And now Charles cursed himself for not getting rid of her when he’d had the chance.
Switching to e-mail, he sent a message to his Ridgeway Consortium contact. First he wanted a physical description of Karen Hilliard. And her DNA—if he could get it.
Had she been working with the man who had blown himself up—along with Dr. Cortez? Or was she on a private mission?
Either way, he needed answers. And if he got the wrong one, he would have to take drastic action.
BRADY WATCHED GRACE Cunningham glare at him.
“I’m not telling you a ‘story,'” she said, punching out the words. “And you should believe me because I haven’t jumped out of the car and started running.”
“How about, you know, I’d catch you and bring you back.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She kept her gaze steady. “Tonight, your brother was in the office next door when he had a heart attack. After he died, Wickers told one of the agents to take the woman to the basement. While they were busy with her and with your brother, I managed to get out of the building.”
“You’ll pardon me if I’m having a little trouble connecting with this fantasy.”
She shifted in her seat. She might be spinning him a story, but she was scared of something—and not necessarily of him.
Then there was the logic of the situation. If she’d really been in the same room with John when he’d died, could she have gotten away?
He studied her face. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Had he seen her at one of the parties that John insisted on dragging him to? The parties where he watched people drinking cocktails and highballs.
She surprised him by saying, “Your brother spoke very highly of you.”
He snorted. “My job was taking care of business he didn’t want made public.”
“Then maybe you can do one last thing for him.”
“Which is?”
“Find out what really happened and expose the cover-up.”
He kept his gaze on her, hoping his posture gave nothing away. On the way to Grace’s apartment, he’d called Wickers, and the guy had blown him off. Maybe Grace Cunningham really was what he’d been praying for—to use a conventional phrase because he hadn’t prayed in years. If she was willing to tell the truth. But he wasn’t going to act too eager.
He lifted one shoulder. “Maybe it’s better to leave it the way it is.”
“You want Wickers and his pals to control the situation? When I got home—armed men were only a few minutes behind me. Then you came and rescued me.” She sighed. “Or maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe you’ve already pushed a secret buzzer on your cell phone, and they’re coming for me now.”
“Maybe,” he answered and watched her shoulders tighten.
“One woman’s already disappeared. The woman who was with your brother. Either she’s still in the basement of the Ridgeway Consortium, or they’ve taken her somewhere else. Or she’s already dead.”
“Dead! I’ve only got your word that she exists.”
She reached into the large purse that sat on her lap and pulled out an evening bag. “While the guards were busy, I took a big chance and grabbed this.”
When she laid it on the console next to him, he turned on the overhead light, then opened the bag. Inside was a wallet with a driver’s license belonging to someone named Karen Hilliard. There were also a couple of credit cards, a library card and an auto-club card. He held up the driver’s license. She was an attractive woman with large dark eyes, short cropped blond hair and a challenging look on her face. More John’s type. Just as with Grace Cunningham, he felt as if he knew her—only in this case, the conviction was even stronger.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know much about her.”
“This could belong to anyone,” he said.
“Sure. I made the whole thing up—to get myself off the hook.” She dragged in a breath. “There’s got to be a record of her entering the building. Oh, wait—they would have wiped it out.”
“Maybe we should have a talk with her.”
“If you can get into the Ridgeway Consortium basement—or wherever they’re holding her now. I could tell Wickers I know about her.”
“That might shorten your life.”
“You think your brother’s chief of staff is desperate enough to kill?”
“If he thinks it’s necessary.”
Brady knew John had hired Wickers for his expertise, and his ruthlessness. Him and that other guy, Phil Yarborough, who had a background working for a mercenary company that had gotten in trouble in Iraq. Neither man was going to give up anything he thought he could keep private.
He made a split-second decision. “Come back to my apartment and we’ll talk about it.” He hoped he wouldn’t be sorry.
Karen Hilliard looked around her bleak surroundings. She was huddled on a narrow bed in a storage room, but it might as well be a cell.
A guy named Phil Yarborough had already questioned her, and she’d stuck to her story about meeting John Ridgeway at a party and letting him seduce her. Yarborough hadn’t believed her. She hadn’t expected that he would. And she was braced for the interrogation to get rougher.
When the door opened, she willed herself to steadiness. Yarborough strode back into the basement room and slammed the door behind him. Crossing to her, he grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her to her feet.
“What the hell is going on?” he bellowed.
Determined not to let him scare her, she raised her chin. “I can’t answer that question until you tell me what you want to know—specifically.”
He took a breath as he struggled for calm. “We ran your fingerprints.”
“And?”
“They come up as a match for John Ridgeway.” When she didn’t deny it, he gave her a shake. “How did you manage it?”
“New technology.”
“Which is?”
She shrugged. “I’m not all that technical. I just follow directions.”
“So you’re admitting that somebody sent you here—to kill John Ridgeway.”
Okay, time for plan B.
“I’m
