Sweet Talk (9 page)

The police brought out two of the most frightening-looking men Olivia had ever seen. They were handcuffed and shouting for lawyers. Odd how even the most drugged degenerates with burned-out brains still understood the law and knew how to manipulate it. Odd and disgusting.

Grayson and Ronan were both talking to a policeman, but she noticed their gazes were locked on the group that had stopped in the street a couple of houses away. Their number had increased from three to six. A child, no older than six or seven, ran down the street to join them.

Olivia watched as the leader of the group grabbed the little boy by the arm and pivoted him in the opposite direction, yelling, “Marcus, I told you to stay inside. Now, go home.”

The boy started to protest, but when the older man gave him a hard shove, he reluctantly walked away with slouched shoulders, dragging his feet.

Olivia turned back to the house and saw something moving on the roof. Oh God, it was Tyler. In the moonlight she could see him creeping along the ridge.

She flew out of the car and called to Grayson. “Tyler’s on the roof.”

Grayson rushed back inside, and a minute later he was reaching for Tyler from the second-story window. The boy wouldn’t budge, but when Grayson pointed to Olivia, he began to inch his way down the slope.

While she waited for them, yet another squad car arrived. When one of the policemen asked how many bodies were inside, Ronan answered, “Two in the kitchen, one male, one female.”

The front door opened, and Tyler flew across the porch and down the stairs. He ran to Olivia and nearly knocked her off her feet when he threw himself into her arms.

She hugged him tight. “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

His head was tucked under her chin, his voice muffled when he answered. She could feel him trembling, and he was crying softly.

“I did it the right way, didn’t I?” he asked. “I said your name when I called you on the phone, just like you told me to if I was in trouble.”

“Yes, you did it just the way we practiced. You’re very brave, Tyler.”

“I knew you’d come for me.”

“Of course. Are you ready to let go of me yet?”

He stepped back. “You smell good. How come you’re all dressed up?”

As she walked to Grayson’s car and opened the back door for him, she explained that her aunt had received a special award.

One of the gang members who had been watching shouted to Tyler. “Is she going to put you in juvie?”

Another yelled, “What’d you do, kid?”

Tyler turned to the group. “I’m not going to juvie, and I didn’t do anything wrong.” He pointed to Olivia and said, “She’s my lawyer. I called her, and she came right away. She’s taking me back to my new home.” His voice was filled with pride.

The leader of the group, a hard-looking man who was probably still in his twenties but looked fifty, motioned to his friends to stay where they were as he walked over to Olivia. Grayson was suddenly standing in front of her.

The man stepped to the side so that he could see Olivia and asked, “Are you really his lawyer?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m Tyler’s attorney.”

The man glanced warily at Grayson, then said, “Uh . . . do you have any cards on you with your phone number in case one of us needs a lawyer? I didn’t like my last one. He didn’t do anything to help me.”

She didn’t know how to answer him. The thought of representing a gang member made her shudder.

Although he didn’t realize it, Tyler came to her rescue. “You have to go through court to get her,” he said, sounding very grown-up. “The judge gave her to me.”

The explanation seemed plausible to the man. He nodded and headed back to his friends. He suddenly stopped, then turned to Grayson. “You got the kid out just in time. Another couple of hours would have been too late. Those fools decided they would make their own meth. Cut out the middleman,” he added. “They were going to start cooking tonight. They would have blown themselves up and taken the kid with them.”

Grayson wanted to get the boy away before the bodies were carried out. He and Ronan had surprised the aunt and the uncle when they burst into the house. Startled, the woman had thrown a meat cleaver at them and then she and the uncle reached for their guns and began shooting. Grayson heard Ronan mutter, “Son of a bitch,” a scant second before he shot her.

Olivia waited while Grayson and Ronan wrapped up things with the police. She had put Tyler in the backseat. After he’d snapped on the seat belt, she’d covered him with Grayson’s jacket. Clearly exhausted, the child was sound asleep minutes later.

She called the foster mother and filled her in on what had happened, assured her that Tyler was all right, and estimated that she’d have him back home within an hour.

When they were finally on their way, Grayson said, “One of the policemen told me they’d been to the aunt and uncle’s house this evening looking for Tyler. They searched the house but couldn’t find him. The foster mother reported him missing when he didn’t come home in the carpool from soccer practice.”

“The aunt was probably waiting to grab him,” she said. She looked back at Tyler to make sure he was sleeping and then asked in a whisper, “Are they both dead?”

“Yes.”

She was pleased he didn’t embellish. “I shouldn’t feel relieved, should I? It’s just that they were such vicious people, and they wouldn’t have left Tyler alone. The drugs made them evil.”

He shook his head. “No, they were already evil. Drugs made them bolder. Does Tyler like where he’s living now?”

“Oh yes, very much,” she said. “The foster mother is a loving woman. He’s very comfortable there.”

“Would he tell you if he weren’t?”

“We’ve got a secret code for that, too.”

As they drove toward Tyler’s new home, Olivia was thinking how fortunate it was that Grayson had been with her tonight.

“I’m glad you were with me. It made it so much easier. Thank you.”

He pulled onto the expressway and cut over to the middle lane. “You’re welcome. Tell me, what would you have done if you’d been home when Tyler called? You told me there wasn’t time for me to take you home to get your car. Would you have driven into that neighborhood alone?”

She knew he wouldn’t like the answer. “I always call for backup,” she said. “And usually the squad car beats me to the address.”

“But not always?”

“No, not always.”

His frown was fierce. “What about tonight? What would you have done?”

“Tyler was on the roof. I would have signaled to him not to move because the roof wasn’t stable. Then I would have figured out a way to get him down.”

“What if he was inside the house, and you heard him screaming?” he asked. “Then what?”

She didn’t hesitate to answer. “I would have gone in after him.”

Even though Grayson knew that’s what she was going to say, it still infuriated him.

“No training, no weapon . . . what would you have done? Shout at them?”

“If I heard Tyler scream, I would have gone in,” she insisted. “And so would you.”

Only after she made that statement did she realize how foolish it was.

“Of course I would have,” he snapped. “I’ve been trained for situations like this, and I carry a weapon.”

“This conversation is ridiculous. Tyler’s safe, and that’s all that counts. It all worked out.”

He wasn’t ready to let it go. “It’s amazing you’re still alive.”

He had no idea how truthful that remark was. “Yes, it is,” she agreed.

“You’ve never been close to death, and maybe that’s why you’re such an optimist.”

Never been near death? Try two years’ worth, she thought. And optimistic? Her friends were constantly telling her she was too negative. What would Grayson think if he knew this about her?

The discussion finally ended when they reached the foster home. Grayson carried Tyler inside and put him in his bed. The child never opened his eyes.

It was three in the morning by the time they reached Olivia’s apartment. Unaccustomed to such late hours, Olivia was exhausted. Grayson, on the other hand, looked as though he’d just started the evening.

He parked in front of her building. The doorman rushed outside to tell him he had to move his car, but then he saw the weapon at his side and stepped back.

“It’s all right, John. He’s with the FBI,” Olivia said.

“Is everything okay, Miss MacKenzie?”

“Yes. Everything’s fine,” she said. She stopped at the elevator and turned to Grayson. “You don’t have to come up with me.”

“Sure I do.”

He pinned her to the wall when he reached around her to push the button.

“You’re still nervous with me, aren’t you?”

She looked up into his eyes. She was barely inches away from him. All she had to do was tilt her head ever so slightly and lean in, and she’d be kissing him. She didn’t give in to the urge.

“No. I’m no longer nervous with you.” It was a blatant lie, but she thought she’d told it well.

He wasn’t buying it. He flashed that adorable smile again. He could get anything he wanted with that smile, she thought. And probably did. That reminder helped. She knew women threw themselves at him, but she wouldn’t be one of them. He wasn’t her type.

She laughed. Talk about a whopper of a lie. That was the big daddy of them all.

The elevator doors opened on three. He stepped back to let her out first, then followed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking you’re not my type, and that was funny to me because . . .”

“Yes?”

“Because you are.”

He frowned. “Your type?”

You’re every woman’s type, she thought. She didn’t tell him that, thank God. Instead, she said, “I’m tired. I’m not making much sense.”

Her apartment was at the end of the hall. She got her keys out of her purse and unlocked the door. Grayson pushed it open and backed her inside. His eyes never left hers as he put his arms around her.

“I had a lovely time tonight,” she said, remembering the awards gala. “It was really nice . . .” She realized what she was saying. “Except for the two people you had to shoot and except for . . . Oh God, Grayson, just kiss me. I won’t stop talking until you do.”

He pulled her closer, and his lips brushed over hers. It was a quick middle-school kind of kiss, a prelude, she quickly realized, to driving her out of her mind. As soon as she put her arms around his neck, he stopped teasing her. His mouth opened and his tongue delved inside to rub against hers. She tightened her hold. His mouth was doing magical things to her, and every nerve in her body reacted. It was the most erotic kiss she’d ever experienced, and she never wanted it to end. He made love to her with his tongue, and when he lifted his head he could have taken anything he wanted.

She sagged against him. Taking a deep breath, she let go of him and stepped back so he could leave, even though she wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted . . . him.

“Be sure to lock the door,” he said in parting. His voice was a rough whisper.

And he was gone. Her hand shook as she flipped the deadbolt. She kicked her shoes off, walked into the bedroom, and dropped down on the bed.

She knew she was going to be thinking about that kiss for a long time, and she wondered . . . had it meant anything to him?

NINE

O
livia was having a lazy Sunday afternoon. She read
The Washington Post
and
The New York Times,
did two crossword puzzles, played three games of Words with Friends on her iPhone, and was now talking to Samantha and Collins on a conference call to give them an update on Jane. It had been two months since her last transfusion, and she was back in the hospital again.

Although she didn’t mention Grayson Kincaid to them, Olivia couldn’t stop thinking about him. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell them about him. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to make a big deal of their relationship. Besides, there really wasn’t anything to tell, was there? In the two months since the awards gala, he hadn’t called her. Of course, he never said he would. In fact, his last words to her were a reminder to lock her door. How romantic was that?

At the very least, he owed her an update on Jorguson. She hadn’t heard a word about the investigation.

For the first full week after their alleged date, she was certain he’d get in touch with her. The second week she convinced herself that he was too busy to call but that he would eventually get around to it. After three full weeks had passed and not a word, she decided hell would freeze over before she went out with him. She had wasted enough time thinking about him and vowed she wouldn’t spend one more second remembering that amazing kiss. Yeah, right. That was pretty much still all she could think about.

Would he have kissed her if she hadn’t asked him to? Now that was the million-dollar question.

Olivia realized she was daydreaming again while she was still on the conference call. Sam and Collins were discussing Jane’s medical issues, and she forced herself to pay attention.

“Why didn’t the last transfusion help?” Collins asked.

“How do you know it didn’t?” Olivia said.

“Because she’s back in the hospital,” Sam pointed out.

“Dr. Pardieu told Jane he wanted to run a couple of tests, that’s all. He insists he’s not worried, and we trust him, don’t we?”

“Of course we do,” Sam said. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. I’m sorry I can’t give her blood.”

“We all have the same blood type,” Collins reminded. “That’s why we were put in the experimental program. I don’t understand why Dr. Pardieu won’t take some of ours, Sam.”

“Mine just happens to work better for her,” Olivia answered. “You know, if you’re so worried, you could talk to Jane about this.”

“Isn’t it too soon for you to give blood again?” Sam asked.

“No,” Olivia assured. “It’s been almost eight weeks. If she needs it again, there wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I wish I were there. I can tell how Jane’s feeling just by looking at her.”

“She’s going to be fine,” Collins insisted. “But you know the last thing she needs now is stress. Olivia, Sam told me that creepy brother of hers is hanging around again.”

“Actually, Logan is really trying this time. I think he might make it. He lives in a halfway house, and he’s working. Jane says he hasn’t missed a single day.”

“That’s different,” Collins admitted.

“He cares about Jane, and he’s trying to make up for all the pain he’s caused.”

“That will take a lifetime,” Sam said.

“If Jane can forgive him, we can, too,” Olivia said. “She went back into the hospital last week, and Logan has been there every day. He comes to see her on his lunch hour and after work. When she’s home, he brings her dinner. He’s trying, Sam.”

“Okay, I’ll give him another chance,” Sam said. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Quickly, Olivia, tell me how your search is going.”

“I can’t get access to my father’s records, so I’ve run into another dead end,” she answered. “I have been able to get copies of some of the statements for his fund, though, and reading them is like gazing at the stars and trying to identify each one. There are lists of thousands of investments. Some of them I recognize as legitimate but the rest are really obscure. It appears that there are a great many in foreign countries. It also appears that the portfolio changes constantly. I swear he’s Houdini. He might be committing the perfect crime because I can’t find the fraud.”

“You can’t find it
yet
,”
Collins said. “There’s no such thing as a perfect crime. At least that’s what they tell me.”

“Are you still determined to become an FBI agent?” Olivia asked.

“Yes,” she answered emphatically. “And I think I’ll be a good one.”

“When do you begin your training?” Sam asked.

“I’m still waiting to hear. I know the academy will be a challenge, so I’ve decided to get a head start. I’ve been going to a firing range to get some practice.”

“Have you shot anyone yet?” Sam asked with feigned alarm.

“Of course not,” Collins answered indignantly, “but there have been a couple of close calls.”

She shared a few stories about her first experiences with a firearm. By the time the friends ended their conversation, she had them laughing uproariously.

Olivia had just disconnected the call when another came in. Her boss, Royal Thurman, was on the line. He had never called her at home before, and an alarm was sounding inside her head. Something bad was coming, she thought.

“There’s a problem I need to discuss with you,” he began in his deep baritone voice. “Do you have any time this afternoon? My wife and daughters are shopping at Tysons Corner, but they’re going to meet me for dinner at Neeson’s Café at six. My girls love their macaroni and cheese. The restaurant is quite close to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Could you stop by the café at five? It’s important, Olivia, or I wouldn’t bother you at home.”

She didn’t ask him to explain what the problem was or even to give her a hint. She was supposed to have dinner with her aunt, but Emma had decided to go to Palm Springs early for a seminar to get away from the cold.

“I’ll be there,” she told him.

Don’t borrow trouble, she warned herself. The nurses used to say that to her when she was worried about the results of one of her tests. And for a long while, the results had been bad. It didn’t seem to matter if she borrowed trouble or not. She took a deep breath. This wasn’t the chemo isolation unit, and she was now an adult. If Thurman was going to fire her or let her go because of cutbacks, so be it. She’d find another job. But wouldn’t he do it during office hours?

Olivia had told her boss about her horrid interview with Jorguson. He hadn’t laughed, but she could tell he wanted to. He’d assured her that, when the cutbacks came, he would do everything he could to protect her.

Maybe that had changed.

Fortunately, she didn’t have long to stew about all the possibilities for the meeting. It was already three thirty. She jumped into the shower, washed and dried her hair, and pulled it back in a ponytail. She dressed in a heavy, dark green sweater, skinny jeans, and knee-high boots. She even took time to put on some makeup and dab perfume on her wrists.

She pulled on her heavy sheepskin coat, a bright red wool scarf, a knit cap, and gloves. The inside of her coat had a large pocket, so she put a credit card in it, added her driver’s license, three twenty-dollar bills, her cell phone, and her keys. She zipped the pocket closed and headed to the elevator.

John was on duty in the lobby. “It’s awful cold out there,” he warned.

“I’m going to Neeson’s to meet my boss,” she said. “It’s close.”

“I love Neeson’s. They’ve got the best mac and cheese in the city. My stomach’s grumbling just thinking about it.”

“Would you like me to bring you some?”

“Oh no, no. I wasn’t hinting.” He opened the door for her.

“I’ll get you some,” she promised as she walked past.

The blast of frigid air entering her lungs as she stepped outside reminded her that she’d left her inhaler in her apartment. She turned to run back up to get it but changed her mind. Neeson’s Café was six short blocks away from her building, and if she took her time, she’d be fine. She didn’t want to keep Mr. Thurman waiting.

By the time she was halfway to the restaurant, she was frozen solid. It was bitterly cold, and there was a wet, blustery wind. The lighted display on the bank across the street said it was eighteen degrees. She increased her pace the last two blocks. When she walked into the tiny vestibule, the warm air stung her cheeks, and her lungs felt like they were burning.

Although she was ten minutes early, Mr. Thurman was already there in a large booth in the back of the nearly empty restaurant. He looked relieved to see her. It was bad, all right. She reminded herself not to borrow trouble and almost laughed at the notion.

Mr. Thurman, the ultimate gentleman, helped her with her coat and hung it up for her, then waited until she was seated before he slid into the booth across from her. He pushed his empty coffee cup to the side and stacked his big hands on the table. When a waitress came over with a coffeepot and refilled his cup, Olivia requested hot tea and an order of mac and cheese to go.

“I’ll get right to it,” Thurman said. “I was about to sit down for Sunday breakfast when I received a call from Carl Simmons of Simmons, Simmons and Falcon. You’re familiar with the law firm?”

“Oh yes.”

“I wasn’t,” he said. “I mean to say, I’d heard of the firm, but I’d never had a conversation with any of them until today. You can guess what the topic was.”

She smiled. “Me.”

“Exactly so,” he said. “You must also know that the firm represents your father.”

“Yes, I know. But why would he call you?”

“Carl . . .” He paused to smile and said, “He insisted I call him by his first name because he’s certain we will become good friends who—according to him—will help each other. I could almost hear him winking over the phone,” he added. “I didn’t care for the man one little bit.”

“What did he want?”

“He felt it was his duty to warn me about you. He believes you may be abusing your position as counsel for the IRS. I asked him what proof he had, knowing full well there wasn’t any, and he hemmed and hawed. Then he got to his obvious agenda. He specifically mentioned your father. Simmons believes you’re trying to manufacture evidence to discredit him. If that happens, his investors will lose faith in him, and before you know it, they’ll remove their money, and his fund will go belly up.”

“And it will be all my fault.”

“Exactly so.”

“I’m not manufacturing evidence, sir.”

“I know that, Olivia,” he said, his voice kind and sympathetic. “I’m merely repeating what he said to me.”

“I’ve worked on cases I’ve been assigned and only those cases,” she assured him. “I certainly haven’t looked at my father’s file. That would be illegal, and besides, what would be the point? It’s all a fairy tale. I came to the IRS to learn.”

“You told me about your father before I hired you, remember? You do exceptional work. Researching your father’s dealings outside of your job hasn’t interfered with that.”

“But?”

“But I want you to be ready for what’s coming. Simmons hinted . . . strongly hinted,” he stressed, “that you were mentally unstable and needed help. He also suggested that your family is determined to see that you get it. He kept saying ‘in my opinion’ and seemed to think slandering you is perfectly okay if he’s only giving his opinion.”

“That’s a new tactic.”

“He didn’t come right out and say that you’re unfit, but I’ll tell you, Olivia, he’s going to try to get you fired. He’ll go over my head, but I don’t think he’ll be successful. If what you say is true about your father’s investment fund, I’m guessing that Simmons is raking in profits right along with him. He isn’t going to let you ruin it for him. He’s shrewd, all right. He’ll get out right before the bubble bursts. I’ve seen it before, and it saddens me to say I know I’ll see it again. Greed has a way of overtaking morals.”

The hot tea was placed in front of her along with a carryout bag. She thanked the waitress and handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

She stared out the window and wasn’t surprised to see snow falling. “I can’t find anything,” she whispered.

“Could your judgment be impaired because of past experiences with your father? Could you be wrong about him now? What if he’s innocent? Have you considered that he might have learned some valuable lessons over the years and has made up his mind to be honest in his dealings? Your father is thought by many to have a special knack when it comes to picking stocks. His portfolio performance is quite impressive.”

She wondered if he realized how naive he sounded. “No, I don’t believe he’s learned any lessons. I think he’s just gotten better at hiding his crimes.”

“From what I’ve heard, his fund has gone through the roof,” he pointed out. “His clients have made enormous profits.”

“Oh, sir, you aren’t one of his clients, are you?”

He laughed. “And suffer your wrath? No, of course not. I just want you to consider the possibility that your father might be a changed man.”

Mr. Thurman wasn’t familiar with the details of her father’s history. He, therefore, wasn’t convinced that her father was doing anything wrong, and she didn’t have any evidence to prove that he was. Still, her boss was loyal to her. After pointing out the possibility that she could be mistaken, he let it go.

His family arrived promptly at six. They asked her to have dinner with them, but she declined, explaining she had made plans to see her friend who was in the hospital.

“We’re supposed to get snow tonight,” Mr. Thurman said. “If you have to drive, be careful.”

Olivia counted herself lucky to have such a great boss. He genuinely cared about her. She knew he was trying to protect her from being laid off, and now he was trying to help her with the Carl Simmons situation.

She had just left the restaurant when her cell phone rang. She stepped back inside the warm entry to answer.

Judge Bowen was on the line. “Olivia, I just received a call from an attorney named Carl Simmons . . .”

“Oh no. What did he say?” she asked. “No, let me guess. In his opinion, I’m unstable and making things up.”

The judge chuckled. “Yes, he did say something like that, though he did coat it with his concern for you and the well-being of any children who may be in your charge. He was playing me, Olivia, and you know how much I hate that. He didn’t come right out and say it, but he implied that you were unfit, and he felt it was his duty to caution me. He said the occasional case I give you involves vulnerable children, and I should be aware that, because of your fragile state of mind, if anything were to happen to one of the children, I could be held responsible. Did you know you’re about to have a nervous breakdown?”