For The Love Of Laurel (10 page)

Chapter 14

Laurel slept fitfully, waking every half hour from a nightmare about Adam’s death. When she realized it was no nightmare, but real, she cried herself back to sleep like a neglected baby.

At six o’clock, she woke and ran everything Dylan had said through her agitated mind. She had known her father all her life. While it was true his real job seemed to be horrible, she knew he had loved her. It didn’t make sense that he would “take care of” Adam just because Adam made her unhappy. That verged on insanity, and her father wasn’t a psycho. She was absolutely certain of that. He would chalk it up to good fortune she had found out before she married Adam.

The doubt Dylan had sown last night was gone. She knew her father. So, the big question was why Dylan would say those things to her. True, he never mentioned Adam by name, but Adam fell into the category Dylan described. What purpose could he have for trying to make her hate her father? Whatever the reason, his usefulness to her was at an end. Maybe she did need protection, as he had told her, but maybe he was lying about that. He was good at lying. One thing for sure, any protection would no longer come from him. She’d call the DEA herself if necessary, to see that he got transferred elsewhere. He was right about one thing: She did need someone to trust. But she would never trust him because he seemed to have some agenda she didn’t understand or like.
So long, Dylan
.

When she finally got up because sleep was impossible, her clock read six-thirty. She threw on some jeans and a ratty blouse she’d been intending to throw away. She ran downstairs to the kitchen and then grabbed a cup of coffee.

Mari was just starting to fix breakfast. Her eyes grew large when she saw Laurel. Laurel knew she was a sight to behold with her red hair looking as if she’d just combed it with a mixer and dark circles under her green eyes.

“Are you ill?” Mari said.

“No. I’m on a mission. No breakfast for me, but bring a full pot of coffee to Daddy’s office, please. Oh, and if anyone asks or calls for me, I’m out for the day and can’t be reached. That includes Dylan—especially Dylan. In fact, if you see him, tell him he’s fired. I’ll pay him a fair price for the apartment and I want him off the premises within twenty-four hours.”

Mari stared at her in shock. “
Cara
, I can’t do that. Not with conviction. That’s your job. Did he try anything?” Her tone changed to one of a protective mother.

“No. And I know it’s not your job, but please, just this once, just for today. If you don’t see him or hear from him, I’ll do it myself tomorrow. But I can’t deal with him and his lies now.”

She grabbed a container of yogurt and a spoon then rushed out, leaving Mari standing in the kitchen. “And don’t forget the coffee,” she called as she took the stairs two at a time.

She entered Gerald’s office and shut the door. She went to the roll top desk and opened it. Except for his urn, the desktop was clean, as she already knew. He didn’t like clutter. She systematically opened each drawer. They held the usual things one would expect to find: Pens, notepaper, staples, paper clips, pencils. She loved the desk with all its cubbyholes. When she was a child, she would come into the office when he was working and open and close all the drawers she could reach. Rather than run her off because he was busy, he would absent-mindedly tousle her hair, knowing she was looking for the treat or toy he always hid in one of the drawers for her to find. Now they were mostly empty. In one, she found a note with a string of numbers and letters written in his handwriting. She looked at them carefully, but couldn’t imagine what they were for, or why he had kept them. They looked similar to the numbers and letters on the code Josh wouldn’t decrypt.

“Oh no. More code?” Maybe, but near the middle of the jumbled mess was clearly written 021087. Was it part of the code or was it what it appeared to be—a date? The paper looked yellowed so she knew it hadn’t been written recently. She left it where it was. It would be there if she needed it.

In the second-to-last drawer she found a black leather box. She took it out and opened it. Inside lay a Visconti Ripple H.R.H. Limited Edition fountain pen. She’d never heard of it—undoubtedly another of her father’s collectibles. It was beautiful.

She turned on his computer and found it online. The barrel was black resin and the part that looked silver contained six hundred and fifty diamonds in ripple patterns. Only thirty-nine of the pens were made and her father had one of them. The price was fifty-seven thousand dollars. She was so stunned all she could do was bring it down to the mundane by wondering if this was the pen he’d used to write the letter to Dylan telling him the apartment was his.

She was about to close the lid when she noticed something underneath the lining of the box. Carefully, she removed the pen and lining. A paper was folded in half. She opened it.
For all you’ve done for us throughout the years, especially 2/10/87.
It was signed,
Mel
.

Mel? As in Mel Chaber? What kind of investment management had Gerald done to warrant getting a gift like this? Or was it something more along the lines of what she now knew was his “real” profession? She picked up the encrypted note, and there they were. The same numbers. So it
was
a date. An important date, both to Mr. Chaber and her father. Important enough that Gerald had written it down and kept it in his desk. But what did it signify?

She had to find out.

Who would know? Dylan? No, he wasn’t here then. Mari? No, Gerald wouldn’t tell her anything. It drove her crazy even though she admitted it was twenty-six years ago. Even if her father had killed someone for Chaber, it would be a cold case by now. In the interests of justice, she should find out what she could. Stir the pot, get a few people around at that time thinking about it. That shouldn’t be too hard to do.

There had to be employees of Chaber Pharmaceuticals still working there who were there at that time. Talk to the local police where the company was located, especially their cold case division, if they had one.

She realized how crazy she was thinking. A week ago, it wouldn’t have entered her mind, but now she knew at least some of what her father was capable of. She had a terrible feeling the more she questioned, the more she’d find. Did she really want to know, possibly to have her world turned upside down forever?

“You have to do it, you know you do, Laurel,” she said.

Right now, she needed a break, a chance to regroup. Mari hadn’t brought the coffee yet. Tucking the pen box back in the drawer, she closed the roll top and went downstairs. Her anger boiled up when she got to the kitchen and saw Mari sitting across from Dylan in the nook. Seething, she poured a cup of coffee and casually walked to the table. Never once looking at Dylan, she said in her sweetest tone of voice, “Mari, you forgot the coffee. I hope it’s because you are giving Mr. Kraft my message. If so, just be certain he knows I’m dead serious. If you haven’t told him yet, you best be sure you do or you may find yourself following him out the door.” She turned on her heel and left the kitchen.

“Pay her no mind,” Mari said, turning her attention back to Dylan. “She must be having PMS or something.”

“Or something. What were you supposed to tell me that she was too chicken to say to me herself?”

Mari laughed. “I’ve always been like the mama she never had. Sometimes she talks me into things because she thinks I will handle them better.”

“More diplomatically, you mean.”

“I suppose so. I don’t know what happened last night. I only know nothing happened between you.”

“She told you that?”

“Well, I asked her . . . as the mama, you understand.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I can promise you it isn’t going to happen. Now, I believe you are supposed to deliver a message to me.”

Mari took a deep breath. “As they say on TV, what I’m supposed to tell you doesn’t necessarily reflect my opinion. Or something like that.”

“She wants me gone.”

“She’ll pay you a fair price for the apartment.”

“How long do I have?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“From when?”

“She didn’t say, so it’s only fair that it’s from the time you were told. If I hadn’t seen you or heard from you today, she was going to tell you herself tomorrow. So, the way I see it, if you take off for a couple of days, I bet this will all blow over.”

“I need to go to D.C. anyway. I’ve been trying to find a good time. This looks like a good time. I’ll make a couple of calls to get a temporary replacement. He can use my apartment while I’m gone.” He got up from the table and went to the counter where he picked up the full pot of coffee Mari had made for Laurel. “I’ll take this up on my way out.”

“You like to live dangerously.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

There was a brief knock and the door opened. Laurel was on her hands and knees looking under the desk for a piece of paper she’d dropped. “Just put it by the computer, Mari, and thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

When he spoke, her head came up so fast, she nearly hit it on the underside of the desk. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping Mari by dropping off the coffee on my way out.”

She got up awkwardly. “How very considerate of you. I hope she told you how far out you are supposed to go.”

“I believe I got the message.”

“So leave. As you can see, I’m busy.”

“Uh-huh, I can tell. Practicing a yoga position, perhaps?”

She walked toward the desk as though to get some coffee. When she got right up to him, she made a quarter turn toward him, hands fisted, and gave him a double punch to his solar plexus.

Bad move.

It was like hitting reinforced concrete. He didn’t even react.

“Your technique was atrocious, but at least you’ve got that out of your system. Happy now?”

“Exhilarated.” Damn, the knuckles on the first and second finger of each hand hurt like hell. It took every ounce of willpower to open her hands and pour a cup of coffee.

“I hope you didn’t break anything.” He took her free hand and examined the knuckles. She let him because it felt as if she
had
broken something. “Your hand seems okay. Let me see the other one.” She put down the coffee cup and held out her other hand. He felt the knuckles and she sensed he knew what he was doing, but she’d bet he didn’t know what his gentle touch was doing to her.

He kept her hand in his open palm and said with quiet confidence, “Do you know the best defense when you are blind-sided?”

She shook her head.

“Something completely unexpected that will catch your opponent off guard. It can take all the aggression out of him or her. Like this.” He lifted her hand and put a gentle kiss on each hurt knuckle then did the same with the other hand.

“What would you do if your opponent was male?” She glared at him, willing the feeling of his warm lips on her fingers to go away.

“But she wasn’t. You might want to put ice on those knuckles.” He walked out without another word.

She took a sip of hot coffee. Her knuckles still tingled, whether from the punches or the kisses, she wasn’t sure and didn’t want to think about.

Her world tilted slightly when he was around. She could never predict what he was going to do or say. She hated to admit that he intrigued her, which was why he had to leave. She didn’t want to get romantically involved with anyone, least of all him. Mostly, he was a perfect gentleman around her and gave no hint that his feelings for her were anything but neutral. Yet there were times since her father died that she got subtle indications his feelings for her ran deeper than he wanted to admit. And then there were the times, like a few minutes ago, where he seemed to drop any pretense of detachment.

But, maybe she was reading into it what she subconsciously wanted. The light brush of his lips on her knuckles
could
be equated to a mom kissing her child’s scrapes to make them all better. Best if she thought of it like that. He certainly left quickly enough afterwards. His actions were probably unplanned and embarrassed him. Not that he would ever let on.

Well, he was about to leave permanently and she could put any concerns aside. In the meantime, she wanted to finish searching her father’s office.

She wasn’t sure where she wanted to go after tackling the desk. A shower was beginning to sound good. God, that was the second time Dylan had seen her looking like a wild woman. It didn’t seem to bother him, which now that she thought about it, must mean he had no interest in her. What a relief. Wasn’t it?

She took time to shower and blow-dry her hair. Mari asked her if she wanted anything to eat. She decided on a bologna and potato chip sandwich—something she had come up with as a kid and had always liked. She ignored how bad it must be for her. Mari brought it to the office, her nose wrinkled up as if she’d just smelled a skunk.

“I don’t know how you can eat this. I can hardly stand to make it.”

“Don’t you have anything you liked as a kid that most people don’t eat?” Laurel said as she took a big bite.

“No. Oh, maybe one thing that made most of my friends want to barf. A tuna sandwich with mustard.”

“Ooh, I gotta try that. It sounds divine. It will be even better with potato chips in it.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Mari looked around. Laurel had pulled papers and folders out of the desk, and they now lay scattered across the floor. Books had been taken off shelves and stacked in towering piles. “I don’t envy your task. Are you planning to keep everything?”

“I haven’t decided. I know I’ll keep the desk. I don’t know about the books. They’re probably all about investing and making money.”
And how to kill people
.

“Well, have fun. I’m making a tenderloin roast for dinner. I thought I might take some to Dylan.”

“Yeah. His last meal. He
is
clearing out tomorrow I trust?”

“That’s what he says. He has to go to Washington D.C. for a few days and will make arrangements for someone to take his place here.”