Page 11 of Sweet Talk (Buchanan-Renard 10)

“Oh no. What did he say?” she asked. “No, let me guess. In his opinion, I’m unstable and making things up.”

  The judge chuckled. “Yes, he did say something like that, though he did coat it with his concern for you and the well-being of any children who may be in your charge. He was playing me, Olivia, and you know how much I hate that. He didn’t come right out and say it, but he implied that you were unfit, and he felt it was his duty to caution me. He said the occasional case I give you involves vulnerable children, and I should be aware that, because of your fragile state of mind, if anything were to happen to one of the children, I could be held responsible. Did you know you’re about to have a nervous breakdown?”

  “No, I didn’t,” she replied.

  “Of course, Simmons insisted that he was telling me this in the strictest of confidence,” he said with obvious disgust. “He added that your father is being urged to have you committed for a seventy-two-hour evaluation.”

  Olivia was shaking with anger. “I’m so sorry you were dragged into this.”

  “I know what this is all about. Simmons’s firm represents your father . . .”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re probing.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I warned Simmons you could sue him for slander, and he assured me that it would never happen. He said he was only trying to protect the innocent, and that he had proof of your irrational acts. He brought up a couple of names. Just a second . . . I wrote them down.” He paused and she heard papers rustling. “Here they are: a Frank Greeley and a Kimberly Mills . . .”

  She had to think for a second. “Yes,” she said. “They were involved in two different cases I handled for Judge Thorpe. Greeley was a real hothead. He claimed that I had manufactured lies that he was an abusive father. ‘Crazed with power’ I believe were his words. Of course, the bruises and welts on his four-year-old little girl didn’t give him much credibility. Mills also called me crazy. She had been called to the office for a meeting about an abuse charge. I happened to walk in just as she’d grabbed her little boy and was about to backhand him. I knocked her down, and she began screaming that I was a lunatic. In both instances, the parents filed a complaint, but nothing came of them. It would take some fancy footwork for Simmons to create a case.”

  “There’s more, Olivia.”

  She rubbed her temple and took a deep breath to calm down. “Yes?”

  “He also alluded to drugs you had taken in the past that may have had a lasting effect on your mental state and impaired your judgment.”

  She was speechless.

  “Olivia?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know you’re a private person, and I hate asking, but was there ever a time . . .”

  “The drugs?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I was a child, I went through chemotherapy.”

  The judge was outraged on her behalf. “If you can find grounds to sue him, I’ll testify,” he said. “I’d love to see you tie up all his firm’s assets and paralyze them.”

  “I don’t know if that will happen, but thank you for your support,” she responded.

  “I think I’ll give Judge Thorpe a call and give him a heads-up. He’ll probably get a real kick out of the drug accusation.”

  Once she got past her anger, Olivia realized she shouldn’t have been surprised that Carl Simmons had contacted Mr. Thurman and Judge Bowen. The slimeball had been calling her on a regular basis and threatening her. The scare tactics weren’t working, though, and that must have been exceedingly frustrating for Carl. It was a natural progression to go to her employers. Poke the bear, he’s bound to attack. And she’d certainly been poking and prodding. Of course they would retaliate.

  It was a pity he hadn’t come right out and slandered her. According to Judge Bowen, Simmons came close a couple of times, but the creep knew what he was doing. Olivia understood his plan. He would try to discredit her, destroy her reputation, and attack her character. She also knew that the next attack would be even more despicable but within the law.

  Slimeball was smart, but she was smarter, she told herself. Eventually she would nail him for his part in ripping off innocent people, stealing their life savings, while he was living the high life. His day in court was coming.

  She pulled her coat collar up around her neck, adjusted the scarf, and started walking home. The snow was coming down in sheets, and there was already more than an inch on the sidewalk. Had the temperature dropped? She couldn’t make out the numbers on the bank, but she thought it felt colder because her face was stinging, and her lungs struggled to take in the frozen air. She tugged on her scarf and pulled it up over her mouth and nose. Why hadn’t she gone back for her inhaler? She would love to sprint home, but she couldn’t. Her chest was already tight, and she was wheezing. She had to slow the pace.

  There wasn’t any traffic, and she was the only person on the street. The snow was swirling down all around her, and the only sound was the gushing wind. The streetlights looked like they were covered in gauze. As bitterly cold as it was, she thought it was beautiful. Her street looked like a holiday greeting card. Everything was so clean and white, and all the little lights in the windows of the apartments were glowing. It was almost magical.

  Being the pessimist that she was, she reminded herself that tomorrow it would all be a mess. Slush from cars would splatter against the windows, and the snow would turn brown and gray from being trod upon. But tonight it was pretty.

  No way she was going to drive to the hospital, though. She had already slipped twice crossing streets, and people—including her—were crazy when they drove in snow. Olivia decided she’d make herself a cup of hot tea and call Jane to check on her. She didn’t feel guilty. She was going to see her friend tomorrow after work when she donated more blood for her. They’d have a nice chat then.

  There was an SUV illegally parked at the end of the block. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew the driver was inside because the motor was running and the windshield wipers were moving. Must be waiting for someone, she thought as she crossed the street and hurried on. She switched the carryout bag from one arm to the other and tried to take a deep breath. She could really use her inhaler now. The green awning over the entrance of her building was weighed down by the snow. She could tell the walkway had been shoveled, but it was quickly filling up with fresh flakes.

  She was almost home when she heard an odd popping sound. She pictured a giant champagne bottle being uncorked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the SUV coming toward her. Then she saw John through the window of her apartment building. He was standing behind his desk. He smiled when he spotted her and hurried to unlock the door.

  All of a sudden there was rapid gunfire, bullets whizzing all around her. She understood what was happening and knew she needed to get to safety, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She felt an excruciating jolt of pain in her thigh, then another jolt near her shoulder that was so forceful it knocked her back. The third jolt sent her spinning into the wall. Her head slammed against the brick, and her body crumpled to the ground. The world began to reel in a chaotic blur, with images of snow and lights and brown bags flying through the air. She tried to get up, but a dizzying fog rolled over her, and everything went black.

  TEN

  She made the ten o’clock news.

  Grayson had the television on and was half listening to the end of a Dateline interview with a congressional lobbyist while he finished his third report on his laptop. He hit the “send” button and closed the lid. It was Sunday evening, and he was only now finishing work.

  He put the laptop back in his briefcase on the table next to his nephew’s school backpack. In the two months since Henry had come to live with him, Grayson’s apartment had lost all semblance of order. The backpack was lying open; papers were sticking out every which w

ay, and the report on volcanoes that was due tomorrow wasn’t there. Grayson searched the living room, then went back into the den. He tripped over some Legos and a remote-control robot Henry was building, and found the report on the sofa, half hidden under Henry’s tennis shoes.

  Grayson made sure the entire report was there, then put it back in the yellow folder and added it to the papers he’d already straightened inside the backpack. The child would probably still lose at least one assignment before he got to class if history was any indication, but he was getting better at organization. He no longer left his backpack in the car.

  Grayson went into his bedroom and was about to change out of his jeans and sweater when he heard the newscaster say that a young woman had been gunned down in front of her apartment building. A conversation about the city came back to Grayson. Washington, D.C., could be a dangerous place to live, and one had to be careful, but the energy here made the city irresistible. Hadn’t Olivia said that? He smiled remembering.

  A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think about her, and if his life hadn’t gotten so damned complicated, he thought he’d most likely be with her right now.

  He picked up the remote to turn up the volume. The lead into the news was over and a commercial was playing. He stood in front of the flat screen and waited. He assumed the shooting had something to do with the gang war going on, and he was curious to know where it happened.

  Then Ted on Channel 12 announced that he was reporting live from Georgetown. Grayson stopped breathing. “Ah, hell,” he whispered. “Don’t let it be Olivia.” The sick feeling in his gut contradicted the hope. He told himself he was overreacting. It had been two months since Jorguson had threatened her, but he had calmed down since then.

  The newscaster said the name of the street, then the camera switched to the chaotic scene in front of an apartment building. Her apartment building. Grayson recognized the doorman. What was his name? John, he remembered. The man’s face was gray. Grayson could see his hands shaking as he clutched something that looked like a paper bag against his chest. He was standing in the background talking to a couple of detectives. Grayson didn’t recognize either one of them.

  It was Olivia. Had to be. Even though he had spent only one evening with her, she had made a lasting impression. She was a beautiful, smart, and caring woman, and the way she handled that terrified little boy was something to see. The world needed Olivia MacKenzie.

  His cell phone rang. Ronan’s greeting was brisk. “Are you watching the news? Olivia MacKenzie was shot multiple times, and she—”

  “Is she alive?”

  “Yes,” he answered, reacting to the fury in Grayson’s voice.

  “Where is she?”

  “They took her to St. Paul’s. It’s the closest trauma center,” he explained. “I talked to Detective Cusack, and he told me Olivia’s in surgery now.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “She got hit three times.”

  “I’m going over to the hospital.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Grayson had just put his gun in his safe. He got it out and shoved it back in its holster, then picked up his badge. His hands shook. That surprised him, and he realized he needed to get his anger under control.

  He went down the hall and quietly opened the door to one of his spare rooms to check on Henry. His nephew was sleeping soundly. He pulled the door closed and went into the kitchen. The housekeeper, Patrick, was sitting at the table making a grocery list. Grayson told him where he was going and headed out.

  The snow was still coming down hard, and the roads were like an ice rink. There were car accidents everywhere. Grayson drove his SUV and took as many side streets as he could to avoid getting slammed by other drivers. He parked the car in the doctors’ lot close to the hospital door. The security guard didn’t give him any argument once he showed him his badge.

  He got directions to the surgical floor, and in a hurry, he took the stairs. The floor was nearly deserted. A scrub nurse was rushing by. He stopped her and asked where Olivia MacKenzie was.

  “She’s still in the OR,” she said. “Are you family?”

  “FBI,” he answered. “Where are the guards?” he asked then.

  “I’m sorry? There aren’t any guards on this floor.”

  He didn’t show any reaction to that news but asked, “Could you find out her condition and how much longer she’ll be in there?”

  “Yes, of course. The surgical waiting room is right down that hallway,” she said motioning to her left.

  “Which OR is Olivia in?”

  She pointed to the doors at the end of the hallway on the right.

  “I’ll wait here.” No one could get past him as long as he blocked access to the OR.

  The nurse promised to be right back. She rushed down the corridor, then picked up a wall phone directly outside the OR doors.

  He pulled out his cell phone and started making calls. Within minutes he’d arranged twenty-four-hour protection for Olivia.

  He refused to even consider the possibility that she might not make it. The idea was simply untenable. It was bizarre, this connection he felt, but he didn’t try to reason through it.

  Ronan arrived a few minutes later. His dark hair was covered with snow. He brushed it off as he walked down the hallway.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Still in surgery. A nurse is checking on her condition.”

  Ronan looked around. “There’s no one here. No police, no hospital guards . . . what the hell?”

  “I’ve got agents on the way.”

  “This is our case then?”

  “Oh hell yes.”

  “Good,” Ronan said, nodding. “Do you think Jorguson’s responsible? He did boast that he was going to have her killed.”

  “That was two months ago. He’s threatened a couple of other attorneys since then. He’s a hothead, and I know he’s got some badasses for clients, but I still don’t think this was his work.”

  “I’m not marking him off.”

  “I’m not either,” Grayson agreed. “I’m just saying I don’t think it’s him.”

  “Who besides Jorguson would want her out of the way?”

  “She works for the IRS. That could open up all sorts of possibilities. Who knows what some disgruntled taxpayer might do.”

  “I don’t believe they’ve released her name yet, which means they haven’t notified the family. Probably still trying to locate them.” Ronan walked down to the surgical waiting room to see if anyone was there. He returned a minute later. “It’s empty.”

  “After I get an update, I’ll call Olivia’s aunt.”

  The nurse he’d asked to check on Olivia interrupted. She was smiling. “The patient is on her way to recovery. She’s going to be all right. The surgeon said he would be out in a few minutes to talk to you. He also said she’s a very lucky young lady.”

  Grayson felt as though he could take a deep breath again, so great was his relief. Ronan noticed. He waited until the nurse had left, then asked, “You only had one date with Olivia, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you . . .”

  Grayson knew what he was asking. “What the hell, Ronan.”

  “So that’s a no, you didn’t.”

  They both heard the bell indicating the elevator doors were about to open. Each put his hand on the grip of his weapon and waited. Two detectives stepped out. The younger one was the spitting image of the actor Tom Cruise, down to the thick brown hair and square jaw.

  “Doesn’t that guy look like . . .” Ronan whispered.

  “Yeah, he does,” Grayson agreed.

  Both detectives were eating sandwiches and chatting. They stopped when they saw Grayson and Ronan. The older one, wearing part of his sandwich on his mu

stache, called out, “Who are you?”

  “FBI,” Ronan answered.

  “You don’t need to be here. We’ve got this.”

  “No, you don’t.” Grayson didn’t raise his voice, but the look in his eyes showed he was in charge.

  “This is our case,” the Tom Cruise look-alike snapped. He had a definite swagger as he walked toward Grayson.

  Grayson wasn’t impressed with his rooster tactics. Neither was Ronan who said, “No, this isn’t your case. It’s ours.”

  “We were assigned this at the scene,” Mustache told them. “Didn’t see either of you there.”

  “So you knew this woman was gunned down, that it was a hit, right?” Grayson asked.

  “Yeah, of course,” Mustache replied.

  “But you didn’t think to post guards?”

  The two detectives glanced at each other. Then Mustache said, “She’s in surgery. We were going to wait and see if she made it . . .”

  Grayson spotted the surgeon at the end of the hall. He was talking to the nurse.

  “You deal with them,” he told Ronan as he walked toward the OR doors.

  He heard Cruise say, “I’m gonna make some calls.”

  Ronan responded, “You do that.”

  After Grayson talked to the surgeon, he made the dreaded call to Emma Monroe, Olivia’s aunt. It hadn’t taken him long to get her cell phone number and to find out she was in Palm Springs for a seminar.

  Emma knew something was wrong as soon as she answered the phone and heard Grayson’s voice.

  “Olivia’s going to be fine,” he began.

  “What happened?” she demanded before he could continue. “Was there an accident?”

  “No, there wasn’t an accident,” he said and then explained what had happened to her. He also told Emma what the surgeon had said and ended by repeating once again that Olivia was going to be fine.

  Emma was beside herself. “Three gunshots? Someone shot her three times? Who would do such a thing to a lovely, kind . . . she’s been through so much . . . she’s had so much pain and now this. You find out who did this, Grayson.” She went from shock to fury.