Sweet Caroline (21 page)

At one o'clock exactly, Caroline walked into the reception area in front of Ian's office only to find it deserted. In the two weeks she'd been there, Gerard had always been at his post, no matter what time of day or evening she stopped by. Must be at lunch, she decided, and knocked on Ian's door. After a few seconds and no answer, she knocked again. When he still did not answer, she tried the handle. The door wouldn't budge.

"Mr. Foy is gone for the rest of the week," Gerard said from behind her.

Startled, Caroline turned. "He can't be gone. We had a meeting at one."

"You're welcome to check his calendar." Gerard pointed to the leather-bound book that lay open on his desk. "You see, your name's written in pencil,
not
ink. Unless an appointment's inked in, it doesn't count."

"That's ridiculous. He knew how impor—" She stopped. Gerard had crossed his arms and stared at her as if she were a slice of three-day-old pizza. "He won't be back until Monday?"

"Tuesday. He flew out this morning." How strange. She'd seen his car in the lot and a light in his office when she arrived at six. They'd passed in the hall, 200

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chatted a while, then met again in the executive floor's break room, right after the daily muffin order arrived. She remembered Ian distinctly saying he would be pleased to hear her findings at one. Now he was gone. How very curious.

"He's missing the wedding?"

She watched Gerard's eyes turn hard. "The Mahoney nuptials?" He picked up a pencil and checked the point. "Mr. Foy is not in the habit of showing up at places he's not invited."

"What?"

"I think you heard me. I don't plan to attend, either," he answered, using the British pronunciation, with a long "I". "I find Brian and Ramona's lack of loyalty appalling." Caroline did not like the direction of this conversation. She wasn't there to gossip with a haughty little executive assistant. "Can I reach Ian on his cell?" Gerard checked his Rolex, and again Caroline was struck by the style and obvious cost of Gerard's attire. If Ian paid his assistant enough to wear a Rolex and Armani, what in the world was he paying everyone else? Or was Gerard, seemingly the ultra loyal assistant, the man she was looking for?

"Mr. Foy's still airborne. I'll leave him a voicemail if you like."

"Please do. It's important."

"I'll make a note of that."

She heard something in Gerard's tone that told her he would not.

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Caroline walked to her office mulling over this most recent bit of news. Wedding invitations were sent at least a month ahead of the event. Ian had contracted for her services three weeks ago. He was an adult, and this was almost too absurd to consider, but would he accuse Brian of a serious crime simply because he'd been left off the guest list? And why
had
Ian been passed over? She knew Brian genuinely liked him, and from what she saw, so did Ramona. Had the Mahoneys and the Carinis invited only family? Or did the feud between Ian and Mick have deeper roots?

* * * *

THAT EVENING, CAROLINE closed the stores. Exhausted and starving, she'd spent a week's pay on an outfit she knew she'd probably never wear again. The Mahoney Building still felt deserted when she opened the door between the stairs and the hall, but it wouldn't have mattered much if Godzilla had been waiting for her. Ten more steps and she knew she'd collapse.

In the last five hours, she'd visited every dress shop and department store from San Rafael to Santa Rosa and had tried on at least twenty dresses in each before she found one that was perfect for the wedding. Most had been too short or their necklines had plunged too deep. With only fifteen minutes left until the store closed, she'd snatched one off the rack that looked like a lime-colored flour sack, the last thing she'd ever wear. Once she'd stepped into it and zipped up, she realized she'd discovered a gem, a tea-length crepe A-line that flared gently at the hemline, clung to her curves in all the 202

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right places, and swayed gracefully when she walked. Best of all, it came with a jacket that was modesty itself to cover the deep V of the dress that would stand Mick Mahoney on his head if he ever caught a glimpse of what hid behind the jacket's buttons.

Two steps below the landing, Caroline saw a note pinned to her door. Suddenly, her exhaustion vanished, and every nerve ending went on high alert. Someone had gotten in while she'd been gone. But who? No one had a key, except ... Mick! She dropped her parcels and ripped the note from the door.

Sweet Caroline,

It's a little after six. I'd hoped to find you home, but no luck here. Rehearsal begins in a few. If I'm late, Martha Stewart DeSantis will have my head.

The wedding starts at 7 tomorrow, but the wedding party, under threat of death and dismemberment, has been commanded to gather at 4. That means you'll have to drive over by yourself, so I've drawn a map—see below. I've been waiting for your call. You said you had something to tell me. Ready when you are.

Until tomorrow, Mick

Caroline read the note several times before pressing it to her heart. Mick was only half-right. She'd called him several times, only to hang up after he answered. She knew it was childish—straight out of seventh grade—but hearing his voice perked up her weariest hours. Talking, really talking, had to be saved for a quiet time, and done face to face. 203

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A while later, face scrubbed clean and dressed in her nightshirt, Caroline climbed into bed, a dry toasted bagel in one hand, her phone in the other.

There were two "where-are-you, call-me" messages from Mick, one at seven and one at nine. She shot a look at the clock—quarter past ten. Wedding rehearsals never lasted more than an hour, and the dinner must have been over by Mick's last call. That meant Brian's bachelor's party was likely in full swing. Returning Mick's calls would be ludicrous. That he'd called her at all made her smile. A second later, her smile faded at three messages from Travis, all saying the same thing, "Call me. Nine-one-one." She checked the message times again. One at four o'clock his time, another at seven, and the last at eleven-thirty—

about the same time she'd gotten home.

"Dang it!" Why had she tried on her dress again without checking her messages first?

It was after midnight in Dallas, but 9-1-1 meant an emergency. If she woke him, then it was his fault for alarming her.

"Caroline?" Travis answered almost before she heard the phone ring. "That you?"

"Yeah, bro, what's up? Sorry to be calling so—"

"Forget the time. Caroline, what the hell is going on out there?"

"Why? What do you mean?"

"When did you decide to move to California? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm not moving anywhere. What are you talking about?" 204

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"I stopped to pick up your mail today. I found this creep looking in your window. He said he saw an ad in the paper for your condo."

"You know I'd never do something like that without talking to you about it first."

"That's what I figured, so I called your condo's management company and they told me the guy was right, that you'd sent them an e-mail telling them to put your place up for sale."

"Oh, that's ridiculous. They must have me mixed up with someone else."

"Caroline, I
saw
the e-mail. It came straight from you."

"It couldn't have..." She stopped short of finishing her thought, tripped up by the sudden sense of fear that caught in her throat. Of course the message had come from her laptop. Whoever had gotten inside her apartment to plant the shank had hacked into her e-mail, too. She changed passwords often to keep this from happening, but if the person were sophisticated enough to use a shank, they knew ways to break encryption. "I'll call the management office first thing in the morning and straighten it out."

"Wait, it gets worse. After I talked to your condo company, and you didn't answer your cell, I called your boss. He told me the same thing."

"No way!"

"Yes, way. Said you'd sent him an e-mail, too, resigning because you were planning to stay in California. So what's the deal, Caroline? Are you staying or coming home?" 205

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Caroline looked down at the bagel she'd dropped in her lap. Her hand had begun to tremble and a chill was settling into her bones while a thin layer of cold sweat moistened her skin.

"Listen to me, Travis. Someone's pulling a really stupid practical joke on us. None of it's true."

"I figured as much."

"As soon as we're done, I'll leave a voicemail for my boss and fire off an e-mail to confirm it. Do me a favor, okay? Call the management company and tell them to take my condo off the market. I'll fax them a confirming letter in the morning. Heck, I don't even know their e-mail address."

"Check out your 'sent box' and see who else they e-mailed. If it came from your computer, it should still be there—even if they deleted it. Come on, sis, you're the computer nerd, not me."

"Hey, give me a break. I just found out about it." She pulled the nightshirt down around her knees against the chill.

"Who do you think is doing it?"

"I have no idea. The thought of someone putting this stuff in the works—it's frightening."

"No shit. Come home, Caro. This is where you belong. Where Kristi-Lee and I can take care of you."

"Now you sound like Luke," she snapped.

"D'you ever stop to think that he loves you and he might know what he's talking about?"

"I'll be home soon, but not until I find out the answers I've been looking for. A couple days more and I'll know for sure."

"D'you want me to call the police?" 206

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"And tell them what? That someone's playing a practical joke on your sister? I don't think that's against the law."

"Hacking's against the law."

"Yeah, right. If someone hacks into the Federal Reserve or the FBI. Otherwise, the police don't give a damn."

"Okay, then I'll sweeten the pot, so to speak. Kristi and I stopped by your condo again after dinner. I wanted to make sure everything was okay. Guess who was still parked out in front? Just sitting in his car, watching." The hairs rose on the back of Caroline's neck. "Don't tell me that, Travis. You're scaring me."

"He didn't scare me. He pissed me off, so I ran him off." She gasped. "You what?"

"Walked right up to him, stood in front of his car and took down the license plate, then I told him to get the hell out of there and if I ever saw him again, I'd call the cops."

"Oh, Travis, don't ever do something like that again. You could have gotten shot, or sued, or something."

"I wasn't too worried. He was in a big ol' honkin' Lincoln, but I think I could have taken him."

"Jeez, is that all guys think about? Proving how tough they are?"

"No, sis, not at my size. Maybe if I was as tall as you."

"Oh, stop. Give me the license number and I'll run the plates."

"Too late. I've already given it to Luke."

"Luke?"
Damn it.
"Why Luke?" This would just confirm his theory that she'd be safer with him, home, barefoot and pregnant.

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"Because as an assistant DA he can run the plates legally. You'd have to hack into the system."

"For your information, I am not a hacker."

"You're not legally authorized to run car registrations, either."

"I have other ways of getting the information."

"Yeah, right, and I don't want to know any of them." Caroline took a deep breath. "Okay, okay, let me know what Luke says. It's probably a dead end, some poor man looking for a place to live."

"Maybe, maybe not. I'll call you in the morning."

* * * *

ON FRIDAY AT 7:30 a.m., Caroline was brushing her teeth when the phone rang. She hadn't slept worth a damn. Every time a truck went by or the building creaked, she'd jumped out of bed and checked the windows and the lock on her door. She'd grabbed her phone once and started to dial Mick, but how much help would he have been after a night of bachelor-partying?

She wiped her mouth with a tissue and picked up the phone. "This is Caroline."

"Rise and shine, sister mine," Travis' cheery voice came through the wire. "Got your man—sort of."

"Sort of?"

"The plates are registered to a rental car company."

"Is that the best Luke could do?"

"Hey, chill. Got a piece of paper and a pencil handy?" 208

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"Hold on." She walked into the living room, grabbed the pad where she'd started a grocery list, and poised her pen.

"Whatcha got?"

"According to the rental application, the guy's from Cleveland and picked up the Lincoln at Love Field. He's supposed to return it in New Orleans. His name's Darrell Dakis, D-A-K-I-S. That mean anything to you?" Caroline's palms went moist and a chill slithered through her. Just yesterday, she compiled the list of names of account holders who were receiving ZyQyx's stolen funds. There were six primary accounts, which she believed were aliases for one or two people, rather than a wide-ranging conspiracy. They'd chosen alliterative names—Andrew Alquist, Bernard Barrows, Tommy Tidwell, Walter Woodruff, Gary Gillooley—and Darrell Dakis.

"Sis, are you there? Caroline? Answer me. What's going on?"

She couldn't answer. Her legs had grown rubbery. If she hadn't grabbed the edge of one of the loveseats, she would have sunk to the floor.

Of course Dakis had parked in front of her condo and peeked in her windows. He wanted to be seen, he wanted her to know. The shank, the e-mails—they were all connected. She'd thought she'd been so smart. Caroline Spring knew she was no longer the hunter ... she'd become the hunted. 209

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