Shattered Trust (21 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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“Got it all on tape,” one agent said, glancing at his colleague. “Think we shoulda gone up there?”
“Happened so fast, nobody can blame us. She would have been dead by the time we got to the lobby.”
The first agent nodded. “Think they've got the cell-phone transmission to Moyer's phone?”
“Yep,” the second agent said, pulling off his monitoring headset. “Good thing Townsend gave us the numbers. This might buy the poor bastard a little leniency.”
“Either that or give him more shit to dig out from under. Man, this is convoluted!”
She'd been lying on the small loveseat in her office after letting James read the will for himself. Her eyes had begged him to let her explain later, and his told her that later would be a much better time than now. With him sitting beside her, the most natural thing for her sleep-deprived body to do was to slide against him as her lids slowly lowered on their own accord. There was so much to think about, to position, to get a handle on. But sudden yelling through the house, footfalls, and all-out panic put her and James both on their feet.
“Oh, shit, turn on the news, folks! We've got a media leak that's gonna blow this case to hell!”
Laura dashed down the hall behind James, who took the stairs down to the living room in double time.
Every agent and officer in the house stood with Laura and James, hang-jawed, as the television blared.
“Just in. Breaking News,” the news anchor said. “Rick, tell us how you uncovered this groundbreaking evidence?”
Laura covered her mouth with both hands.
“I have State Department documents from undisclosed sources that clearly show the conflict of interest that Micholi Foundation had with regards to large land development contracts here in Philadelphia, and throughout the nation. Their General Counsel, Alan Moyer, Senior, seems to be the lynchpin in this entire travesty, as his dealings include several blind trusts and private investments in firms tied to the late Senator Scott, his son, Howard Scott, Jr., and more recently, Michael Polanski, the slain executive director of Micholi Foundation, as well as the recently murdered James Devereaux, once treasurer of that ill-fated foundation.
“Moyer, born Alanir Moyir veschi, had access to know about a will that linked the late Donald Haines, Sr., to Xavier Mortgage, which is the only lender in the nation providing loan amnesty to victims of the Gulf. A philanthropist, extraordinaire, if I do say so, Connie.” Rick beamed at the camera and then shook his head. “However, the most bizarre twist in this tale of extortion, corruption, and scandal is the link between the deaths of Senator Scott, his son, and key Micholi Foundation execs, and of all groups, the Russian mob—all over plush development contracts promised but not delivered against, for the redevelopment of targeted prime real estate. Now live from the Cayman Islands with the far-reaching, international aspect of this story, is Byron.”
Laura and James looked at each other, but the badges and shields in the room sat forward or leaned in to hang on every word. Rick had gone from print to screen in a few hours? Whoa ...
The foreign correspondent put the microphone in Detective Hayward's face. “Tell us in your own words, sir, how the good police work on Grand Cayman led to a break in the investigation, and how you now have an alleged Russian mob hit man in your custody giving a statement.”
“Son of a bitch!” the lead FBI agent said, jettisoning himself up from Laura's sofa.
“Can you believe this shit?” Captain Bennett shouted.
The other agents hung their heads.
“It's now gonna become a political football as to who nailed the case, did the assist,” James muttered.
“Damn!” the agent hollered again, beginning to pace. He pointed at the television. “D.C., Baltimore cops in this shit. Jamaican police linking it to a bombing of a house and the U.S. Embassy took in Americans behind the shit? That's now Interpol's province. We, gentlemen, are screwed.”
“New legislation is being considered now, in light of this tragic series of events,” a reporter said. “Now back to you in Philadelphia, Connie.”
Right on cue the next reporter began culling her street team for reaction from politicians. Every politician that spoke took their fifteen seconds of photo-op to grandstand, reverse anything they'd said before—using the incident as a catalyst for their so-called new awareness, and said how they thought it was best that victims of Hurricane Katrina get amnesty from mortgage payments for at least a year. Even some who'd proposed the tightening of bankruptcy laws now made sweeping statements about easing bankruptcy legislation for those affected by disasters.
“What!” the FBI agent said, turning away from the droning television to speak into his cell phone. “Elizabeth Haines? When, for chrissakes? She's a material witness. Tell me she ain't dead. You sure? The coroner—oh fuck him, what does he know about a DOA?” The agent flung his phone down on the dining room table, raked his hair with his fingers and walked into the kitchen to cool down. Nervous glances passed around the room.
Laura and James's eyes locked as they mouthed a collective, “Oh, shit ...”
“Lady, and gentlemen, we're outta here,” the lead FBI agent announced to his team. “Stay close,” he said to Laura and James as he collected his cell phone and strode back into the living room. “We'll need you for court at some point,” he added in a weary tone. “All right everybody, show's over. Pack up your gear, sweep the house clean of any listening devices, and head downtown.”
“Always interesting when you two are involved,” Captain Bennett said on his way out the door with a sly wink. He shook James's hand. “Take care of yourself, Carter—as well as that pretty lady.”
Laura stood still for a moment. Elizabeth Haines was dead? Laura quickly shook herself out of the stunned daze and kissed Bennett on the cheek, then mouthed the words
thank you
. He smiled wide and mouthed back the words,
thank you.
“So, that's it?” Incredulous, James paced across the room behind Bennett. “What about the trigger man? We've still got the Russians on our asses, and haven't—”
“They're gonna pick up Moyer, now,” one of the feds said. “Seems he pushed Liz Haines into a coffee table in a fit of rage during an argument. Homicide agents and our boys caught it on tape.”
“What?” Laura gaped, her gaze going between the officers moving throughout her home, James, and Bennett. “He brutalized that woman in her own home? Alan Moyer? You have got to be kidding me.”
“She was in it,” another agent said, passing her with a large metal briefcase of equipment. “She was the courier pigeon for the messages coming in and out of the state pen from both Sutherland and Alan Jr. Crazy ... all that money, and all of 'em still scrambling for more.”
“Yo, Cap, I'm talking about police protection until all the loose ends are tied up,” James hollered behind Bennett's retreating form.
Captain Bennett stopped and smiled. “You want us to stay and babysit you, we can. But you can probably move through the Caribbean as celebrities, now that you've put a feather in several local forces' caps. Bet it's already on the BBC.”
“No, that's all right,” Laura said, just glad the law enforcement home invasion was temporarily leaving. “You guys have a nice evening and a great life—bye!”
She walked over to the large bay window and leaned against the sill, watching the tide of varying law enforcement authorities recede. Her once quiet, serene, sand-hued home with gleaming, pristine oak hardwood floors and art seemed soiled from the multiple violations. She wanted to move, rebuild her life in a place that no longer had residue from any of this. Her home was going up for sale tomorrow. Time for new environs for both she and James, but where and in what corner of the globe could one escape the knowing, even if one moved?
Still, relief, sadness, joy, anger, outrage, fatigue, all of the competing emotions swirled through her at once, making her drop her head and say a little prayer. She was blessed, James was blessed, and her family had been blessed. Everything had indeed come full circle. She could only hope that, now that the main individuals involved were about to be arrested, charged, and indicted, the bounty that had been on her and Akhan's head would be lifted.
It was time to talk to Akhan. They had to decide what to do with Xavier and set up an ironclad will structure to keep something like this from ever happening again. She needed to set up something whereby, if they died from unnatural causes, it would go to legit, community-rebuilding efforts—like Habitat for Humanity ... she wasn't even sure any longer.
She looked up and was transfixed at her window just as a big, blue BMW sedan careened into the street. Officers immediately scrambled and took defensive positions, shouting. A short, fat, elderly, wild-eyed man jumped out of the car wielding a revolver, screamed her name once, and pulled the trigger. Moyer. The window shattered in slow motion before she could scream. A bullet seared her skin and lodged in her chest. Pain. She heard James yelling her name, could taste blood in her mouth—couldn't breathe, felt herself going down as she heard gunfire report. Commotion, running, words, “Assailant down. We got him!” rang in her ears in the distance. Then everything went black.
 
 
“Hey, sleepyhead,” a low, melodic voice murmured close to her face.
A warm, rough hand squeezed hers. Then a light brush of the gentlest kiss in the world touched her forehead. Something wet splashed her face in droplets. She opened her eyes to the saddest, most intense brown eyes she'd ever seen a man wear.
“James,” she croaked around the tubes.
He pressed his forehead to hers and just wept.
Epilogue
Six months later on the Island of Maui.
 
“I
'm getting a tattoo,” Laura announced, looking at the small circle of scarring just above her right breast. She sat up on the chaise lounge and dug her toes in the volcanic, black sand. “My vanity will
not
allow this,” she said, scowling and putting sun screen on the tiny raised scar. “Maybe a moon or a star, or
something
.” She chuckled. “Yeah, at my age, forty-something, I'm trying something new.”
“I like it,” James said, leaning over to kiss the place that made her frown. “Every time I see it, it reminds me that you're still alive, it didn't get your heart or an artery, or bone, or a nerve, or your spinal cord ... so that little prayer you said just before the bullet came through the window musta worked.”
He sighed with contentment and then placed a more lingering kiss where the bullet had lodged in her chest and damaged a lung. He took her hand and put it on his thigh. “Besides, it matches mine—but mine got all zigzagged. Ain't as pretty as yours.”
She stroked his leg and gave him a sexy pout, then looked down at his thigh and kissed it gently. “I like your scar,” she murmured against his sunbaked skin.
“Oh, do you now?” he said, chuckling softly.
“Uhmmm, hmmm ...” She said, licking up his thigh until she reached the edge of his trunks. “Especially on a private beach.”
He laughed harder. “It's only private as long as family doesn't pop by unannounced, as they are wont to do.”
“I told Najira that, uh, I'd be spending the day—alone—with my husband. I'm still recovering and have to make up for all that lost time in the hospital.”
“Let me see that scar again,” he said, flipping the front hook of her bright turquoise bikini top open. “Need to make sure it's properly healed,” he said, kissing around the scar and capturing her nipple between his lips.
She pulled in a quiet hiss of air between her teeth as he brought his hand up to fondle her. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, enjoying the heat of the sun on her face and the heat James was creating within her.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Lemme see your scar again.” She slid out of her bikini top and moved over to his chair, curling herself between his thighs to blow on his scar before kissing a slow trail up to his groin. “Are you sure some of it doesn't go up here?” she asked, peeking inside his trunks.
“I don't know,” he said, laughing, and settling back against the chaise. “I never really looked at it good ... let me know.”
She slid his trunks over his hips. “It's hard to tell, there's so much in the way. Let me get a closer look.”
He laughed. She made him stop smiling with her tongue as she shimmied her bikini bottoms down and off her.
In a hard roll he covered her and found her scar again to nuzzle. “I'm glad you're alive.”
“I'm glad you are, too,” she whispered into his hair and then kissed his temple.
“I love this family we've got ... and this life, Laura.” He kissed her long, and hard, and deep, and moved against her like the slow, thundering tide.
She arched and took his earlobe into her mouth, slowly wrapping her legs around his waist. “I wouldn't have it any other way, James Carter.”
The doorbell rang in the distance, and she could hear Najira's car stereo blaring. Laura laughed, popped her head up, and quickly grabbed the towel from her chair to wrap them in it.
“Oh, no!” She giggled and hid her face against his shoulder.
“Did I also tell you how much this family gets on my nerves sometimes, Laura?”
“Yeah, but you know we wouldn't have it any other way.”

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