’ll
search
you for it, and you wouldn’t like that.”

She took it out of her pocket. “Here. What—” But she wasn’t able to finish.
Flan grabbed the phone with his other hand, then pushed her toward the bed, where Martin lay, frozen, staring in shock at his campaign manager.

“Sit on that chair by the bed,” Flan ordered her, “and don’t touch anything.”

Molly did as she was told. Her mind was racing. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Flan, but—”

“Shut up!” he snapped. Stepping up to the bedside table, he picked
up the portable phone’s base and snatched it out of the wall, then tossed it on the floor. It landed with a jangle. Then he picked up Martin’s cell phone from the table. He removed the cell phone’s batteries, then threw them onto the floor.

Flan cleared his throat. “Good. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I gathered you together here.” He laughed at his joke, then leaned forward.

“We,”
he said, pointing at Martin, then Molly, then himself, “are going to win the governor’s race, aren’t we, Martin?”

Martin murmured what sounded like agreement. Molly wanted to yell at him, but she understood now. He couldn’t go against Thrasher. Thrasher was blackmailing him.

“See, Molly?” Flan said, cutting his gaze over to Molly. “Martin and I are in perfect agreement.”

“You’re
blackmailing him!” she cried. “What have you got on him that would make him go along with you?”

“You don’t know? You should try to think harder, Molly.”

Thrasher smiled and Molly saw again the familiar expression on his face, and this time her suspicions were realized. “You’re Patrick Flay,” she gasped.