Asking for Trouble (23 page)

Her silence was all the confirmation he needed. Gage slapped his hand on the hood of the car, signaling for them to go.

***

“Where the hell is she?” Agent Kolfax stormed into Evan's office with the force of a category 4 storm barreling across the Pacific. His beady brown eyes targeted Gage like an out-of-control machine gun firing blanks. Gage didn't move as he watched maintenance replace the glass window with a splinter-infested panel of plywood.

As if covering the empty pane would make it whole again. As if Morgan's apology made the lies disappear.

“Miss Tremayne is in police custody,” Evan said, without looking up from the notes he was making.

“Bullshit. I was just at the precinct—”

“I said police
custody
, not precinct,” Evan corrected.

“My federal warrant trumps your local one,” Kolfax seethed. “I can have you brought up on charges—”

“Do it.” Evan stopped writing long enough to glance up. “Please. Let's put all this on the record so everyone can see exactly what's going on.”

“I know what's going on. That woman has information I need.”

“We agree.” Evan clicked his pen shut. “Trouble is, we don't like your way of trying to get it.”

“If you mean I didn't fuck it out of her—”

Gage snapped the pencil he'd been twirling in two.

“I kept him from hurting you once,” Evan told Kolfax. “I won't do it again. Things would have been so much easier if you'd been up front with us from the start. Instead, well . . . Don't expect an apology from either of us once this is finished.”

Up front from the start. Gage inhaled, counted to twenty, but couldn't quite rid himself of the bitterness circling him like a blood-addicted shark.

Gage's cell buzzed and the shark settled. From Rojas:
Got it. In writing. All four.
Now Gage could breathe easier.

“Ready?” Evan asked, and hit send on the email he'd finished composing before Kolfax's arrival.

“Yep.” Gage stood and dialed Peyton, who picked up after the first ring. “Anytime. Interview five. Make the call.” Then to Evan, “Let's do this.”

“Do what?” Kolfax looked more rabid by the minute.

“Question the suspect,” Gage said. “That is what you wanted to do, isn't it? Just one thing. This time you get to observe.

“I've filed a formal protest with the court along with a motion to transfer custody—”

“It's under review.” Evan grabbed his jacket and they headed across the street. For once, Gage had anticipated Kolfax's egotistical behavior and wasn't surprised to find the media beginning to swarm outside the precinct.

“I'll make a statement within the hour,” Kolfax snapped at an overzealous, barely-out-of-college reporter who stuck a cell phone in Kolfax's face as they passed.

Gage made it a point to take his time on his way to the interview room. But with Kolfax hovering nearby, the agent's frustration increasing like a missile about to go nuclear, Gage watched for Peyton and Bouncer to escort Morgan in through the door by the break room.

Her clothes were rumpled, her thick blond hair mussed from stress and restless fingers. Her color was better, but not by much. But she held her head high and held his gaze for a moment before she was guided into the interview room. His Morgan was back.

His Morgan could take what he'd have to dole out. His Morgan.

Gage took a deep breath of stale, burnt-coffee-infused air.

His Morgan.

“Observation's this way,” he told Kolfax. “Did we thank you for that list of contact numbers you gave us?” Gage pushed open the door to the observation room.

“What are you—?” Kolfax looked as sick as a sailor after a weekend bender.

“Agent Dyson, thanks so much for coming.” Evan greeted the Supervisory Special Agent with a hearty handshake. “Agent Kolfax has been telling us how important this case is to the agency. As we told him from the beginning, we've been anxious to help.”

“Looking forward to a swift resolution to this case. You must be Inspector Juliano. Special Agent Nicholas Dyson.” If Agent Dyson were to ever quit the FBI, he could always play an agent on TV. Classic Mediterranean features made Dyson look as if he'd been sent by central casting. As opposed to Kolfax, who looked as if he should be selling cars in a late-night commercial. “I hear you worked with Sean Salcedo. Terrible loss to the agency. I recruited him myself right out of the Boston Police Academy. I'm not at all pleased about the rumors someone's been circulating about him and you.”

“Sean was a good guy,” Gage agreed, wanting nothing more than to check to see if Kolfax was hyperventilating yet. “And thank you. You've been brought up to speed on the case?”

“On both cases, yes.” The sour look Dyson aimed at Kolfax was the best thing Gage had seen all day. “I'm thinking this woman has some interesting information to impart.”

Because Gage knew Kolfax would love nothing more than to discredit Gage by revealing Gage's relationship with Morgan, Gage said, “So you're aware, Agent Dyson—”

“Nick, please.” Dyson took a long drink of what passed as coffee at the precinct. “Oh, good God. That was a mistake.”

“Depends if you'd planned to blink again this week.” Gage said. “I think you should be aware I've had a personal relationship with Morgan Tremayne.”

“Recently?”

“Currently,” Gage admitted, and finally allowed himself to look through the two-way mirror at Morgan as she paced. She looked so lost. Alone. Part of him, the part that loved her, wanted nothing more than to fold her into his arms and hide her from the world. The other part, the cop, wanted to close the Nemesis case once and for all and forget any of this ever happened. “I realize there's a serious conflict of interest—”

“You think?” Kolfax sneered.

“But you believe she'll be more forthcoming with you than someone else,” Dyson said, giving barely a passing glance to his subordinate.

“I think we should use whatever we have to our advantage. If that includes an FBI presence during her questioning, I'm fine with that. And by presence, I mean you and not him.”

Dyson held up a hand to stifle Kolfax's sputtering protests. “I agree. Keeps things aboveboard. But I will step in if I don't like the way things are headed.”

“Understood.”

Gage left Evan and Kolfax and found his team huddled outside Morgan's interview room. Rojas handed him the finalized information. Gage looked it over, made sure it was in the order he needed, and, angling his body away from Dyson, scribbled a note in pencil on the top right corner of one of the pages.

“This is either a Hail Mary pass or an end to your social life,” Bouncer said, looking over his arm.

No shit. “You guys did amazing work with this. It's stellar. Couldn't have asked for a better team.”

“You going somewhere, boss?” Peyton frowned. “We heard about what Kolfax said to you in Evan's office—”

“Feel free to watch in observation,” Gage told them as he saw Jackson Tremayne entering the lobby of the precinct.

All the pieces were in place.

Gage closed his eyes, tried to forget how it felt to have Morgan in his arms, laughing up at him, kissing him. Surrounding him. Because it couldn't matter. Not if this was going to work.

Her time was up.

Gage opened the door and stepped inside.

“I called the hospital. They're still running tests on Brandon.”

Morgan spun to face Gage as the door opened to the interview room, her blood pumping so fast her head spun.

Because Bouncer had lent Morgan her cell phone, she already knew about Brandon's condition. She and Angela had assured each other all would be fine.

Neither one of them believed it.

Brandon.
Her heart ached to the point where she couldn't feel her fingers and toes. She needed to do whatever she could to get to him. She'd promised.

“Thank you,” Morgan said. Peyton told her before they got out of the car behind the station not to volunteer any information. She was to let Gage take the lead. If there was ever a time to follow instructions, for her to surrender the control she prided herself on, it was now.

She'd always assumed the recent renovation to the police station had extended to the interior, but the yellowed linoleum and water-stained walls made Morgan feel as if she were trapped in a 1950s asylum. The gag-inducing stench of scorched coffee with undertones of sour guilt threatened her gag reflexes. Sweat dotted her face and dripped down the back of her neck, as the ten-by-ten room had little space for occupants let alone circulating air.

She blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, unable to stand still without feeling as if she were being burned alive by a spotlight.

As far as arrests went, she'd expected worse.

The fact that Gage had yet to step inside the room, as if he couldn't bear to be near her, lodged deeper in her heart than even she expected.

She took a step toward him, but even with his eyes glued to the file in his hands, he winced.

Morgan fought the urge to curl her arms around herself and retreat into the corner like a cowering hedgehog.

“Gage, I—” Morgan saw her father appear in the hall. “Dad?” Morgan's heart dropped as if she were the sole rider on the Tower of Terror.

“Quiet, Morgan.” Her father, dressed in his impeccable navy blue Hugo Boss suit, looked every inch the powerful executive she knew him to be. He leaned in far enough to hold up his hand and silence her with the same look he'd scolded her with when she was a child.

Morgan pressed her lips shut, heard him speak in hushed undertones with a tall, thin man who could have been passed over multiple times by the Grim Reaper. This didn't make sense. “How—”

Gage shifted his gaze to the mirror across from her. Had she not known him as well as she did, she would have missed the imperceptible shake of his head. Then she remembered, at the house, Gage's instructions to Sheila and now his indication that they were being watched.

Hope trickled into her heart.

Morgan swallowed the tears burning her throat as her father entered and grazed Gage's shoulder with his hand.

She searched her father's face for a hint of what he was thinking, but all she saw was a heavy concern, as if her arrest deposited the weight of a small moon on his already overburdened shoulders.

“I'm so sorry, Dad.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jackson said with a silent warning similar to what Gage shot her moments ago. “This is your attorney, Aaron Shackleford. You don't say a word without his approval, you hear me? I'd like to stay,” Jackson told Gage as Shackleford pulled Morgan's chair out for her.

“If it's all right with your daughter and her attorney.” Gage closed the door. “Sit down, Morgan.”

With her father's hand on her shoulder, Morgan sat. When Gage looked across the table at her, she had to stop from twisting her hands together. She folded them and placed them on the table, wishing, searching for the Gage she loved. The man who had tried to help her. The one person who was able to convince her there was more to life than blind devotion to a cause.

But all she saw was the cop.

Her chest constricted as if she'd taken a punch to her heart.

“For the record, this interview is being recorded. Also present is Supervisory Special Agent Nicholas Dyson of the FBI.” Gage indicated the tall, sturdy looking man who had taken a position in the far corner of the room before gesturing to the rectangular camera wedged in the upper corner of the room above the door. “You've been advised of your rights, Miss Tremayne?”

Morgan tried not to take his cool, detached tone personally. “Yes.” FBI? Fear plumbed new depths in her belly. What was going on?

“And you understand those rights, correct? Which is why your attorney is present?”

“Yes.”

Gage flipped open the file without breaking eye contact. Morgan considered it a personal challenge not to look away. How many times had he asked her to confide in him? To let him help? How would things have been different if she'd listened?

“Have you been to Miami in the last five years?” Gage asked.

“Miami?” She glanced at Mr. Shackleford, who was writing down every word spoken. He gave a short nod. “No. I've never been to Miami.”

“We'll be verifying that.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“Have you to your knowledge had any involvement with the Benetiz Cartel?”

“Th—the what? I don't understand, I thought this was about N—” Mr. Shackleford touched her hand while Jackson tightened his grip on her shoulder. “No,” she said, feeling as if she'd been thrown into the deep end of the pool without swimming lessons or a life vest. “What's a Benetiz Cartel?”

“Have you had any contact with any agent from the FBI before today?”

She glanced up at the man in the corner. “No.”

“To confirm, you're stating you have no knowledge of the Benetiz Cartel, have never traveled to Miami, Florida, nor have you had any previous contact with any agent from the FBI.”

“Correct.”

The ice in Gage's eyes thawed. His jaw unclenched and she heard him let out a soft breath. Whatever answer he'd hoped to hear, she must have given it.

Gage placed a piece of paper in front of her. “Did you make this deposit into the Tremayne Foundation's bank account yesterday at nine minutes after eleven?”

Morgan looked at a copy of the receipt she had yet to take out of her purse. The lawyer tapped the back of her hand. “Yes.”

“And that deposit included twenty-five thousand dollars in cash.”

Another tap. “Yes.” Her heart picked up speed again, like a race car taking a left turn. Here it comes.

“Where did that cash come from, Miss Tremayne?”

The way he said “Miss Tremayne” made her feel as if they'd never met before, let alone shared a bed. “It was a donation.”

“Made by whom?”

“I can't say.” Her lawyer's hand jerked away, and in her peripheral vision she saw him look up at her father. “The donor wished to remain anonymous.”

“That answer won't work well for you. Let me run this down so you'll understand.” She heard the edge of frustration in Gage's voice, saw his jaw re-clench as cool fire burned in his blue eyes. “The serial numbers on the bills your anonymous friend gave you are identical to the numbers on money used in an FBI sting against the Benetiz Cartel in Miami eighteen months ago. A sting that left an FBI agent dead and ended a joint investigation with the DEA. So tell me, Miss Tremayne, how did that money end up in your possession?”

“I—”

“Just what is it you're hoping she'll say, Inspector?” Shackleford asked.

“The truth.” Gage glanced up at Jackson, to Morgan, and he tapped his fingers hard on the table. “The truth is the only thing that will clear your name where the Benetiz Cartel is concerned. The truth will clear you in the death of a federal agent. The truth is the only thing that will convince the agents watching us in there”—Gage jerked his thumb to the window behind him—“that you haven't been using the Tremayne Foundation to launder money for the biggest drug cartel to come out of South America in the last twenty years. Now look again.” He tapped the top right corner of the list of deposits he'd placed in front of her moments ago.

Morgan peered closer. Her breath caught in her chest.
Trust me.

“Where. Did. You. Get. The. Money?”

Morgan sat back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and wished anyone other than Gage Juliano was asking the question. All the time he'd spent trying to find Nemesis, to stop him, to close the case in honor of his friend's memory. All the time she knew she shouldn't get involved with him. Was she ever going to be able to live without regrets?

“Morgan, he's right. Tell him,” Jackson urged. “It'll be okay, I promise.”

Except it wouldn't. Now her father would know what she'd done, the mistakes she'd made. The mess she'd created out of the decades of work her mother had devoted her life to.

“My advice is to answer the Inspector,” Shackleford murmured.

“Please, Morgan,” Gage whispered, so softly she wouldn't have heard if she hadn't seen his lips move.

The plea in his eyes, the memory of their argument the other morning, his accusation that even when backed against a wall she wouldn't ask for help, swept any reservations she might have had aside.

“Nemesis.” She looked down at the chipped Formica table. “The money came from Nemesis.” The last bubble of deception burst inside her. For a moment she felt as if she'd taken a hit of pure oxygen and forgot the confession destroyed whatever trust Gage had in her. For that instant, she felt free.

“And you know it was from Nemesis because?”

Morgan took a shallow breath, felt tears prick her eyes. A solitary tear escaped her control. “Because he included gift cards with the cash.” She swiped the tear away with a hard brush of her fingers.

Judging from the flash of understanding that crossed Gage's face, she'd given him the final piece of the puzzle. “What kind of cards?”

“Small,” she said. “Rectangular. Plain white with a gold embossed N on one side.”

“You have these cards in your possession?”

“No. Not any more.” If only she did. If only she had proof.

“Do any of these look like the cards you received?” Gage placed four sheets of paper on the table, each showing a selection of gift cards of different sizes, colors, fonts.

Morgan touched her fingers to one page. He'd put it together before he'd walked in the room, knew the evidence that would have proven her story was gone. But he was giving her the opportunity to produce it in another way. “This one.” She tapped the center image on the third page. “Each of the four I received looked like this one.”

Gage nodded, gathered the papers up. “The District Attorney's office announced we'd be pressing charges against anyone suspected of accepting funds from Nemesis, for whatever reason. You were aware of this?”

“You don't have to answer that,” Shackleford said, but when Morgan looked at her father, she interpreted a different suggestion. The same one she saw reflected on Gage's face.

“I was, yes.”

“But you took the money anyway. Why is that?”

“Because I needed to replace money I wasn't supposed to use.”

“Money you used for what?” Gage's voice was as tight as a rubber band about to snap.

She was already in over her head. No reason to stop now. “Nine months ago I took a hundred thousand dollars from the property payment account to pay for a child's experimental cancer treatment in Texas. He wasn't going to make it and he wasn't going to live long enough to be admitted to our facility. Only one other hospital in the country offers it, so I gave his family the money to see he got it.”

“Morgan,” her father whispered. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I couldn't.” And she couldn't look at him now. “Legally I shouldn't have done it, I know that. With the way the foundation's bylaws are set up, it was a clear violation of our financial practices, but I couldn't let that little boy die. And then more patients needed help. I couldn't say no, but I couldn't keep up with paying it back and the final payment on the property is due soon. I thought I had another few weeks and I was getting there, but then Ralph Emerson died and the new accountant called for an audit of the books. I didn't have a choice. I had to use whatever money I had, and that included what was left of what Nemesis had given me.”

“So you're admitting to mismanaging the charity funds, to violating the bylaws of your foundation, and to accepting donations from a source you knew left you open to criminal prosecution.”

Oh, God. Just when she thought she'd gotten out of the hole she'd dug for herself, she'd just fallen into a deeper one. “Yes.”

“No.” Jackson's voice snapped through the air like a whip. “She can't confess to mismanaging charity funds or violating the charity bylaws.”

“Dad.” Morgan rubbed a hand against the creases in her forehead. “Please stop. I can confess. I have to. I did it.”

“No, you didn't.” Jackson insisted. “This entire situation is my fault. Just after my wife's death my attorneys and I amended the bylaws of the foundation. I only just discovered I'd neglected to file the amended bylaws with the state. Aaron?”

Shackleford opened his ancient leather briefcase and withdrew a stack of stapled papers. “As you can see, the updated bylaws were notarized on July twenty-second, last year. A copy for your files.”

Morgan stared at the copy of the bylaws, dumbfounded at the clearly defined stamp that proved what her father claimed. Proof of her innocence. She swung around on her chair. “Dad?”

“I can never apologize enough for allowing Morgan to believe she'd broken the law by using funds not at her disposal. Whatever cost this part of the investigation might have incurred, I'm more than willing to reimburse.”

“That won't be necessary.” Gage slid the amended bylaws onto the bottom of his stack of papers.

“And the pending charges for accepting the money from Nemesis?” Shackleford inquired.