Dead Ringer (7 page)

"Must have made for strange pillow talk."

"Love does a lot of strange things. Combine it with a strong personality, like Borian's, and it can easily corrupt a weaker mind."

She peered over at him. The light from the laptop projector lit his face, making his eyes appear colorless, like a wolf's. "Love corrupts. Is that your motto?"

Jack cleared his throat in an obvious effort not to laugh. "Man, she's got your number, Carver."

Finn ignored that. "All we know is that she stayed with him. That's tacit support if nothing else."

"Maybe he lied to her and she believed him." . "And maybe she didn't want to know," Finn said bluntly. "Love is often blind."

She shivered. Love had blinded her only once, and she'd paid for it. Had Carol?

Before she could pursue the question, Jack hit the keyboard and another photo appeared. "That's Borian's ranch." He identified an elaborate stone, glass, and timber ranch house. "The property covers close to ten thousand acres in the foothills of Devil's Teeth." The next picture showed three mountain ridges, dark and forbidding. "As you can see here"-a new series of slides clicked into place-"the estate is virtually impenetrable, bordered by cliffs and mountains. There's a guarded gate in front."

A slow chill crept up her back. All that space and no escape.

Jack ended the slide show and the room filled with silence. Finn turned the lights on and tossed a folder in her lap.

"There's a detailed map of the ranch. Memorize it. Also prints of some of the pictures you saw. Study them."

She gave him a sloppy salute. "Yes, sir," she said dryly.

They left the motel while Jack was still shutting down the computer. Finn drove her back to the house and unloaded her parcels from the trunk.

"Pack your bags." He dumped the packages from Bradfords in the driveway. "We leave tomorrow."

"What?" She stared at him, floored by the pace of events. "I barely said 'I do.' Don't I even get to catch my breath?"

He gave her a grim smile. "We're running out of time. Breathing's not an option."

She ground her jaw down, knowing he was waiting for her to complain. "Where are we going?"

"Montana."

Montana.
Borian country. She saw the expectation in Finn's face, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of quitting.

Instead, she smiled at him through half-lowered lids. "Terrific. I have a little cowgirl outfit I've been dying to try out." She picked up the bags and unlocked the door, stepped into the house and kicked the
door shut with her heel. Behind her she heard the sound of his car speeding down the drive. She was glad to be rid of him, glad to get rid of the suffocating, can't breathe feeling being elose to him created.

As Finn drove away, his gut churned. Despite her constant lip, Angelina had surprised him, and he didn't like surprises. She'd been upset by the seedy motel room, but had quietly suppressed those feelings. She'd watched the slides attentively, asked good questions, and made no complaints. He couldn't have asked more of a trained operative.

He let himself into his motet room, part of him wishing Angelina would have lived up to his expectations. He was already dangerously attracted to her. He didn't want to like her, too. That was a lethal combination. Although he'd loved his wife with a feeling bordering on obsession, he'd never liked her very much. She'd been weak and manipulative, and somewhere deep inside he'd known that. The knowledge had kept him from going crazy himself, especially after she'd betrayed him.

For a moment he was back in the warehouse, staring into the leering eyes of Pedro Morales.
We know who you are, Mr. Federal Agent. Thanks to your wife, we know everything about you.

Inside his head the gun went off, the sound exploding in his mind the way the bullet had exploded in his body.

He shook off the memory, but couldn't shake the cold sweat as easily. Tossing his briefcase on the bed, he loosened his tie, undid his top shirt button, and turned up the AC, hoping the deep freeze would kill off the part of his brain where the memories lived. He was tired and hungry and his hip ached where the bullet had plowed into it. He just wanted to get some food into him before hitting the sack. Tomorrow would be another long day.

He found a steak place not too far from the motel and ate a fast dinner. When he returned to the room, the message light on his phone blinked red in the darkness. He looked longingly at the bed, but punched in the number to retrieve the message. It was from the front desk: Uncle Jack had left a package.

* * *

The minute Finn had gone, Angelina took a deep breath and opened the file he'd handed her. Standing in the entryway, she scanned the meager contents-a few snapshots and a sheet of paper with a brief biography of Carol Simmons Borian from Percy, Alabama.

On impulse, Angelina hurried into Beamer's study and took down the huge U.S. atlas and flipped the pages to Alabama. She couldn't even find Percy on the map.

Small towns. That was one thing she had in common with her mother. Had she hated hers the way Angelina had hated Ruby? Or was Carol one of those cutesy women who loved sweaters with pictures of cats on them and knowing what her neighbors were up to every second? Angelina picked up one of the photos of Carol Borian from the file and peered deeply into the dead woman's eyes.
Tell me your secrets, Mother. How did you go from Miss Percy, Alabama, to the wife of a mobster?

Hell, maybe any way out was a good way out.

Angelina went into her bedroom and, holding the picture in one hand, pulled her hair back into a style similar to Carol's. She examined the effect in the mirror, comparing it to the photograph. Without the waves of hair framing her face she looked different.

She rubbed her lipstick off with the back of her wrist, and her whole face paled to a distant memory of herself-decent, law-abiding, smart, in control. And even more like Mrs. Borian. What would Special Agent Carver say if she looked like this?

Bet he wouldn't ask her to sleep around for old Uncle Sam.

Fat chance. Sharkman had already made up his mind about her.

Not that she cared. Let him think what he wanted. He would anyway.

Yeah, but what if he didn't? What if he thought her pretty damn terrific? Though she barely admitted it to herself, some small, wretched part of her yearned to be good and merit his esteem.

Good girts get used, party girl And they get hurt.

She let her hair go with a sigh, and the thick waves tumbled to faer shoulders again. Returning to the living room, she picked up her packages and toted them into her bedroom.

She took out two suitcases from the closet and heaved them onto the bed. Then she unpacked her new things, holding each item up with a critical eye before refolding it into a suitcase. The subtle colors and expensive cuts made everything in her closet look cheap and flashy. But the bright colors of her own belongings made the new ones look dull and boring. She sighed, the two sets of clothes like two incompatible identities.

Which one was she?

She finished packing, adding her own clothes to the suitcases, including a pair of jeans. A ranch meant horses, and this was one Texas girl who knew how to ride.

By the time she finished, her closet was empty and her back ached. She rubbed her shoulder, then stripped off the skirt and sweater she'd put on at the store, packing them as well. She closed the two cases, tugged them off the bed, and carried them to the doorway.

A red silk peignoir was her reward. She sighed with pleasure as the smooth silk slid over her body. Slipping into the matching robe and a pair of silk mules, she closed the door on the bags with her new identity inside, and padded into the living room to pour herself a brandy. She was just taking the first sip when a knock sounded.

She checked the peephole on the front door. Her heart sank. Reluctantly, she opened the door to Finn. "I thought we were done
for the day."

"Until we find what we're looking for we're on twenty-four/seven." His gaze raked down her body, sending unforeseen heat through her. "Who were you expecting, Clark Gable?"

Instinctively, she wanted to pull the edges of the flimsy robe together to cover herself. But if she gave in to the impulse she would give him power over her, and when it came to men, she was in control. So she leaned into the door frame, one hand on her hip pushing the robe to the side giving him a nice clear view down the revealing dip in the front of her gown. She smiled as his gaze fixed on her breasts.
Don't play with fire, Sharkman. You might get burned.

"I was expecting to be left alone, Agent Carver. Now why don't you fulfill my expectations and leave?"

He tore his gaze away from her chest and shot her a look as cool and lethal as a wave of black water. Then he stepped past her and held up a videotape. "This just came in. I wanted you to see it as soon as possible."

"What is it?"

"It's the only thing we have showing Carol Borian in the flesh."

She froze, the words reverberating through her entire body. Her mother. Moving, talking. Her chest tightened, her heart thudded in sudden anxiety. What if she didn't like what she saw?

What if she did?

Hiding her roiling emotions behind a blank expression, she led Finn to the media room, a state-of-the-art haven filled with big-screen TV, two VCRs, a stereo system, and a computer.

Finn glanced around the room and whistled. "Your boyfriend really knew how to spend his money."

A flash of anger spiked through the nerve-wracking anticipation. She was tired of the innuendo and disdain in his voice every time he mentioned Beamer. "Stop calling him that."

"What-your boyfriend? He was, wasn't he?"

For a minute, she thought of telling him everything, then decided not to. Her arrangement with Arthur Bea-man was none of Finn's business. "He was a wonderful man and he had a name. Why can't you use it?"

"Fine. Didn't mean to upset your sensitive feelings." He put the tape into the VCR, turned on the TV, then joined her on the leather sofa facing it. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had dried up. On the screen, Carol Bo-rian glided into view.

She was carrying a platter of cookies, blushing into the camera and trying to avoid the lens, but the camera operator followed her.

"I don't like having my picture taken." She put down the plate and covered her face with her hands. Her voice was soft and feminine, tinged with the rolling sounds of the South.

"Go on, shoo." She laughed into the camera, then scurried out of the frame. The picture went dark. Angelina stared at the blank screen, overcome by the image of her mother made suddenly real and alive. She grabbed the remote, rewound the tape, and played it again. And a third time. That was her mother's voice. Her mother's laugh. My God. Angelina's hands shook and she buried them in her lap so Finn wouldn't see.

The tape scrolled to black and she sat there unable to say a word. Finn, too, was silent, as if he understood the enormity of the moment and respected it.

"She seems so... so ordinary," Angelina said at last.

Finn nodded. "Maybe she was."

"Hard to believe."

"Believe it."

His arrogant certainty hit a nerve. "Why, because you say so? I'd sooner believe a gangster than take the word of a cop."

"Not all of us are like Sheriff Dodd of Ruby, Texas."

She gasped and her head snapped up, the sound of that long-ago nightmare name coining out of his mouth like a specter suddenly floating in the room. Mouth dry, she could barely make her tongue form words. "What the hell do you know about him?"

"I know about him and his nephew, Andy Blake, all-star quarterback for the Ruby Warriors. And
1
know about the beautiful young honor student Andy Blake took to Homecoming and later raped at the hooker hotel on the edge of town."

The words slammed into her like a shock wave, their impact creating a curtain of silence asound her. No one knew about that. No one except Arthur Beaman.

She looked down at her lap, unable to meet Finn's gaze. "That's... that's not what happened. Not according to the sheriff. Not according to anyone in Ruby." Not even Adele, her so-called mother.

"Date rape is hard to prove." His voice was soft and gentle. "Especially if the guy is the town's biggest asset and the girl is a nobody."

A fierce pain wrenched her heart. God, she didn't want to feel that way ever again. She raised her head, glaring at him. "I don't like you spying on me, Sharkman."

He shrugged. "We don't run blind. We did a background check on you. Standard procedure. Besides, you do such a good job of telling the world what a loose piece of change you are, you make people think Sheriff Dodd and Andy Blake were right."

She narrowed her eyes. How dare he? "What do you know about it? About me? Zero."

For a minute she saw something move in his face. Pity? Tenderness? No, not Finn Carver.

"You're right," he said. "I don't know a thing." His penetrating blue gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then he rose and nodded to the TV screen. "Add that to your homework." Just then he took out his cell phone, which must have been set to vibrate as she didn't hear it.

"Carver." He said the one terse word, then listened. A stubborn look came over his face. "No, wait until we get there. Smitty can take them-no, I don't see why... Hell no, we can't wait that long!" He cursed under his breath. "All right, okay. Hold on." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked over at Angelina. The harsh lines in his face told her he wasn't happy about whatever he was going to say. "Do you have a tape measure?"

She blinked "A what?"

He visibly reined in his temper, lips crimped together in a thin, cruel line. "A tape measure. I need to... to measure you. Bust, waist, hips, back."

She quirked her eyebrows in amusement This was good. "You're going to put your hands on me, Sharkman? Is this some kind of new TCF con?"

"If I wanted to put my hands on you, believe me, I wouldn't need an excuse to do it. Not with the way you've been shoving yourself at me."

Stung, she raised her chin. "You're a real class act."