Deceived (23 page)

More tears fell. “I should feel guilty. I should have been there for her.”

He shook his head. “Focus on being sad that Collette is gone, but don’t destroy yourself with guilt. You can’t undo her death. No matter what you think that you should have done in the time that led up to it.” He traced the line of her high cheekbone with an index finger, then lifted her chin, so that she had no choice but to look into his eyes. “Don’t start down the road of unending guilt. It’s addictive. Stop thinking about what you should or could have done. Just stop.”

Seconds passed, then minutes, as they stared into each other’s eyes. She reached to his cheekbone and touched the thin scar that was a souvenir from a time when he had wanted, more than anything, to die. She asked, “Are you through with guilt?”

His heart picked up its pace as he drowned in her gaze. “I’m trying to be. Some days are better than others.”

“Thank you,” she said. He reached for her, hating that she looked so damn miserable. Fresh sobs wracked her shoulders as he closed his arms around her. She buried her face into his shoulder and cried. After long minutes, when her sobs eased, Taylor wriggled deeper into the space between his shoulder and his chest, kicked off her sandals, then tucked her feet under her. Nestled close, she reached her left hand across his body and clasped his right hand, and then she was still.

Hell
. Since Amy’s death, Brandon had been with women. The women he liked enough to contemplate as sexual partners were typically nice, intelligent, and, in some way, attractive. Sex, though, was only sex. Sometimes it was great, and, as his body was reminding him, a bit of it right now wouldn’t be a bad thing. His steadfast insistence on casual relationships robbed all interactions of intimacy, that deep feeling that came with two connected souls, the special feeling that he had shared with Amy. Casual was casual. There was nothing intimate about it.

This, though, this holding hands and consoling Taylor, telling her of his own experience with guilt so that she might learn from his mistakes, was not casual. It was a sharing, on a deep emotional level, of his most private pain, and, although the words had flowed, he wasn’t ready for this. He shouldn’t be sharing such thoughts with her, or with anyone. Having her tucked against him, giving her comfort, willing her to draw upon his strength, had nothing to do with sex and nothing to do with casualness. It was contact on a deep, emotional level, the closest contact that he’d had with a woman since his life with Amy. His heart pounded.

He wasn’t ready for this
. He had to
stop
. He should put distance between Taylor and him. At least a few inches.

His arms, though, didn’t listen to his brain, and no matter how he wished it, he couldn’t stop willing that Taylor not suffer. If holding her made her feel better, he wouldn’t stop.

Yet he
wasn’t-fucking-ready-for-this
. Being this close to any woman meant that he was ready to move past his grief, and that meant he was ready to forgive himself for Amy and Catherine’s death. It meant he was ready to have a life without them. He swallowed. He wasn’t ready.

Not now.

Not ever.

Right?

***

When the blue dot left the airport, he breathed easier. As Andi got back on the interstate, his tension unknotted. She bypassed New Orleans, and continued on I-10, towards Mississippi. He allowed himself to smile, because this made sense. His research was paying off. She was heading in the direction of Florida. There, five hours from New Orleans, the Hutchenson family had a beach house in the wooded and sand-duned, private neighborhood of Water’s Edge. Gated, exclusive neighborhoods, the kind where rich people built multi-million dollar homes and stationed underpaid guards in gatehouses, were easy hunting grounds for him.

Andi Hutchenson, who didn’t have to attend parties when she didn’t feel like it, could easily jump on the interstate and head to her family’s beach house, sit on the porch, and watch the waves as she cried over her dead friend. Because of the parties, which everyone else would likely be attending, except for the spoiled, youngest offspring of Andrew Hutchenson, she might even be going alone. He chuckled. If that was the case, making her disappear would be easy. He left the bakery, got in the car, and followed Andi through Mississippi.

***

The First Trust Bank of Dallas was closed, but the lobby, which served both the First Trust Storage Vault and the bank, was open. There were two guards, but only one customer. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled into a neat twist. She was slender and wore a crisp white linen shirt, tailored khaki pants, and black, closed toe loafers. Brandon guessed that she was in her late fifties. “Madeline Rorsch?” She nodded as Brandon introduced himself and Taylor.

Madeline’s sharp blue eyes inspected Taylor, then she glanced at Brandon. “I was not told that anyone would be accompanying you.”

“I apologize for that,” Brandon said.

“I’m sorry,” Taylor said, “if my presence presents a problem.”

Madeline shifted her head a bit to the left and studied Taylor. “Bartholomew. As in George Bartholomew?”

Taylor nodded. “The first was my grandfather. The second is my father.” Taylor had been quiet during the drive to the vault. She had sat next to Brandon in the rear seat of the chauffeured car, her leg pressed against his, her hand in his. More than once she had wiped fresh tears from her eyes. Now, as she responded to Madeline, she was subdued, but composed.

Madeline nodded to a guard, who led the way. “Precious few have requested access to my father’s collection, and that may be because of the subject matter. He focused not on weapons, but on less interesting things such as first edition books, maps of battles, letters, and transcripts. Most of it relates to his work as an FBI agent, then later with the Office of Secret Services.” They entered an elevator, which opened into a long hallway on the third floor. “Once documents from the cases that he handled became public record, he added them to his collection. His material related to his work in the Gulf Coast states, including the Morrissey case, is extensive.”

As Madeline and the guard stopped at a door and entered codes in a keypad, Brandon asked, “How is your father?”

Madeline turned to Brandon, a serious expression on her face. “You will soon see. My ninety-six year old father is in the vault, waiting to meet you.”

The Rorsch vault was large, with wood paneling, dark brown carpet, and soft light. One side was lined with tall mahogany file cabinets. Another side had floor to ceiling bookshelves. Maps covered a wall, with more maps placed in sleeves that hung from wooden arms. Medals, documents, and plaques hung from another wall. A reading table that sat six was centered in the room. Phillip Rorsch was at one end. It only took one glance to know why Lisa had made more than one trip to Texas to pursue the Rorsch angle. He had a magnetic allure. Although he was in a wheelchair, he sat erect. He had his daughter’s ice-blue eyes. They were filmy with age, but he had a sharp, mesmerizing gaze. He was bald and thin and more than a little wrinkled, yet he was dressed in pressed slacks and a starched shirt and nodded as Madeline introduced them and explained Taylor’s connection to HBW.

After they introduced themselves, Phillip asked, “How did it come about that a Bartholomew and a Morrissey are here together?” His voice was weak, with a breathy rasp.

“Lisa’s death brought us together,” Brandon said, “and her research is of interest to both of us, as it involves our families. We saw that she came here a few weeks ago to look at your documents.”

Phillip shook his head. “When Lisa last came here, she did not come to see my documents. She did that months and months ago.” He glanced at Madeline. “Was it January or February?”

“January,” Madeline said.

Rorsch nodded to a box that was in the middle of the table. “These old papers are sensitive. Please wear gloves to handle the documents.”

Brandon opened the box and pulled out gloves for Taylor and himself. “We’re wondering whether you can shed light on what Lisa knew, because her research, from what we’ve been able to find, is incomplete. I believe, though, that she was echoing what my father said years ago.”

“I spoke with your father of his beliefs,” Rorsch said, “over the telephone and in person.”

The hair on the back of Brandon’s neck stood on end as he learned of this connection. “You knew my father?”

Rorsch nodded. “He came here a couple of years before he died. I told him what I told Lisa. If you open the second drawer in the third stack,” Brandon pulled on the gloves, then followed Rorsch’s instructions. “Those are transcripts of your grandfather’s trial. I was the primary witness in the Government’s case in chief. I testified about how I’d been contacted by Benjamin Morrissey, who was attempting to reach Nazi spies that had infiltrated the Gulf Coast region. I was a new agent and under deep cover.”

Brandon pulled a chair out for Taylor and sat next to her. As Rorsch spoke, Brandon leafed through the first of two transcript volumes, positioning it between himself and Taylor. Hazel-green eyes held his gaze for a second, reflecting his excitement. Not only were they looking at a 1940’s trial transcript, they had the key witness from the trial giving them his thoughts. “The only time Benjamin and I spoke to each other was at a restaurant named Antoine’s. I followed his instructions as to time and place, all of which was delivered by courier. When I arrived, he was there, waiting. I entered a bathroom stall. He was waiting in the adjoining one. His shoes were polished black leather wingtips. He wore black pants with cuffs that were crisp and clean. I saw the bottom of a black wool coat, and nothing else. I did not see his face. I would not have recognized him, in any event. He identified himself as a partner in HBW and provided information that only a partner would have known. There was a leak in a bathroom faucet.” He shook his head. “My remote memory is so strong. I listened to how he spoke each word, trying to pinpoint his background. When he told me what he was attempting to sell, I almost lost it. I was barely twenty-two, I’d been an agent for maybe two months, and he was trying to sell me important information. We arranged the exchange of the plans for the landing craft and the price, then and there. He was also going to supply the number of units that were being ordered, which was a key Government secret.”

The breathiness of Rorsch’s voice became more pronounced, and his pauses more frequent. “When Benjamin arrived at the Bienville Street wharf, the river fog had not cleared. As we had arranged, he arrived precisely at 7:30 a.m., he was driving a black Ford, he parked it on the far side of the lot, away from the river, where I was waiting with two other agents. The other agents carried a trunk that looked large enough to hold two million dollars. He had a satchel and a case of drawings. He stopped at the designated spot, I took the satchel and the case, and the other two agents dropped the trunk and apprehended him. It took maybe a minute. The other agents processed him.” Rorsch’s blue eyes leveled on Brandon, and he drew a deep breath. “They handled the post-arrest interviews. I stayed in the field, far from the offices, to protect my cover.”

After a few breaths, Rorsch continued, “My point is that after that meeting at Antoine’s, I did not speak to your grandfather. Not for five more years, and that was more than a year after his conviction. That is a very important point.”

Taylor said, “Why is that important?”

“Benjamin consistently denied that he was involved in selling the plans. No one believed him. He gave his version of the events at the trial, but I wasn’t there to hear him testify.”

“The rule of sequestration was in force,” Brandon said, guessing that the rule where witnesses were excluded from hearing other witnesses testify was used at the trial.

Rorsch nodded. “Correct. I was only at the trial for my testimony. I was not present when Benjamin testified, or when the verdict was read, or when he personally pleaded for leniency at sentencing. When he was convicted, I knew nothing of Benjamin Morrissey, except I knew that his name was spoken in the bathroom stall, and he was the person who arrived, as we had agreed, at the wharf. When he was tried, numerous other cases that I had worked in the field went to trial. I was constantly traveling, preparing for one case as soon as I left the courthouse from testifying at another. As my cases went, Morrissey’s was open and shut.”

“Morrissey showed up with documentation of military secrets and handed them to someone he thought was a Nazi sympathizer with the intent to exchange the documents for cash,” Taylor said. “The essential elements for treason are there.”

“But there’s more, isn’t there?” Brandon asked.

Rorsch nodded. He took a few breaths, then said, “Benjamin testified that two days prior to his arrest, and after he and I met at Antoine’s, the Government had finally shown real interest in the landing craft.” Brandon listened as he found his grandfather’s words in the trial transcript. “What was only a dream of HBW&M when I met with Morrissey in Antoine’s, over the ensuing week, became a reality. Because the company ended up with government contracts for the boats, the information that Morrissey was trying to sell to the enemy had suddenly become priceless war strategy. What had been worth only what Morrissey could con the Nazis into paying for it, had become a multi-million dollar contract for HBW&M, and it secured a future for the company.”

“So desperate men who had poured their money into research and development of a worthless, odd-shaped boat were no longer desperate,” Brandon said.