Family Pride (Blood of the Pride) (15 page)

Stacy let out something akin to a peep.

He gave her another killer smile. “You’ll understand we want to handle this as quietly as possible.”

“Oh yes,” Stacy agreed.

“My apologies for the deception,” Bran said. “I didn’t want to cast aspersions on Mr. Shaw until we verified he was the actual criminal.” He gave a noncommittal shrug. “For all we know he won a lottery.”

“But you can’t find him.” Stacy looked from one of us to the other. “Doesn’t it confirm he’s the thief?”

“Not really.” I leaped in to try to save the conversation. “He could be on a bender drinking away his winnings. You understand we don’t want to make any accusations until we have more than just vague theories to go on. Not to mention the embarrassment to the center here if we wrongly accused him and it got leaked to the press.”

A flash of panic in her eyes told me I’d said the right thing.

“We’ve got to get going.” I slipped my business card across the top of the photographs. “Please call us if you hear anything about Mr. Shaw.”

Like, say, his death.

She added the card to the folder before closing it up and placing it back atop the precariously teetering stack. “I can’t believe Keith would steal someone’s wallet.”

“Why?” Bran asked as we stood up.

“Because he’s a paroled murderer. This would put him back in jail for the rest of his term.” Stacy covered her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I should have said that.”

“I think it’s okay,” I said.

* * *

Bran looked over at the shippers as we made our way to the front of the kitchen. They were busy emptying a truck that had arrived while we were in Hampton’s office. The forklift spun around, neatly depositing a half-full skid of plastic boxes in a corner. The other men stripped the shrink-wrap away and sorted through the canned vegetables.

“Think they know anything?” Bran asked.

I hesitated. “I don’t think Shaw was into sharing—if he brought one of these guys in they’d demand a share and wouldn’t be here.” I winced as the forklift tines screeched for oil.

Bran led me through the front eating area. I could almost hear his teeth grinding.

It wasn’t proof either way but it was a link between Shaw and the Hanovers. Brayton was nothing but a sheep being led to slaughter on the Hanover altar.

“Now where to?” Bran put his hands on his hips. A homeless man started to approach us, hand out, but spotted Bran’s annoyed expression and paused, unsure what to do.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “The important thing is that Liam’s safe.” I dug in my pocket for some spare change, finding a few gold-colored dollar coins. I flipped them toward the man with a wan grin. He scooped them up and scampered into a nearby alley.

“For how long?” Bran kicked at a stone. It bounced into the street and off a moving car, causing a dent or at the least, a scratch. “Jess can’t keep him forever.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, running through our options.

They ranged from few to none.

Bran’s cell phone rang.

We both jumped.

Bran dug his phone out of a pocket. He looked at the caller ID and went pale.

“My father.”

I drew a deep breath. “Your call. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

His fingers hovered over the small screen. “I don’t know what to say to him.”

“Don’t say anything,” I prompted. “Let him lead the conversation. Let him call the shots.”

He touched the clear surface and laid the phone down on his palm so we both could hear.

“Dad.” His tone was calm and steady. “What’s up?”

I moved in and touched Bran’s shoulder. There was no way I could imagine the emotions rushing through his system right now and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. It was one thing to be told you had a half brother and quite another to hold him in your arms and know there was another connection to your lifeline, another link in your family chain.

“Good morning.” Michael’s tone was low and calm. “How are you and Rebecca doing today?”

“Fine, thank you.” Bran glanced at me and shrugged.

“My assistant told me you called her regarding a charity front. What’s that all about?”

Bran hesitated, long enough for his father to pick up on it. Michael Hanover hadn’t made his money by being dim. “A story idea. You know how these things go.”

“I see. Did you meet Rebecca yesterday?” Smooth as silk and sweet as cotton candy. Now I knew where Bran got his charm.

Bran threw me a look. “Yes, I did. We’ve been chatting.”

“Really.” The calmness made my skin crawl. “What about?”

A streetcar rumbled by, the long extended body painted in red and white. It came to a shuddering stop not far from us and discharged a pair of shabbily dressed men who quickly walked away from us. One cast a glance over his shoulder, assessing our potential for future interaction.

I scowled at him.

Bran didn’t notice or didn’t care. “About you blackmailing her into doing some work for you.”

Michael snorted. “Blackmail is a very strong word, son. I wouldn’t toss it around unless you have something to back it up.” His voice deepened. “Or something to hide.”

“She’s not hiding anything from me.”

“Are you sure?” Michael purred like a lion playing with a mouse. “How well do you know Rebecca Desjardin?”

“Well enough,” Bran snapped back. “I want you to stay out of my personal business.”

“Your business is my business. As long as you take my money.”

I winced. I knew Bran wasn’t financially independent—his reputation as a serious journalist was growing but a freelance writer only got paid per story, nothing guaranteed from week to week, month to month. He’d managed to snag some good paychecks as of late but it didn’t cover the amount of money he’d been tossing around since we’d been together.

I wasn’t the only one being blackmailed here.

“Where are you right now?” Michael asked.

“We’re hanging at a diner on Queen Street. Got some great steak and eggs,” Bran lied without missing a beat. “Talking things over. She’s upset with the way things went yesterday.”

“I understand. And believe me, I didn’t mean for it to get so...complicated for her. I can’t imagine the shock of finding a dead body and then having to deal with the police.” I could imagine him wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I hope she’s coping.”

“She’s doing as well as can be expected.”

“Good. I hope she’s had a chance to consider and can see things from my point of view,” Michael said. “I understand it’s rough with her, coming from such a disadvantaged family, to understand how things work for us.”

“What do you mean?” Bran asked.

I could imagine Michael Hanover sitting behind the oak desk, studying the photographs on his wall. “I understand it’s her job to be suspicious but I hope she’s not going to be silly and take her wild theories to the authorities.”

“What wild theories?” Bran asked.

I heard the hitch in Michael’s voice. He didn’t want to bring Bran into this but if he wanted to secure my total silence he had to.

“That I’m somehow more involved with this than I already am. I told the police everything—about how Brayton needed a discreet courier and I connected the two. Nothing more.”

Michael wasn’t stupid. He was worried about his line being tapped. A bit paranoid, but he hadn’t gotten to where he was by trusting people to stay silent.

“So she’s told me,” Bran replied coolly.

“I assume you don’t agree with her.”

“Reb has a different way of seeing things.” He reached out and tapped the edge of my nose. I responded with a smile despite the situation.

“She’s got to understand how things work in our family, Bran.” Michael’s tone grew harder. “If you expect us to accept her fully you’re going to have to keep her under control. She’s got to learn to know what to say in public and what stays behind closed doors.”

“Like Mom does?” Bran barked. “Letting you screw around behind her back, doing any woman who’s stupid enough to spread her legs for you?”

The men on the bench shuffled away at hearing his raised voice.

“Bran—”

“No. No no no.” Bran punched an invisible speed bag. “We are not going to do this over the phone. Come over to Reb’s place and we can talk about this.”

My stomach lurched. I didn’t want to be standing between Bran and his father. Having lost my own at a young age I couldn’t bear to be the reason their relationship fractured.

“Rebecca’s place?” Michael asked. “Why there?”

“Because I said so. We need to talk and I’m sure you don’t want me tearing up your office in front of all your employees.”

I couldn’t fault his logic. His father wouldn’t be at ease in public and definitely not at work. At least if he came to the house he’d be on my turf and we’d be able to deal with him without outside intervention.

“Okay. I’ll be there within the hour.” He hesitated. “It goes without saying I expect no tomfoolery from you.”

Tomfoolery?
I mouthed the word.

Bran snorted. “Like what? Having the cops hide in the closet like some cheap detective novel?”

I bit my tongue. It wasn’t all that bad an idea.

Except Hank would kill me for asking.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Michael replied. “All I’m asking is that you allow me to present my view of the situation.”

Bran shook his head. “See you then.” He cut the connection.

“What are you going to do?”

“I want to hear the truth. I’m not letting him threaten you. We’re no closer to getting any answers and I’m fucking tired of getting to the party a day late and a dollar short. He’ll tell me what we need to know about Liam and about Molly Callendar.”

“And what happens if you don’t like what you hear?” I said softly.

He gave a halfhearted shrug. “Won’t be the first time.” He looked around. “Where’s the streetcar stop?”

“Let’s walk out to Yonge Street.” I waited until we were well away from the soup kitchen before venturing into dangerous territory. “What are you going to say to your father?”

“I don’t know,” Bran admitted. His hands curled up into fists and uncurled, curled and uncurled. “I want to smack the shit out of him but it won’t change anything. Especially if he’s responsible for what happened to Molly.” He rubbed his palms on his jeans. “I don’t know what to do. I’d say for you to call Attersley but there’s nothing we can give him that won’t put you in jeopardy.” He shook his head, lips pressed together in a thin line. “I won’t let that happen.”

I took one of his hands and held it. “Just think before you act.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“One little incident and you’ve got me all figured out, eh?”

Bran swooped in for a kiss, soft and sweet. “Not a chance. And I hope to spend many more years trying to figure you out.” The loving tone was tempered with sadness. He’d lost something today and I had no idea how he’d cope or recover.

This love thing was tough.

Chapter Nine

The streetcar ride was fast enough—we’d caught a straggling rush hour car and it surged along the tracks, dropping us near the house within the half hour.

“How fast can your father drive?” I wheezed as I trotted along, trying to keep up with Bran’s long strides.

“He has a driver. Probably sitting on the Gardiner in traffic.” He turned into the small yard. The rosebushes struggling to survive at the front jabbed out at us with fresh thorns as we brushed by and headed for the front door.

I worked on the deadbolt. Not that it stopped certain people from gaining access but I had to put up at least a façade of home security.

“What do you want me to do?” Bran asked.

I gave him a blank look. “What?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to do whatever you feel is right for you and for Liam.” I pushed the door open. “We’ll make do with the rest.”

Jazz strolled by us and hopped up on the couch, oblivious to the drama happening around her.

Bran let his breath out slowly. “Sometimes I envy that cat.”

I chuckled. “You’d like to be coughing up hairballs?”

“Not so much.”

“Do you want me to try and tape this?” I had an ancient cassette recorder in the bottom of my desk. I wasn’t even sure if it still worked.

Bran shook his head. “Not admissible in court unless both parties know they’re being taped. And I can promise you my father won’t give permission.” He smiled and held up his cell phone. “If I wanted to I could do it with this. But it’d still be inadmissible.”

I resisted the urge to slap my forehead. I hadn’t figured out all the bits and pieces of this new phone.

“I’ll make some tea.” I headed for the kitchen, grateful to keep my hands busy. There was no way this meeting was going to end well.

All I could hope for was that the damage wasn’t permanent.

I heard the limo before Bran did, the low hum of the finely tuned engine a distinct sound in this area.

I listened. One set of footsteps coming toward the house.

Inside I breathed a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have put it past Michael to bring a whole troop of security thugs to make his point. I wasn’t prepared for a fight but I’d make them all bleed for it.

“He’s here.” I headed for the door. “Alone.”

“Good,” Bran answered. He rubbed his palms on his jeans.

I put on my neutral face and opened the door.

Michael Hanover stood there, his attention everywhere but on me. His eyes kept darting around the front yard as if zombies were about to rise up and eat him.

He should be so lucky.

Behind him the elderly white-haired driver leaned on the hood of the black stretch limousine reading a magazine.

“Rebecca. Brandon.” Michael wore another power suit, gray with a white shirt and salmon-colored tie. His hair was perfect, the gray spots at his temples carefully brushed into the short red strands. “May I come in?”

For a second I thought about slamming the door in his face with a laugh. That, or punching him in the face, laughing and
then
slamming the door.

“Rebecca,” Bran said behind me.

I put away the fantasies and stepped back to let him enter.

Michael Hanover moved to the center of the living room. His body language told me he didn’t want to be here.

I left the door unlocked. If we needed police or an ambulance I didn’t need the extra trouble of having to release the deadbolts again.

As far as I was concerned the danger was inside right now, not outside.

Michael looked around the living room with a nervous glance.

“Just us,” Bran said, guessing at the reason.

“Good.”

I headed for the couch and sat down.

The two men stayed silent. This wasn’t going to be easy or quick.

Jazz trilled, then nudged my hand and lay down beside me, letting out a demanding merp. I patted her head and reached for the ever-present packet of cat treats on the unbroken side table.

Bran didn’t look over.

It was like watching a young lion and an old lion jousting for leadership. Bran rubbed his chin, unwilling or unable to sit down while Michael took up a position in the center of the living room, arms crossed, waiting for something.

Michael loosened his tie and cleared his throat with something close to a cough.

Jazz, sensing the tension, scooted up the stairs with a last nudge of her cold clammy nose on my hand.

“I’m not sure where to start,” the elder Hanover mumbled.

Bran stayed silent.

I got up and perched myself on the edge of the sofa and spun an imaginary wheel with my fingers. “Let’s begin with you blackmailing me last night.”

Michael glared at me. “I don’t like that word.”

“I don’t like being threatened. So now we’re equal.”

The elder Hanover eyeballed me, searching for a weakness. I knew he was looking for a way to break through my armor and make me bend to his will.

“Don’t even try. You don’t have enough mojo to get out of this.” I let a snarl creep into my voice. I was tired of parents and family. “At the start you pulled me into this because you wanted to have no paper trail leading back to you and your associates. The sad thing is I might have done it for nothing if you’d asked nicely. Instead you threaten to fuck me over by digging up my family tree,” I rumbled. “And trust me—you wouldn’t be happy with the results of your excavation. Some roots are better left unearthed.”

Michael crossed his arms. “Maybe I should send in the diggers regardless of what happens here.”

I wagged my finger in the air. “I wouldn’t. Not unless you want to be responsible for more deaths.”

That earned me a frown and a cautious look before the stoic mask returned.

I didn’t flinch. I already felt partially responsible for Callendar’s death—I couldn’t allow myself to get wrapped up in emotional bondage again.

“Who is Molly Callendar?” Bran growled. I heard the anger and sadness in his voice battling for control.

Michael looked over. “A woman.” The dismissive tone sent my pulse skyrocketing. “A temp who worked in my office, doing paperwork and the like.” He waved his hand to the side. “No one special.”

Bran slapped his hand down on the remaining side table, making me jump. It sounded like a rifle going off. “She’s the fucking mother of your son.”

Michael’s response didn’t change. He didn’t break into tears or start raging. I could almost see the computer inside his mind weighing what to say and how to look while saying it.

He was a pro at keeping secrets.

“Says who? You? The police?” His tone shifted to dismissive. “Rebecca here, of the mysterious past and less than reputable employment?” He scowled at Bran. “Who says the baby’s mine?”

“Is he?” Bran stopped pacing and faced his father. “Is Liam your son?”

“Where did you get such a crazy idea?” Michael nodded in my direction. “Did she put you up to this?” He gave Bran a predatory look. “What’s your game here?”

“Is Liam your son?”

“Looks to me like you’ve already made up your mind,” Michael shot back. “What wild theories are spinning around in that brain of yours? What crazed, warped worlds are you wandering through right now?” He gave me a sideways glance. “Did she give you some sort of drug? Are you drinking too much?”

Bran wasn’t going to be diverted from his mission. “Molly Callendar’s baby. Is he your son?”

Michael glared at me, hoping for a better reaction. “What have you put into his head?”

“Nothing but the truth,” I replied in as calm a voice as I could muster. Part of me wanted to jump up and claw his face to shreds, pound that smug smile into snail snot for what he was putting my mate through.

The other, saner part, reminded me this wasn’t my fight. I couldn’t fight Bran’s battles and he couldn’t fight mine.

Didn’t mean I couldn’t be ready to jump in if needed.

“Is he your son?” Bran repeated through clenched teeth.

Michael let out a sigh. “Brandon, don’t be such a drama queen.” He studied his well-manicured fingernails. “You make it sound like it’s something important.”

Bran moved in on his father, charging into his personal space. “Molly Callendar is dead and I think you’re responsible.”

Michael tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, ignoring the challenge. “Oh, do you?” He sneered at me. “And why would I have your girlfriend run papers back and forth if I were going to kill Molly Callendar?”

I noted he’d already placed himself at the center of the murder conspiracy. “You had David Brayton play the role of Callendar’s ex-lover to keep you out of the picture.” I kept spinning the scenario. “You asked him to pretend to be the father and arrange for the payoff to Molly and Liam.”

“Liam,” Michael Hanover repeated, rolling the word out far longer than he should have. “Nice name.”

I ignored him. “Brayton negotiated a good deal for her and she agreed to keep everything secret. But maybe sometime between me returning to Brayton’s office and going back with new terms she changed her mind. Perhaps she decided she wasn’t happy with the idea of leaving town and starting a new life elsewhere.” I tried to keep the snarl out of my voice, only partially succeeding. “Maybe Molly flinched, didn’t want to leave her family and friends in order to live a lie out west. Possibly she called you up direct and asked for more money, maybe she asked for official recognition for Liam and inclusion in your family tree, something you weren’t prepared to deliver.” I paused, breathless from running down the theories.

“Maybe dwarves came up from their underground caves and killed her for not agreeing to marry their evil king,” Michael drawled.

I looked at Bran. We were spinning our wheels and going nowhere fast.

“Such a wild theory.” Michael crossed his arms, feet anchored to the floor. “And your proof is...” His eyes bored into mine like a diamond drill. Here was a man who’d withstood legal questioning on financial affairs and had dozens of expensive lawyers on speed dial. He wasn’t going to break down on my watch.

Mentally I stuttered, smashing into the invisible wall.

Bran moved in to save me. “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see the resemblance, Dad.” He held up his hands, his voice suddenly soft and gentle. “I held him. He’s adorable and has red hair and the cutest wee eyes.”

Michael drew a sharp breath, something almost like a gasp.

Bran’s voice went up a notch. “Did you ever see him? Did you ever hold him?”

The mask fell back into place. Michael’s features hardened. “Of course not. Why would I?”

Bran stuttered through the reply, shocked. “Because he’s your son. My brother.”

“Technically he would be your half brother,” Michael corrected him. “And what makes you think he’s even that?”

I resisted the urge to squirm off the edge of the sofa. We were wandering into the danger zone.

“He looks like you. Like me,” Bran said.

Michael huffed. “Bullshit. You looked like a turnip when you were born. Didn’t make me think your mother banged a farm wagon.”

Bran glanced at me. It was enough to redirect his father to a new target.

“Rebecca.” Michael turned away from Bran, zeroing in on me. “What makes you think he’s my son?”

“Brayton’s a bad liar. So was Molly.” I gestured at Bran. “Ask him—I can smell a lie a mile away. It’s my job.” I kept talking, waiting for signs the story was taking hold. “Let me lay it out for you. You ask for a favor, albeit blackmailing me for it. I trot over to Brayton’s office and he spins a tale for me about his wife and a secret lover and a baby.” I glared at the older man. “You don’t think I’ve seen someone lie for a friend before? He blusters and blathers and flaps his arms like he’s about to take flight. I’ve seen—” I coughed.

I was about to say crib brothers.

I doubted he’d understand a Felis reference.

“I’ve seen family lie for family and friends lie for friends. I don’t know what you’ve got on Brayton but he’s not as good a liar as you are.”

His eyes narrowed. He was buying some of it but not all.

I bit my tongue to keep the urge to tell him it’d taken seconds to scent his paternity on Liam’s wee little body. My theory would have to be enough to convince him—one Hanover knowing about the Felis was enough. I couldn’t afford to say more and at this point I didn’t give a rat’s ass if he believed me or not.

I sneaked a glance at Bran. You could bounce a coin off his shoulders, the tension pulling the shirt so tight across his frame.

“But it’s all gone belly-up and now the question you have to ask yourself now is, will Brayton take the fall for you? It’s one thing to play the jilted lover, the single father sending monthly checks to his son. Quite another to go down on a murder rap for killing Molly Callendar. Maybe he’s your best friend, maybe you’ve got dirt on him. Maybe he owes you a big favor for all those years of making money and squirreling it away in offshore accounts. But is it enough to keep him quiet through a murder trial and prison? Or is he going to jump at the chance to cut a deal and throw you to the wolves to save his own skin?”

Michael’s face armor faltered for a second before hardening again. But it was enough to let me see the cracks.

I stayed on the offensive.

“Brayton’s going to get one of the best defense lawyers and those men and women don’t flinch at digging up bodies to save their clients. She’s going to ask questions and check schedules and use all her resources to establish an alibi for Brayton and throw the jury off his trail. Question is, what will the hunters find when they start following the trail back through Hanover Investments?”

Michael cleared his throat. It sounded like a rifle shot in the silence.

I kept going. “I can tell you what they’ll find. They’ll find whoever was paid to kill Molly. People talk, people gossip—and when there’s a baby missing people tend to throw everyone under the bus to keep a child safe. When they find Molly’s killer is he going to point the finger at your or at Brayton? Did you pay him enough to keep quiet through a murder and kidnapping rap or is he going to roll for a few years off his sentence?”

I knew Shaw was dead but he didn’t. Easier to let him believe Shaw could be found and flipped for a plea deal.