Midnight Vengeance Page 14

  “Get the plane ready. We’re leaving in two hours for Portland, Oregon.”

  Portland, Oregon

  Pretty city, Frederick thought the next day as he exited his luxurious downtown hotel. Cold, though. The snow was ankle height and it was below zero. However, Frederick was billionaire Paul Andrews and the rich didn’t do cold. Billionaires had a Goldilocks existence, never too hot and never too cold. He was wearing a heavyweight cashmere Brooks Brothers overcoat, cashmere scarf and a genuine Borsalino. He stepped from the heated lobby of the Beresford Hotel where he had the Presidential Suite, directly into a town car he’d booked online. The car was heated, of course, the driver suitably subservient and in livery.

  “Where to, sir?” the driver asked, meeting his eyes in the rear view mirror.

  “The Beckstein Gallery. On Stratton Street.”

  Before presenting himself to Suzanne Huntington, he wanted to visit the art show where Anne Lowell had been photographed. He was a computer guy but he liked firsthand data whenever possible. He’d viewed all the photographs of the caterer’s FB page and the official photographs on the gallery’s website. It was interesting that besides the caterer’s cell phone shots, Anne didn’t show up once on any other photos, anywhere, including the official website photos that seemed to highlight everyone who’d been there, on principle.

  Except Anne.

  The car left him right in front of the gallery’s ornate white marble entrance. The driver said he would park around the corner and to call when he was needed.

  No bell rang when Frederick opened the gallery door. Bells were so passé. Instead there was a metallic sound of a drop of water echoing. Immediately a man appeared from an inner door. Elegant. Dapper, even.

  Frederick held up a hand covered in a cashmere-lined black kid leather glove. “Just looking,” he said.

  The man gave a little ironic bow and disappeared again behind the door. It was clear that if Frederick wanted to buy something he would let it be known.

  He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked the perimeter of the gallery, looking carefully at each picture. They were excellent; even he could see that. Each picture was of either the facade or the interior of a building Suzanne Huntington decorated.

  They designs were exquisite and they were all superbly rendered.

  He made the circuit twice. All of the paintings, drawings and watercolors had a small red Sold sticker. A placard stated that the proceeds of the sale went to a breast cancer research fund.

  Frederick knew he was lingering too long, but there was just something about the pictures that tugged at him. They were all beautiful, yes, stylish, yes...but somehow familiar.

  He would have even bought one. A watercolor of the façade of a sleek mansion in the foothills of Mount Hood was exquisite. The artist had perfectly captured the contrast between the streamlined outline of the house and the gnarled old forest lines of the branches surrounding it.

  A flute appeared, half-full of champagne.

  “Excellent, isn’t it?” the gallery owner, presumably Mr. Beckstein, said.

  Frederick took the glass and sipped. Not champagne but Prosecco and excellent. “Yes, indeed. I would have contemplating buying it if it weren’t already sold.” The small red sticker was discreetly placed in the lower right-hand corner.

  “We sold out in the first half hour.” The owner gave a small, satisfied smile. He shifted his drink to his left hand and held out his right. “Alfred Beckstein.”

  Frederick held his own hand out. “Paul Andrews, pleasure.”

  “Welcome to Portland,” Beckstein said.

  Frederick arced a brow. “It’s that obvious I’m an out-of-towner?”

  “With that tan it is. It’s been raining and snowing for two months. You didn’t get that tan here.”

  There was an unspoken question. If it went unanswered, Paul Andrews would stick in the gallery owner’s mind. Frederick gave a light laugh. “Bingo. I’ve spent the last four months in my house in Cabo San Lucas. Came up to Portland for some investment opportunities. Speaking of opportunities, I’ve been looking at some property here. I have a tour of the penthouse of the Sorenson Building scheduled.”

  Backstein’s eyebrows rose. It was by a factor of ten the most expensive residential building in the city. The penthouse was valued at fifteen million dollars. Condo costs were $10K a month. Frederick had checked.

  “So, I was thinking of looking for a decorator and it looks like I just might have found one.” He tapped the show’s brochure with the photograph of Suzanne Huntington on the cover. “Judging by the interiors on the walls she is very talented.”

  Backstein smiled. “That she is. This gallery provides a lot of artwork for her interior designs. She’s brilliant. It’s a pleasure to work with her.”

  Frederick waved at the gallery walls. “And I will definitely commission artwork of the finished decorations.”

  A small frown appeared between Beckstein’s eyebrows, then he smoothed it away. “Ah, yes. That would be an excellent idea.” He drained his flute. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do. Take your time enjoying the artwork. Pleasure meeting you.”

  Hmm. Interesting. Something there...

  For form’s sake, Frederick spent another ten minutes perusing the artwork on the walls, then called for his car and walked from the heated gallery to the heated backseat of his town car in three steps. His driver was of course holding the door open for him so he wouldn’t have to do that himself. Frederick was exposed to the cold for about a second and a half. Rich guy tourism.

  His next stop was the visit to the penthouse apartment of the Sorensen Building in the presence of a young and pretty real estate agent practically quivering with eagerness. Her conversation was peppered with “yes, Mr. Andrews” and “of course, Mr. Andrews.” She agreed with everything he said because, though the property was stunning, it was still the tail end of the recession and there were probably not more than a couple of thousand people in the country able and willing to pay fifteen million dollars for an apartment.

  If he had a spare fifteen million dollars, which he didn’t, and if he wanted to live in Portland, which he didn’t, he could do worse than this penthouse. It was over nine thousand square feet with five bedrooms and two fireplaces. He was certain it had views to die for when the sun came out. There was even a deck for the three warm sunny days a year during the summer.

  The Realtor had obviously done her homework because she kept dropping references to Stonewell Financial. Pity it didn’t exist. And pity he was going to have to disappoint the agent, who was truly attractive.

  She was nearly panting with excitement. He doubted she got a commission—that would be for the owner of the realty—but she’d definitely get a bonus. She looked almost sexually aroused as she ran through the penthouse’s amenities. Eyes bright, color high, mouth moist and open.

  Hmm. Really attractive.

  But no.

  This was a business trip. In and out. In empty-handed and out with an unconscious but alive Anne Lowell.

  Priorities, priorities.

  He tuned out the estate agent’s babblings and turned to the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof windows. It was pointless telling the eager young agent that bulletproof didn’t exist unless it was a foot of concrete or several inches of steel. Windows could only be bullet resistant. There was plenty of high-end weaponry that could blow right through it. Not to mention an RPG. Or a hovering helo with a .50 cal machine gun.

  The bulletproof windows was probably a rehearsed selling point, given the fact that top members of the Russian Mafiya were moving to Portland and were going to want high-end real estate. A vor would definitely want bullet-resistant windows.

  But Paul Andrews wouldn’t worry about that until the ninety-nine percent rose up and revolted. By which point Paul Andrews would definitely have already decamped on his private jet to Barbados.

  Frederick really liked Paul Andrews.

  It had been sn
owing on and off since he arrived. It had stopped, leaving a pristine snowscape, no colors, just shades of white to gray to black. Quite beautiful.

  One of the pictures in the Beckstein Gallery had been a collection of four seasons of a country mansion, the winter version a stunning play of chiaroscuro.

  He’d seen something like that somewhere. It had niggled at him in the gallery, too. Where had he—

  He caught his breath.

  God. Could it be?

  “Oh!” Frederick tapped a nonexistent earbud and took out his cell. “Sorry,” he said, turning his back on the agent, her pretty face startled. “Have to take this.”

  He moved into another room, took out his tablet from his briefcase and opened a couple of files, flicking through them. He was extremely thorough with his background research and inside of a minute he had what he was looking for.

  Anne Lowell had a degree in museum curation but she’d also taken art classes. And she’d taken part in an art show collective. Forty young artists, mainly conceptual. She was the only one of the forty who’d entered figurative art. Four watercolors, all landscapes. One a snowy plain. Pristine, shades of white through gray, no colors.

  He carefully studied the four works of art, looking at shape, balance, color scale. Yes.

  The person who’d done the landscapes and interior decors of the show at the Beckstein Gallery was the same person who’d exhibited four works in the collective art show. Same color palette, same architectural sense of proportion, same hand.

  That was why Beckstein’s forehead had scrunched. Suzanne Huntington hadn’t done the artwork.

  Anne Lowell had.

  Jesus, he’d found her.

  He sent the signal to his driver to bring the car around to the monumental front entrance of the Sorensen Building.

  “Sorry,” he told the pretty agent, “something very important has come up. I am however quite interested in the property. I’ll get in touch tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow he wouldn’t be coming back but he would definitely be half a million dollars richer.

  Peanuts for Paul Andrews but good enough for him.

  Once the car took off, he called Suzanne Huntington’s office.

  “Yes,” he said when a pleasant female voice answered. “My name is Paul Andrews of Stonewell Financial. I called yesterday for an appointment with Ms. Huntington, a brief meeting for a commission for a place of business and a home. I would like to confirm the three p.m/ appointment, thank you.” He tapped End Call and leaned forward to address the driver. “Take me back to the hotel and then pick me up again at two p.m.”

  The driver nodded.

  Frederick sat back in the comfortable leather seat, very pleased with events. Very pleased.

  * * *

  Jacko’s cell rang in his pants pocket. Christ, the pants were all the way across the room.

  He was neat. He emptied his pockets and folded his pants and his cell was always within reach. Just like his gun. Lauren really messed with his head because he couldn’t remember leaving pants in a heap on the floor across the room. He didn’t remember much about getting naked, though he remembered every second after he’d gotten naked. Oh yeah.

  You’d think that after a couple of days basically spent in bed having sex he would have gotten his groove back, but no.

  He should be leaping out of bed and grabbing his cell. You never knew—it could be important. Was probably work, and work was the number one priority in his life. Had been number one priority.

  But right now? Right now he was in bed with Lauren’s head on his shoulder and his arm around her and he didn’t want to move one single muscle. It was late morning but he had the day off, the week off, for the first time in forever. He had Lauren in his arms and he had no desire for anything other than a late breakfast.

  She stirred, looked up at him, smiled. “You should get that.”

  Yeah, he should.

  The cell stopped playing the refrain of Cee Lo’s “Fuck You” and went to voice mail. Then it started ringing again. Whoever it was was a persistent fucker.

  “You really should get that,” Lauren said, lifting her head off his shoulder.

  Oh man. The moment was spoiled.

  Jacko had been lying there with half a boner, thinking of when Lauren woke up. And now she was awake but someone wanted to talk to him, even though Jacko didn’t want to talk to anyone except Lauren.

  The cell stopped ringing for a moment then started again. And something like situational awareness pinged to life in Jacko’s sex-saturated brain.

  It could be news concerning Lauren. He could have missed vital news because his blood had gone from his head to his woodie. Christ.

  He scrambled out of bed just as the cell went to voice mail. Then it started ringing again. Jacko grabbed it, looking at the display. Bud. Bud Morrison. Who’d promised to look into the fuckhead who was threatening Lauren.

  “Yeah?” he barked into the cell. “What?”

  “Took you long enough,” Bud growled. “Go to your computer and link to KWXX. Local TV station in Palm Beach. Stay on the line.”

  “Jacko?” Lauren was sitting up in bed, propped on her elbow and oh Jesus, the temptation to crawl right back into bed with her, slide right into her and start moving...it was almost too big to resist. Just look at her, he thought. Shiny hair slanting across her face, falling onto her shoulders, slender hand holding the blanket up, covering her breasts. She could cover them all she wanted but he knew exactly what they felt like, what they tasted like. They felt like silk and tasted like salty strawberries.

  Damn. The woodie was growing.

  “Yo, Jacko!” Bud sounded impatient. “You seeing it?”

  Jacko did the only thing he could do—put his jeans on and hope they kept the worst of the boner down. He looked away from Lauren as he pulled his jeans up, going commando as usual, wincing as the zip caught a few hairs.

  He switched on his Mac, looked the link up on Google, and frowned at the feed. It was a helicopter shot, shaky footage of a big fancy mansion, swimming pool looking like a basin of Scope from on high. SHOOTOUT IN PALM BEACH read the chyron. Then the feed switched to a Latino bimbo journo sporting a ton of tanned cleavage.

  No sound.

  Jesus. He was slipping. His headset was connected. He yanked out the jack and heard the bimbo’s breathless voice. “To recap, a SWAT team is now surrounding a mansion in Palm Beach—”

  “Oh my God!” Lauren shot out of bed, naked. He looked over and couldn’t help the smile.

  “That’s my mother’s house!” she exclaimed.

  “What?” For just a second, the news knocked a naked Lauren out of his head.

  She reached into a drawer, pulled out a tee of his and slipped it on. It billowed around her, coming down almost to her knees. But at least it covered her up so he could concentrate on what she was saying.

  She pointed a shaking finger at the monitor. “That—that’s my mother’s house. Jorge’s house.” She shook her head. “Technically, my house. Oh my God, a shootout! Turn the volume up, Jacko.”

  He did, putting the cell to his ear. Bud was still there. He put Bud on speakerphone.

  “Sitrep,” he said, putting Bud on video on another monitor now that Lauren was covered up.

  Bud’s face was grim. “What a fuckup. My guy has been conducting an undercover investigation into the ‘accident.’ He sent two of his men to ask some questions of Jorge Guttierez. He saw signs right away that there’d been a coverup. Evidence lost, interviews misfiled. The guy who covered it up is retired, has half a mil in his bank account, right there for anyone with a warrant to see. Moron. Turns out judges in Palm Beach are very sensitive to police corruption, so a warrant to search the premises of the Guttierez household was easy to obtain. And the bad cop is no longer enjoying golf but is now under indictment, and if found guilty, which the fucker is, I’d bet my pension on it, he’ll spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars.

  “So long story short, this morni
ng PBPD sends two officers to question our guy Jorge, who apparently was coked to the gills. And the fucker opened fire, can you believe that? We have an officer down, he’s now in surgery. There’s a chance he can make it. The other officer called it in and there’s a SWAT team there now.”

  Lauren was watching the computer monitor intently. “Jorge’s crazy, Bud. Please tell the team to be careful. He’s got an army in there.”

  Jacko hooked an arm around her shoulders, kissed her hair. Telling a SWAT team to be careful was perfectly useless. “These guys know what they’re doing, honey. Don’t worry about them. They’re trained for this.”

  The feed switched back to the helicopter footage. An army of SWAT team members, looking like heavily armed ants, crouched in a perimeter surrounding the house. No sound could be picked up but Jacko could write the playbook for them. There was a fusillade that barely registered as distant pops over the noise of the helicopter, and Jacko knew it would be covering fire for flashbangs.

  There you go. Two black-suited helmeted SWAT guys in front and two in back lobbed what looked like tin cans into the ground floor. A flash of light and streams of heat-distorted air and the SWAT guys rushed the place.

  The feed switched to the bimbo anchor woman whose expression had sharpened—live fire! Maybe dead bodies! Live, on air! She was in anchor heaven, bleating. She had nothing to say but was saying a lot of it.

  “Please, let the officers be safe,” Lauren whispered. She looked up at him, face pale. “Jorge’s such a whack job. And he takes drugs. No telling what he’ll do.”

  Jacko didn’t answer. The SWAT team undoubtedly knew what it was doing. They’d be really competent guys, really well-trained. But shit happened. For all he knew a drugged-out paranoid fuckhead could even have the place wired to blow.

  It wasn’t over until it was over.

  So he didn’t try to reassure her again. They simply watched the monitor, listening to the pop pop pop of small arms fire and the ziipp of automatic weaponry.

  Suddenly, there was silence.

  “It’s over,” Bud said over the speakerphone. He was clearly on a direct feed with PBPD. “Asshole thinks he’s in some kind of movie like Scarface or something. Wait.” On the video feed Bud pressed a finger to his ear, suddenly breaking out in a smile. “Fuckhead’s down! Sorry about the language, Lauren. Jorge Guttierez is dead. Smoked. Caught thirteen bullets. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. They found two underage girls tied to a bed and enough cocaine in the room to choke a horse. Eight of his henchmen are down, another two surrendered and are going away for a long, long time. You don’t shoot at cops and walk. And my guy inside PBPD has a real jones for pedophiles. Likes to put them away forever, so his goons are never getting out. Ever. So, Lauren, looks like your troubles are over. I’ll meet you guys at ASI in half an hour.”