Risky Alliance Page 2

  The man, Bates, cocked the gun and Sue's body sagged against the doorframe and wall. Unsteady, dizzy, her fingers relaxed and both gun and phone slipped from her hands, clattering to the closet floor.

  Bates looked straight at the closet, and Jacob wasted no time as he grabbed for his gun. Sue sucked in her breath when he missed, but still managed to throw the man off balance with a kick. The sharp blast from a gun filled her ears. But it was Bates’ body that jerked sideways, stumbled, and then righted itself.

  Through a veil of tears Sue could now see Bates’ partner belly-down on the floor with his hands on his head and with blood oozing through his fingers. Over him stood Jacob's closest friend, Tim Benson, and he had his police revolver in his hand. Bates raised his weapon, Tim's gun exploded again, and Bates tipped against the walnut-paneled wall near Jacob and dropped to the floor.

  Bates. The butterfly was dead. The butterfly could no longer hurt Jacob, or intrude on my dreams, Sue thought as her eyes closed. I'll never be a good girl. Against her will, Sue slid deeper into darkness, and quickly realizing how wrong she was about the dreams. She could still see the red, the purple, the yellow. Vainly, she tried to fight the terrible haze covering her eyes. Jacob, her beloved J.T., needed her and she could no longer see him, because now she saw a scarred ear and a cross tattoo.

  As the darkness filled her, an urgent voice, a voice she hadn't heard since she was six years old, shrieked, loudly, hysterically at her from somewhere in her soul, her self-preservation, “You can't take this any longer. You have to get away from all this. You can't be around to see Jacob killed. You can't let the children see him die, can't let them live with the danger...."

  * * * *

  Sanger, California

  For a Thursday morning, traffic seemed unusually light on the street fronting the cemetery. But Jacob Tyler Campbell, J.T. to his friends, and, to his Sue, before she'd left him months before, was trying to comprehend the words Dottie Delaney choked out between her sobs.

  A June breeze made the midmorning heat bearable as they stood together beside Robert Delaney's open grave, and while he watched Delaney's dozens of friends as they worked their way back to their cars. Jacob had known Robert since grade school and his death still didn't seem real.

  He just wished that Sue were here, that eighteen months ago she hadn't chosen separation as the answer to their problems, that she hadn't chosen to live so damned far away. With her capacity for love, Sue would be the person to help Dottie through her grief. Maybe even help him with his. No ... that wasn't quite right. They had already helped each other on the phone two days ago. She wouldn't come, but he'd heard the pain in her voice after he'd told her what happened to Robert. He knew she had called Dottie.

  Dottie brushed at the skirt of the black dress she wore that didn't look to Jacob like it fit her very well. He started to worry that she was losing weight, when she said, “I wanted to wear my own black dress—Robert liked that dress.” She sobbed. “Mom went to the house to find it for me,” she whispered. “Couldn't find the dress,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “Couldn't find it. I couldn't go there....

  “You knew him, J.T.” Dottie took the handkerchief Jacob held out to her, clutching it in a tight fist. “He would never kill himself for God's sakes. He survived the over-running of his Special Forces team.” She dabbed at the new tears trickling down her cheeks. “He saved the entire unit. If Robert ever had a day of weakness, I never saw it.”

  Dottie knew nothing about his and Robert's discussions the past few months, and, though it had surprised him, Jacob had seen some weakness. He glanced at the ground where the green grass grew only when forced by constant watering, and recalled how badly Robert's hands shook when he told about the agent who hounded him. But then, he also remembered that when the agent confiscated their car, then their cottage in the mountains, most of Robert's fear had back-pedaled while anger and an itch for a payback took over.

  Jacob had managed to slow Robert down by offering to help. Armed with positive evidence that the Delaney's owed nothing, and that the agency couldn't take their property legally, Jacob went in to see an agent named Williams and asked questions. A few days later he found a letter in his mailbox from agent Williams, requesting that Jacob attend an audit. Because he learned real fast, because he hated making the same mistake twice, he stopped boldly asking the questions that brought harassment and not the answers he needed.

  Changing his tactics and quietly sleuthing the agency's ink-slingers revealed some mind-boggling facts. Findings that were leading him down a shadowed, twisted alley; an alleyway pot-holed with an illegal activity that should stick out and prompt an investigation within it's own walls.

  The agency was so damned massive with people and data that it could never detect theft without such an investigation. It seemed whatever was in their database was fact, period. Even the local newspaper stated that the agency itself was so big it was unauditable. However, he chose to believe chaos and lack of management the cause.

  Soon, he would have all the answers about the seizure and selling of real estate—answers that would prevent him from having the involved agent busted. Because one man didn't stand much chance nose-to-nose with a giant, agency that appeared to swallow up everyone in its path.

  It hadn't taken him long to realize that they protected their own, no matter what. He shivered to think how many closet millionaires hid within the agency. It didn't take all that many properties to line their pockets with gold.

  After watching how despondently she slipped the black lace scarf from her sienna-colored hair, Jacob pulled Dottie against his chest, trying to comfort her the best he could. Consoling women wasn't something he knew much about, and he felt as uneasy as all hell. “The coroner called the judgment, Dottie. No extensive inquiry seemed called for, and the police didn't initiate anything past their preliminary investigation.” One of his best friends lay in the earth, hounded into killing himself, unnerved, dehumanized until he couldn't take it anymore. He blinked several times trying to ease the ache behind his eyes.

  “Please, J.T.,” Dottie said, her voice crackling, strained. “You were his closest friend. Please don't let him go this way. He didn't kill himself. Someone murdered him. Please, J.T., make the police at least look around.”

  Dottie's sobs tore at Jacob's heart. “All right—all right, Dottie, you win. I don't know what success I'd have with the police, but I'll go to the house and see what I can find. Since you and the kids are staying with your folks, you'd better give me the keys now.” He touched her chin gently, tipping it so he could see the mixture of grief and anger in her hazel eyes. “Promise me you'll feel satisfied with whatever I find.” He dropped his hand to his side. Robert killed himself; but for Dottie, for his three godchildren, he would do this investigation if it would help them with Robert's death.

  A touch of color returned to her wan cheeks. “Thank you, J.T.,” Dottie said. She handed him the house keys he'd requested. “You have my promise."

  Jacob looked at the clear-blue sky, feeling the sun's heat penetrating the back of his neck and shoulders, hoping she meant those words.

  * * * *

  Fresno, California

  Three hours later

  “When we get Campbell out of California, we'll break in and destroy his files. We know exactly what photocopies he's been able to get his hands on, and once they're gone, he won't be able to replace them. We've made sure of it.” Clinton shook his head, rose from a leather wing-backed chair, and leaned against an ornate bookcase beside the older, shorter man who slowly thumbed through a heavy law book. “We'll have to be smart, Keats. The word in Sacramento is that he's the best.” He shoved a hand in his pocket. “Not to mention, fast,” he added, impatiently. “Because of his damned talent, he often does investigating for the DA in Sacramento."

  Seated on an elegant Chippendale chair in the high-ceilinged library, Kimba cleared her throat. “I agree with getting him out of the state. Campbell works out of his home, a
nd the way his place is designed, it would be dangerous to try for the files with him anywhere around.” She straightened the sleeves of her beige silk blouse. “We can't afford to be careless. Things have gone too well.” She smiled, tapping her manicured fingernails against the lustrous cherry-wood table in front of her. “He's been a real benefit to us, though. He's shown us the holes in our transactions, and we've plugged them up.” She had talent of her own. Free access to any file she wanted, freedom to alter any information she wanted, made her talent more fun. The best part was the agency didn't have time to give a damn. Agents who got caught making mistakes, merely found themselves transferred to another state. Kimba found it profitable, and for the most part an ever so safe a shield that government and embarrassment just didn't go together.

  Keats replaced his book on the shelf, and then brushed his hand across his partially gray, receding hairline. He stopped beside the other man. “I want you to fly to Des Moines, Clinton. I want you to visit Campbell's wife, and give him a reason to leave California. My informants tell me that they've been separated for well over a year, but Campbell would take her back instantly. He calls her residence no less than three times a week, and he's gone there several times in the past few months. If she needs him, he'll go."

  Inhaling the opulent smell of leather-bound books, of antique furniture, and the ethereal fragrance from the roses strategically placed about the room, Kimba banged her hand impatiently on the long red table. “Why bother? We're infallible. No one's going to touch us.” She would rather see Campbell dead, lying in the hardpan California dirt alongside his buddy. It would be the easiest, most efficient way to stop his prying. At any rate, she knew that Keats was a manipulator, not an exterminator, and he didn't have much in the way of patience. If she told him her thoughts, he'd get pissed off, and that being the case, she could not seem overly eager. He would never approve of taking her easiest way.

  “Darling, you know your people always go after anyone who speaks against them,” Keats said. “This man isn't just speaking, he's shoving his way straight to the heart of your employer.” He moved forward and touched her shoulder. “Besides, Kimba, I don't jeopardize any business I'm involved in."

  Kimba chuckled, though she recognized the do-what-I-say gravity of his expression. “Who would really care? It wouldn't matter if he exposed the truth to the world. A Judge wouldn't dare cross me in court no matter what the charges were. They love their jobs, their fat checks, and looking the other way. They're wonderful at making people look stupid, insane, and cover any embarrassment.”

  And, she loved the omnipotent agency. Before long, and with the already approved new title of Global Resource Service camouflaging its power, it would control unimaginable amounts of revenue through the New World Order. And she planned to have a cushy position in that domination.

  Keats looked skeptical. “Then, my darling, why did you drive Delaney to suicide?"

  “Delaney became threatening in other ways,” Kimba answered quickly. “His intellect got him qualified as a Green Beret at a tender-young age. The man was acting less intimidated and seemed to get smarter every day.” Kimba laughed. “Don't look so worried, husband mine. They put Delaney in his grave today, and no one knows what caused him to take his own life—except maybe Mr. J. T. Campbell. I'm certain Delaney talked to him and that's why he's nosing around local agents. And why he's resumed his poking into what happened to the confiscated real estate.” Campbell could investigate till he rotted—nothing would touch her—Washington would see to it. She felt certain that Campbell already knew that. The man might be capable of getting to them another way, and she wanted rid of him.

  “Well, I can tell you that auditing him didn't fray one nerve, or make him back off. I'm glad I quit the agency. It's safer with me handling the buyers and just one of us fixing data.” Clinton moved away from the bookcase. “I'll leave you two to discuss this.” After walking across the plush, slate-gray carpet to the double, hand-carved doors, he looked at Kimba and winked surreptitiously. “I'll see you this afternoon at your office.”

  He then turned his attention to Keats who busily stuffed papers into a briefcase. “I'll arrange to leave tomorrow or the next day. I have a file on the Campbells so it won't take long to organize my moves. It'll be a piece-of-cake. One day to locate her, rough her up, and return the same day.” He left the room.

  Kimba glanced at her husband, wishing he had Clinton's younger, stronger body, his silky, sandy-colored hair. Instead, his slenderness and small, delicate hands gave him a deceptively feminine air. “You know, if this doesn't stop Campbell from snooping, we'll have to handle him in a more permanent way.” She flipped one hand in the air. “I don't think he's the suicidal type.” However, he was the dangerous type.

  “Yes, I understand perfectly,” Keats said, his tone leaving no room for argument with any of his decisions. “However, I insist it be our last resort. Getting a man with his reputation jailed on trumpet-up charges would require risks I'd rather not take."

  She hadn't meant anything as long-term as jail. Her thoughts held something shorter and completely permanent for Campbell, but Kimba nodded her head anyway. Keats might cooperate, but, he had limits, and she would be careful not to let him know when she surpassed them. He accepted what happened with Delaney, though not pleased about it. Yet, in the courtroom he always intimidated, showing no mercy, a genius at his work.

  “I have a client waiting.” Keats lifted his black briefcase from the library table and hurried to the door. “Since your car is in the shop, I'll have the car come back and take you to the office. This afternoon I'll pick you up, and we'll have dinner at the club."

  “Fine,” she mumbled, rising from her chair as he closed the door behind him. Keeping her positioned job and marrying a rich man were the goals she'd reached. No one would get in her way. She smiled. As long as she proceeded with care, her husband wouldn't allow anyone to get in her way, and he pulled the strings on many a puppet. He might look small of stature, but Keats had a thuggish quality that somehow belied his social background and the teachings of the saintly Aunt he often reminisced about. The aunt who had left him everything. Kimba didn't like admitting it, but there were times when even she felt a bizarre fear of him.

  Trying not to, she worried about Clinton being the one to go to Iowa. He tried to be cunning; she would allow him that. Nevertheless, she had found the small mistakes he'd made in their lucrative real estate ventures. If she hadn't, someone would have noticed Keats’ activity, and they would all most likely be in prison right now. The agency wouldn't have a reason to protect Keats, and she didn't doubt that if he went down, he wouldn't go alone. Her agency shield would evaporate with her swept under a rug like so much dust. Yes, she felt apprehensive about Clinton's petty mistakes—mostly concerned about not being around to catch them. Eminently concerned that J.T. Campbell would be. She, too, felt a relief that Clinton had left the agency. Keeping track of him there had been a stress she didn't need.

  The sound of a car startled her, and she smiled as she slid her chair under the table, scribbled a note for the chauffeur, and grabbed her purse from the desk. Clinton had come back for her. They would go to his place, make love, then he would be in the mood to go over every detail. And she would make sure he avoided any screw-ups.

  * * * *

  Jacob entered his office, pausing as he took in the disarray on his side of the room. His secretary, cum-student-investigator, Carley Tibbs’ side of the large office looked neatly systematized. Oh, everything was where he wanted it, where he could find it—it just didn't look like it. Vowing that he would get it cleaned up one of these days he shoved a pile of papers off the phone and lifted the receiver. After punching in a number, he heard detective Tim Benson's gruff growl.

  “Yeah, Benson here."

  “You left the funeral before we could talk, buddy. Are you all right?” His friend's coloring had looked totally gray, and his expression pinched with grief.

  “J.T., I just
don't like saying good-bye to friends that way.” After a long pause, Tim added, “I'll be fine, but how about you?"

  “I'll probably feel better after I ask you some questions.” He would have preferred to wait a few days and see Tim in person, but he couldn't.

  “If it's about Robert, I don't have many answers. You saw him more this past year than I did."

  Jacob leaned his hip against his massive desk. “Dottie believes someone killed him, Tim."

  “I know. And to tell you the truth, I don't see him killing himself either. Robert could get upset, but he always attacked trouble straight on. He'd figure out just how to skirt a problem, or go straight through it. But I scanned the detective report. Short, sweet, no frills. Autopsy report, death by gun shot to the head."

  “Could the detective's have been too short?"

  Tim sighed. “Yeah, definitely. But the Chief refused to let me question it. Told me to mind my own workload."

  “I promised Dottie that I'd check for evidence. I could use a copy of that report, Tim. Then we'll go over it together."

  “I'm headed for the station now. I don't think anyone will care what I'm doing today. Chief Lowe's got meetings all afternoon."

  Jacob replaced the cordless phone on its base. Some of Tim's words hit home real hard. Robert wouldn't have committed suicide. Admitting it out loud or not, they all knew it would never be Robert's style. Yet, people did things no one ever would have guessed they could do.

  Hell, he never would have guessed Sue would take the kids and move eighteen hundred miles from him. He walked to the large windows behind his desk and stared at the blue-gray mountains that seemed to caress the lighter, cerulean sky. Though he couldn't be sure how she understood it, he believed mentally, self-preservation the reason she left, and she hadn't intended to destroy anything. She hadn't destroyed anything, though she sure as hell put their marriage on hold. Did people change that much? Sue really hadn't. It had just taken him a while to realize that he'd managed to use his observation training on everyone and everything but his family. He should have realized how fragile her apprehensions were, had always been, and that she had reached the end of her endurance. He didn't believe for a moment that Sue had stopped loving him. One day, he would have his family back.