Deadly Purpose, page 10
“That’s enough to give me a headache,” Declan complained. “Don’t you have someone else to torment? Where’s Ross? He’s a good choice.”
Maddy pouted. “He got a call from Brad that they’re ready for him to give his deposition. Which is really mean because he got back like a minute ago and I hardly had any time with him. Anyway, back to what I was saying. I was wondering if you two are, you know, friends or ‘friends.’” She used her fingers to put air quotes around the last word.
“I thought you weren’t going to ask. And didn’t I help save your life? You could show your gratitude by minding your own business.”
Undaunted, she said, “Spoilsport.”
“You bet.” He turned to Meg. “You ready to order?”
“Wait a minute. You saved her life? What happened?”
Declan rolled his eyes. “Hungry, remember?”
Maddy beamed at her. “Meg, anytime you want to talk, come on by. I work the lunch hours at least three days a week. You can leave Dex at the cabin and we can have coffee and a nice chat.”
“I might just do that.” Meg’s smile felt forced. Planning to meet a new friend for coffee wasn’t likely to be in her future for the next couple of years.
They gave their order, Meg glad that she had enough cash to pay for her meal. Declan offered but hadn’t argued when she covered her own. Paying the attorney Brenda Nguyen wouldn’t be a problem, because by the time Meg got the bill, she wouldn’t be worried about tipping Julius off to her whereabouts and could access her own bank accounts.
She sat across from Declan at a table by the window that gave a charming view of Main Street with the mountains jutting into the sky in the distance. Seeing Declan interacting with his friends showed her a new side of the man, one she found appealing.
A tiny woman wearing a brightly colored embroidered blouse that reminded Meg of Central American art set their meal in front of them, and when Meg gave her thanks, she nodded and left without uttering a word.
Meg bit into her BLT avocado panini and groaned her appreciation of the blending of flavors. Maddy had assured her the rosemary sourdough was baked on premises and was delicious. Declan flashed strong teeth as he bit into his roast beef and cheddar on rye.
After swallowing, Meg shared, “I didn’t have much of an impression of Hangman’s Loss when I visited my dad. We spent our time hiking and fishing, but we didn’t come into town much. But I like the feel of it, at least what I saw today. The people are friendly. Have you ever been in the shop called Sisters’ Homegrown Treasures? The women who own it are identical triplets, and have to be over seventy years old.”
“The Hensley triplets. Haven’t been in the shop, but I’ve met them. Can’t tell them apart.”
“They’re—” Meg broke off when she spied the guy with the aviator glasses on the boardwalk in front of the store next door to the café. He was taking a picture of the 4Runner’s license plate. “Do you see that man? Do you see him?” She pointed out the window.
Declan’s head whipped around. Aviator Guy was now opening the driver’s door of a nondescript brown sedan.
“That guy with the aviator sunglasses. I saw him a couple times this morning—the second time I thought he was taking pictures of me. And just now he took a picture of your license plate.” Even as she spoke, the sedan eased into the light traffic. Declan peered intently through the window, then pulled a pen from his jeans pocket and scribbled onto a napkin.
“Was he doing anything else when you saw him?”
“The first time, he was sitting on a bench, and I swear he was watching me.”
Declan pulled out his phone, tapped on the screen, then held it to his ear. After a moment, he spoke. “Brad, it’s Dex. Can you run this plate for me?” He read it from the napkin. “I’ll hold.”
After a long minute where Declan’s gaze remained steadily on her, he bent his head to listen, then said, “Anything else? Okay, got it. Thanks.”
He set down his phone, expression thoughtful. “The car is registered to a private investigator out of Santa Cruz by the name of David Portillo. Ring any bells for you?”
She could feel the blood drain from her face. “No.” But she knew what the presence of a private investigator, especially one from Santa Cruz, meant. “Julius must have hired him.”
“That’s a good bet.”
“And he’s seen us together, and with your license plate he’ll be able to find out who you are and where you live.” She stared out the window while she fought to control the hysteria that wanted to rise up and choke her. “You said there’s a motel in town, where is it?”
“The Bluebird? Down at the end of Main, why?”
“I’ll get a room there for the night.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
“Because he’ll know who you are. He could come after you. You’re not safe if I’m there with you.” Her hands gripped the edge of the table, the food in front of her forgotten.
“Fuck that.”
“That’s hardly a reasoned response.”
“Neither is yours.”
“I am being reasonable. We need to get back to the cabin. I’ll get my stuff and get a room at the motel.” She paused. “I want my ammo back.”
“Jesus Christ, Meghan.” He leaned forward. “There’s no way in hell I’ll let you go now.”
Not sure what he meant by that, she tried another tack. “Maybe it would be better to go to the police chief today. Waiting until tomorrow only delays the inevitable. I think Chief Gallagher will have to make time for me.”
He reached across the table to pry one hand from its death grip on the table edge. Holding it firmly in his, his thumb caressing her palm, he said, “Listen carefully. You’re not going anywhere but with me back to the cabin where you’ll stay exactly like we’d planned. I can damn well protect you from an asshole like Portillo. My experience with PIs is that they play it safe. They gather information but aren’t inclined to put themselves in danger for a client.”
He must have sensed her tension. He raised her hand to brush his lips over her knuckles and melted her heart. “I talked to Brad and he says to come see him tomorrow. You’re safe with me, Meghan.” He motioned to her plate. “We’ll finish our lunch, then go.”
***
Julius Merritt leaned back on the wicker chaise, gazing out at his own little slice of well-deserved paradise. His home sat on a bluff above the Pacific Ocean, a view that cost him well over four million dollars to acquire. He drew in on the blunt, allowing the view and the cannabis to relax him, chasing it with the easy burn of fine bourbon. The price of the home was expected. Successful, brilliant people deserved the best, and he’d earned the standard of living he’d come to enjoy. That didn’t mean he didn’t have compassion for those less than him. He took great satisfaction in slipping a twenty into some beggar’s hand, and he didn’t think it was wrong that he carried hand sanitizer and used it liberally afterward.
People didn’t understand the precautions being famous forced him to take. He couldn’t walk down a street or into a store. Strangers recognized him, wanted pictures with him, wanted to take a little of his fame for themselves. He understood their desire—who wouldn’t want to share in the glow of the brightest star in the sky? He really hated when he had to turn them down.
Lately there had been nasty voices on social media who repeated the ugliness suggesting his shine was tarnishing. Didn’t they know of the talk that he was on the short list for a Nobel Prize in medicine? He sipped his drink. So what if he’d started that rumor himself. The Nobel committee needed a little nudge. Then that LA Times article had come out, made him out to be nothing more than a grifter, a con man who violated the trust people placed in the medical devices he created. It gave him some small satisfaction to know the writer of that shit piece had suffered serious injury in an automobile accident that wasn’t really an accident. Payback could be quite satisfying.
One big drawback of being rich enough, powerful enough to buy the common man a few thousand times over, however, was having to allow some people access to him. He was always uncomfortable with the fact that he was forced to rely on the people who worked for him. He paid them handsomely, more than enough to ensure their loyalty. Or so he’d thought.
Hiring Meg Bennett had been a regrettable mistake. He had permitted her to get close. She’d lived in his home, for god’s sake, then had betrayed that trust in the most ruthless fashion. Such disloyalty could never be forgiven. She would have to be punished.
A subtle chime signaled an incoming message. He grabbed his phone and opened the email. Finally. Portillo pissed him off, dithering about going over the mountains because of a little weather. Then the idiot had elected to drive hundreds of miles out of the way to take a more southerly route and avoid the snow. Now, finally, he claimed he’d located her. Better have, or the private investigator wouldn’t be paid a dime.
Julius scrolled down to the photos. Meg getting out of a four-wheel-drive vehicle, walking along a wooden sidewalk in some loser town. Another of her at a park of some sort, a lake in the background. Finding her hadn’t been all that hard. Shouldn’t have been, because he’d attached a GPS tracker inside the tire well of her vehicle as soon as she’d begun working for him.
But ever since he’d learned of her betrayal, he’d suspected she’d had help from someone, and now he knew for sure. He squinted at the unfocused image of a tall, bearded man exiting the same vehicle, then another of them entering a restaurant together. When he’d researched Meg’s background before hiring her, there’d been no evidence of a boyfriend. He wondered how she’d slipped that by him.
He squinted again at the photo. Portillo really did take shitty pictures. But even with the grainy quality, the man looked familiar. He took a puff on the joint and studied the image, scanned the next message that came through. He stilled, then reread it as his vision began hazing to red.
He inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs, letting his breath out slowly. It didn’t help to dispel the swelling anger that had the blood pounding in his ears. He read the report on the man Meg was with and seethed. Declan Michael Murphy. His hands shook. Meg must have been a plant sent by Murphy. There was no other explanation. The report gave the basics. Murphy was a decorated Los Angeles PD veteran, recently retired at the rank of lieutenant after being injured in the line of duty. He’d been assigned to a division that investigated human trafficking. Blah, blah, fucking blah.
The fury slid in fast as it always did, that instantaneous spike of rage that even the marijuana couldn’t soften. Julius leapt to his feet, not recognizing the obscenities bellowing from his mouth as his own. Shattering the lowball glass against the stone wall didn’t ease the fury, so he grabbed the glass-topped table and flung it with all his might. Shards of glass flew from the destroyed table, and when his cheek stung, he wiped it to find blood staining his fingers.
He hated Declan Murphy. Loathed the lowlife scum who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as him. For his entire adult life, whenever he was thwarted or disrespected, Julius always made it a practice to balance his own personal scales of justice in a manner that suited him, but he’d never been able to touch the bastard Murphy.
Memories rampaged through his head until he wanted to scream. That the conflict between them had happened so long ago was of no consequence. Over the years Julius had evaluated and discarded the best method of vengeance but hadn’t settled on one he thought would properly punish Murphy and still allow Julius to remain free of any possible association with said punishment.
That Murphy had never paid after so smugly arresting him, humiliating him, all those years before was a constant source of pain for Julius. For nearly fifteen years, no plan he could come up with had been worthy as retribution for that affront, so he’d bided his time, followed the fucker’s career, and patiently waited for the moment when payback would be most rewarding.
Now he had evidence of Meg’s involvement with the bastard. That they had succeeded in tricking him into allowing Meg to live in his house and have access not only to his person, but to the inner workings of his business, threatened to send him into another paroxysm of rage.
Then the thought struck like a stroke of lightning, blinding in its brilliance. He could get them both, Meg Bennett and Declan Murphy, with the same axe of vengeance. The plan unfolded in his mind, helping to lessen the rage. He lit another joint and felt calm return. There was even a little regret at the destruction he’d wrought on the patio furniture.
He brushed glass from the chaise to lie down again and returned his attention to his phone to study the PI’s report on Murphy.
Julius had always resented all the praise and hoopla heaped on first responders. Even that title irked him. Police, firefighters, rescue teams, they were peons like anyone else who punched a timecard. The true heroes were people like him who used their minds to create life-saving devices.
But the media, politicians, police organizations, they all manipulated the public with their hyped-up stories of heroism and courage. They roiled Julius’s gut and made him want to vomit. Not long after Murphy had arrested him in the most humiliating fashion, the fucker had been all over the news again, this time when he’d pulled an idiot teenager out of a rip current at the beach. Lifeguards had been busy keeping another stupid kid from drowning, and the media had fawned all over the off-duty cop.
The worst part was that some assholes had found and recirculated images on social media from when Murphy had arrested him when Julius had been a student at USC, further embarrassing him and renewing his rage with all the “Hunk and the Drunk” crap.
The fawning attention paid to Murphy made Julius sick. But now he understood why he’d never moved ahead with a plan for revenge. A divine hand had held him back, that much was obvious, and his patience had been rewarded because now he would get both Declan Murphy and Meg Bennett with one righteous act of retribution.
Julius didn’t really care if Meg and the cop were getting it on. He’d expected better of her, but whatever. What he did care about was getting back his own. His own personal failing was that he trusted too easily.
He’d expected Meg’s loyalty and it hurt that she’d been playing him the entire time. Not only had she stolen from him but, a much more egregious offense, she’d drugged him. That night he’d awoken to find himself laid out on the terrace floor, his head aching so badly he’d screamed violently in pain. He’d yelled for Meg, repeatedly, but she hadn’t come.
One of the maids had called nine-one-one. The bumbling, incompetent EMTs had claimed he’d overdosed. Since he’d been careful to nurture a relationship with the city manager, he’d pulled hard on that string to keep the emergency call hush-hush. A blood test had revealed alcohol, but more interestingly, a high level of diazepam. The bitch had somehow slipped him Valium.
Meg’s betrayal extended beyond himself. When she’d stolen from his accounts, she’d taken money entrusted to him by investors to create and market devices that saved human lives. The social media trolls who trashed him with accusations that those devices were killing patients were just that, trolls spewing out their vile lies.
Since it was a personal point of pride, he’d had his tech team tracking those trolls, rooting them out, hacking their accounts, and making sure payback destroyed their little worlds.
That Meg Bennett not only stole from him but had violated his person with an overdose of drugs meant vengeance for her would be appropriately severe. Usually, he let a few chosen employees dispense justice for him, and the deserving victims never knew that he’d been the architect of whatever form of payback he’d chosen. But this time he would take care of business himself. He wanted them to know he was the mastermind of their misery.
He would recover the money Meg had stolen, retrieve the copies of the files he was sure she had made, and then mete out the punishment both she and Murphy deserved. The idea that justice would finally be served brought a measure of peace. He’d have to come up with a plan suitably elegant for his tastes, and he wouldn’t kill them unless forced to.
He wasn’t a murderer. He was more civilized than that. Maybe he could even manage to manipulate one of them into a nice little murder/suicide. If they chose to end their own lives, well that was hardly his fault.
Pulling up Google maps, he put in the address revealed by the GPS tracker. He’d get a couple of hours sleep, then get an early start on his drive over the mountains.
Chapter Ten
“Why do you have your niece’s cat?”
Dex relaxed back in his chair, the cat a warm heap on his lap. A cold longneck bottle of Hangman’s Lager rested on his knee. Meghan sat across from him on the couch, feet curled beneath her, dark hair a cloud of curls around her head. Too damned appealing, as far as he was concerned. She looked at him expectantly, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea.
He took a sip of his beer. “The kid was convinced I’d be lonely up here on my own. She insisted I bring the cat with me. It’s impossible to say no to her.”
“That’s sweet. She gave you a therapy cat.”
He stroked the cat. “I’ve gotten used to her.”
“Why aren’t you a cop any longer? You act like one. You think like one. What happened?”
“Nothing exciting.”
“Maybe not to you. You don’t know what excites me.” She put up her hand even as he grinned. “Stop that. I wasn’t being suggestive.”
“Too bad.”
“Now you’re being suggestive.”
“You started it.”
“No, you started it this morning with that kiss.”
“I’ll accept that. It was a good kiss. Excellent, in fact. Wanna do it again?”
“We are not going to make out on the couch and we’re not talking about that kiss. We’re talking about why you’re not a cop. Don’t deflect, Declan Murphy.”
