Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (19 page)

“Again I say it’s about time. I mean, gagging us and stonewalling the media didn’t produce any results and look how much time was wasted—it’ll be a month tomorrow—when they could’ve been headlining the story in the press and blanketing the tri-state area—and Michigan—with wanted posters and getting the word out on one of those TV shows where the public calls in with tips and flushes the guy out of hiding. None of that could hurt, could it?”

“Only from the standpoint of focusing more media glare on Colin.”

“But you’re on that, right?” she asks.

“The publicists are on it. So is Emmet. Don’t forget I’m not taking such an active role this time around.”

“But you are keeping a close watch on the staffers and I know you’re overseeing what Emmet—”

“I could wonder if I really need to with you on duty. Next thing I know you’ll have made me redundant.” He smiles and slips an arm across her shoulders.

“Well excuse me all to Helena.” She shakes him off and moves out of reach. “It
is
kind of hard to let go, you know. It’s not easy to shift gears just like . . .
that.”
She snaps her fingers and gives him a look that goes with the sound. “And I hope I can be forgiven for sometimes forgetting I’m no longer responsible for a gazillion little details and—”

“I am familiar with the transition process, you know.”

“Oh . . . Oh dear, I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Bug me all you want. Bug anyone else you think needs it.”

“That would have to be Laurel. From the way this reads . . .” Amanda signifies the page confirming the drug match. “And the total absence of any input from her regarding—”

“You don’t have to remind me about that. Jesus, have I
ever
waited longer for the other shoe to drop? I could be seriously pissed about rushing here from New York to shore up that situation if the extra time hadn’t been put to good use.”

“Earlier,” Amanda says, moving back into range, “the first time we talked about this, you predicted that once Colin was told of the part he played in the Rayce tragedy, his strongest inclination would be to clear Rayce’s name, to remove the stigma of suicide. Wouldn’t that have happened by now if Laurel had clued him in?
Shouldn’t
that have happened by now? Isn’t it about time something was done about this?”

“C’mon, Amanda, we’ve already argued the point into the ground. I’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m not going to take on a responsibility that belongs to Laurel and I’m not going to break my word to her either.”

“I think the ethical issue transcends your stupid promise.”

“Hey! Watch what you’re calling stupid. Stupid would be going to the authorities without Laurel’s okay.”

Amanda’s chin comes up; she folds her arms across her breasts in a defiant pose.

“And just because you learned about the aspirin-coke switch by accident,” he continues, “don’t start thinking that
you
should be the one to—”

“I’m not. And I’m not thinking you should do it, either. I’m thinking the informant should be an intermediary—a go-between.”

“Who, for chrissake?”

“Brownell. Brownie. He’s here in London playing the waiting game same as we are.”

“Brownie? You want
Brownie
to approach Scotland Yard with what’s known about . . . Are you out of your mind? I can’t reveal what we know to him.”

“Oh but you can. You can because
he
doesn’t have to reveal his sources.”

“Jesus, Amanda, you have lost your mind. Even if I did share our information with him, the minute it came out, Laurel would recognize me—us—as the main source and Colin would know we’d all been shielding him.”

“Would that be such a bad thing? Sure, there’d be an uproar, there’d probably be hard feelings too, but in the end it would be worth it and they’d both see it was worth it when they were able to set the record straight about how Rayce died.”

“You’re saying you want to force the issue.”

“Yeah.”

“For no better reason than taking an ethical stand.”

“Is there a better reason?”

He can’t come up with one and she knows it. She flounces off to take a shower; he abandons thoughts of joining her there.

As soon as he hears water running, Nate places a call to the Kensington tourist hotel Brownie left as his London address. He doesn’t know what he’ll say if the writer answers and has no idea how far he’ll go with Amanda’s reckless, however noble, plan.

“Interesting choice of grub stations,” Brownie says of the Richoux Tea Room in Mayfair.

“That your way of saying you’d prefer the Savoy Grill?” Nate replies.

“Not a complaint, just a comment.” Brownie gets comfortable in a corner banquette of the restaurant Amanda relied on when she was new to London and one Nate favors when appearances take a back seat to purpose.

“Lotta water over the dam since we last got together,” Brownie says after a waitress takes their breakfast orders.

They match banalities until coffee arrives and Brownie leads off with the unnecessary reminder that his credibility now shines golden in light of recent developments. “I’m not sayin’ I’m glad things turned out the way they did—far from it—but there is satisfaction in bein’ proved right, y’know, and in bein’ taken seriously.”

“And getting to say ‘I told you so’ I’m guessing.”

“Yeah, that too, but I don’t recall there ever bein’ a need for it. I don’t recall you and your live-in bein’ all that skeptical of the storyline when I first laid it out.” Brownie rattles on with an unnecessary rehash of their recent history and the regular contacts that eliminated any lingering doubts about story or agenda.

“Two things before we proceed,” Nate says when Brownie winds down. “First of all, do not refer to Amanda Hobbs as my live-in. Second of all, do not forget for one minute that we’re off the record. Nothing I’ve told you so far and nothing I may tell you today is for publication. At least not yet.”

“No prob re the chick or the nix on publishing. But before we get started there’s a little something
I’d
like to lay out on the table.”

“Go ahead.”

“Ten days ago when I got patched through to you here in London, I was still workin’ my way through the tribe up there in Michigan. I hadn’t yet interviewed the undertaker and I hadn’t yet got through to any of Jakeway’s co-workers at the IGA store.”

Nate tenses at mention of the undertaker—the only Bimmerman resident who knew for sure that Aurora’s head was not included in the cremation process—but he needn’t. Now that officialdom is in the know regarding the missing head, who’s left to protect? Including himself. And what’s left to be wrung from the professionally embarrassed undertaker? Something of value, if the look on Brownie’s face is any indication.

“There was this little detail I don’t think ever came out before.” Brownie tastes his coffee, narrows his eyes as he sets down the cup.

“I’m listening.”

“Without a whole lotta coercion, the undertaker happened to mention that somebody relieved him of several gallons of embalming fluid the day after his mortuary took in the headless female body of an accident victim back in November of ’eighty-four.”

Brownie takes another sip of coffee, glances up, his eyes mere slits. “Your expression says you never heard about this before now and I know for a fact the Feds didn’t pry it outta him or you woulda heard. They woulda told you direct or passed it on through channels.”

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Nate whispers.

“I’m with you there. Kinda turns the stomach, don’t it? Severed head, bucket of embalming fluid. Or maybe he’s got it in a fishbowl, displayed on the mantelpiece.”

The food arrives at the worst possible moment as far as Nate’s concerned. But Brownie digs in as though nightmare visions and turned stomachs are short-lived at best.

“Two things,” Nate says after an uneasy interval during which he can only toy with a piece of toast.

“Didn’t we already do that bit?”

“Two things,” Nate persists. “Number one, I thought you said the members of the so-called tribe refused to speak about one of their own. And number two, I’d like to know why in hell you insist on being such a piece of work.”

“You’ll hafta spell that out. Define what you mean by piece of work.”

“You know damn well what I mean—this carrying on like you barely finished eighth grade, failed basic grammar, and never heard of good diction.”

“Oh, that. Your little girlfriend—sorry, Amanda Hobbs—called it dumbing down when she got wise to me that day in your hotel room. But whatever you wanna call it, it gets me where I wanna go and generally gets me what I’m after. If I talked like you—like I talked when we were in school together—I seriously do not think this undertaker dude woulda unloaded on me the way he did. If I’d used the hoity-toity approach and questioned him in the King’s English—sorry, that’d be Queen’s English, wouldn’t it?—I very seriously doubt he’d have opened up.”

“Elaborate on that.”

“I’m gettin’ there, I’m gettin’ there,” Brownie says around the mouthful of bacon and egg he’s chewing with his mouth partway open. He gulps the food down and proceeds: “Number one in the current series is you wantin’ to know how the tribe happened to be more forthcoming this time. Well, you gotta remember the Bureau’s been there now. Softened ’em up, put the fear of the Great Spirit in ’em, I’m guessing, so tongues were a lot looser than when I first tried to infiltrate.”

“How much looser?”

“As I keep tryin’ to say . . .” Brownie waves his egg yolk-encrusted fork in the air and resumes: “The undertaker, for example, struck me as relieved to share the little tidbit about the embalming fluid. He was remorseful as all get out, though. He’s got himself believin’ he somehow coulda forestalled the death of the lawyer chief, as he referred to Sebastian—who he once met, I understand—and prevented the attack on the newly-minted Mrs. Elliot—newly-minted’s my expression . . . You gonna eat that?” Brownie waves the fork at Nate’s untouched breakfast which Nate gladly relinquishes.

“Anyway,” Brownie continues after several bites of the bonus meal, “I was sayin’ about the undertaker that he’s got this terrible remorse thing goin’ on, and the more I saw how bad he felt, the more I figured to keep quiet about the belated theft report other than lettin’ you in on it.” After a few more bites, Brownie follows up with increased gusto: “You
do
catch what I’m gettin’ at, don’t you? That this was
my
find and I’m free to do with it as I see fit. But I do not see how dispensing this news far and wide’s gonna hasten the capture of Jakeway. And I don’t see the point in makin’ the undertaker feel worse’n he already does by goin’ public with this. Why add to his guilt? That’d be like citing these loser types that worked with Jakeway at the IGA store and had him pegged for uber-weirdo long before he presumably took to preserving severed heads in stolen formaldehyde. Don’t think they’re not kickin’ themselves now that the fat’s in the fire and—”

“I get it, Brownie, I get it. And I commend your discretion. I applaud it, in fact, because that’s always the hardest decision to make—choosing between the responsible action and the charitable one. All other things being equal, of course.”

“Yeah, equal as in not jeopardizing an ongoing criminal investigation.”

“Precisely.”

“Can’t say I’m not glad we agree. Can’t say I’m not glad to drop that load.” Brownie signals the waitress for more coffee. “Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?”

“Nothing all that serious . . . Sorry if I made it sound pressing when I called. Just wanted to touch base about your preparedness to take on the writing project I’ve alluded to all along.”

At the conclusion of the repurposed breakfast meeting, Nate walks with Brownie through Reeves Mews to Park Street, where Brownie heads north for the Marble Arch tube station as though he hadn’t a care in the world—as though he hadn’t left behind mind-blowing imagery that may not degrade for days.

Nate strides off in the other direction, cuts over to Park Lane and the Dorchester. Amanda won’t still be at the hotel, and just as well because he’s not ready to tell her he caved to a different set of ethics. He’s not ready to face the day either, not in clothes thrown on at random and in need of a shower and a shave.

At the hotel, Nate makes his dispirited way through the lobby and up to the elegantly appointed corner suite. He’s a little surprised the rooms haven’t yet been serviced and mildly disturbed that the note he left for Amanda is still prominent on the dining table, suggesting it may have gone unnoticed.

He reaches for it, scrutinizes it for some sign she did find it, and snaps to when he realizes he’s not alone.

“I read it,” Amanda says from the far end of the sitting room, where she’s made herself small on the settee tucked into one of the window bays. “I know where you went and why and I only hope to heaven you chickened out or changed your mind or something because . . .” She sinks deeper into the settee, hugs her knees to her chest.

“What’s the matter? Why are you still here? Are you ill?” He crosses the room, crouches in front of her.

“Tell me that you didn’t say anything to Brownie about what really happened to Rayce.”

“I didn’t, but you’re confusing hell out of me. Last I heard you were adamant about—”