Deadly Rumors Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I can’t believe you brought Grandfather.” Kelsey crossed her arms over her stomach, feeling like the woman she’d trusted all her life had sucker punched her.

  Martha made a helpless gesture, but a swell of voices from the crowd on the other side of the auditorium’s thick curtain drowned out her explanation. They both looked at the curtain’s stained back.

  After the wave of sound subsided, Kelsey said, “How did he find out about tonight’s rally?” She tried to keep her tone interested instead of accusing.

  Martha gave Pearson Brady a significant look. “He phoned yesterday.” Kelsey glared at the silver fox’s impeccably tailored pin-strip suit. Kelsey sharply inhaled. “He invited Calhoun to speak along with you.” Martha's gaze moved to her grandfather and softened. “The real question is how he managed to remember tonight’s engagement for over twenty-four hours.”

  The last thing Kelsey's brother needed was their dementia-plagued grandfather stepping in to help campaign. “Does he realize this is Ramsey’s campaign for Senate or does he think he’s still in office and running for reelection?”

  Martha made a helpless gesture. "All I know is that those two old coots can't stand the idea of a female doing a 'man's job'. The only thing worse is that you're doing so good."

  Kelsey narrowed her gaze on her grandfather, whose bright eyes belied the fact that half of the time he didn’t know what decade it was or who he was talking to. His decline had begun the day, perhaps even the minute her grandmother had died. Initially, she’d thought his mental lapses were grief induced, but it soon became apparent something drastic had happened to his once razor-sharp mind. “Has he taken his medication?” Martha nodded. Kelsey dared to hope that the evening could turn out well. “Perhaps it’s a good thing Pearson called. If his mind stays on the subject, instead of waltzing off on a tangent, Grandfather’s support would be the best assistance Ramsey could hope for.”

  Martha snorted. “You’re the one who held his campaign together while he mourned.” Kelsey blinked, at Martha’s judgmental tone. It wasn’t as if Rams could have campaigned from his hospital bed. In fact, it was a miracle that the freak accident hadn’t killed him as well as his wife and daughter. “Of course, I’m still amazed that you did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Stepped in like you have.” Martha gestured toward the curtain. “I know how much you dislike being the center of attention.”

  “You knew?” Kelsey asked. Martha gave a tiny smile as she nodded. “You realized public speaking has always been my worst fear?”

  Martha shook her head. "Just knew how you were raised to think men were kings and us women were peons." She narrowed her eyes. "How did you get past your phobia?"

  Kelsey helplessly put up her hands. “Getting that jerk out of office is very motivating.” Thinking of Marvin Frederickson, who had succeeded her grandfather, brought a wave of anger. “In the four decades he held the senate seat, Grandfather always put the voters first.”

  “He was – is - a good man. Some still think he should have stayed in office after your grandmother died.”

  “Well, he didn’t.” Instead, he had encouraged his assistant to run and once Marvin won, everyone in their family had been shocked over his change of attitude. Whatever else anyone could say, the man was a good actor.

  Martha spat at the curtain. Within his first term, Marvin Frederickson switched parties and tore down forty-two years of policies her grandfather had painstakingly built to protect the people of North Carolina. It was time to get a MacLennan, who cared about the constituency back in office. She hoped the voters had figured out how two-faced Frederickson was. If the polls could be believed, Ramsey’s percentage had risen nearly thirty percent, since the accident. She frowned. While she hoped there wouldn’t be another fatal accident and she wouldn’t have to wear black much longer, Abby and Jen’s deaths had helped in an odd way. Voters were often fickle and the election was mere weeks away, how long would the sympathy votes persevere?

  Probably not much longer, so anything could happen between now and then.

  “Welcome, everyone.” Pearson Brady’s deep southern drawl seemed to ooze through the high school’s thick curtain. “I’ve got an extra treat for you this evening. Calhoun MacLennan.” Head high, her grandfather slipped through the gap in the curtains. A rolling thunder of applause greeted him.

  “Now if he can just stay focused on the issues and remember Ramsey is actually the one running,” Kelsey said.

  Martha nodded. “I wonder why Ramsey didn’t come, himself.” Her brow furrowed. “He’s been out of the hospital for almost two weeks, yet you’re still filling in for him.”

  “He says he can’t stand for very long,” Kelsey said.

  “And you believe that?”

  Gooseflesh quivered over her arms. “Is there something I should know?” Martha shrugged. “What?" Kelsey demanded; daring her to articulate the rumors that the accident had either been a suicide or murder attempt. When Martha refused to say anything, Kelsey admitted, “I think he lost his center when Abby died. I think he’s holds himself at fault for the accident.” Her biggest fear was that her brother might be starting to slip away, like their grandfather.

  “How will he be in office, dealing with big issues if he can’t get past his own personal problems?”

  Kelsey looked hard at Martha. “Believe me when I tell you that I know how fragile he is, but he’s a MacLennan and we recover.” She had to believe that for everyone's sake. Six weeks ago, he was lying in the hospital fighting for his life; five weeks ago, she, her grandfather and Martha stood shoulder to shoulder at the graveyard. Tears blurred her vision and chocked her.

  “I know.” Martha squeezed her hand.

  Kelsey swallowed. “Four weeks ago, Ramsey woke from that coma and faced the reality that he’d lost the two people he loved most and the fact that he might never walk again.” She swallowed. “A week after that, he took his first step. He’s conquering the physical stuff, it’s just taking a little longer to deal with the rest.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  Martha shook her head. “I think he wanted to make the world a better place for Jen and without her to build a future for he’s lost.” Martha fixed her with a firm look. “And I don’t think he’ll recover from her death by the election, if ever.”

  “There are lots of other kids to make a better world for. They deserve a decent place to grow just as much as Jen did.”

  “I know that. And you know that. Perhaps Calhoun even remembers that, but, right now, I don’t think Ramsey sees anything but his loss.”

  Kelsey hoped that she hadn’t put aside her fear of speaking in public for all these engagements, just to have her brother lose to Frederickson, who seemed to be making every effort to return their district to the Dark Ages.

  ooo

  “So you’re really going through with this.” Quinn swiveled his wheelchair away from the row of black and white monitors and glared at him. Doran inclined his head, while he searched his best pal’s worried expression. Quinn looked up at the van’s ceiling. “Even though Wes hasn’t given us an official authorization.”

  This wouldn’t be the first time they had used unorthodox methods, so why had his partner suddenly gone soft? “We’ve never worried about having everything signed, sealed and perfectly punctuated, before.” Quinn scowled. Doran added, “As long as every document is perfect when we present the case to the prosecutor, does it really matter if the timeline on when we begin as compared to our authorization is hazy? This time the red tape snarl is just a little worse because of the politicians involved.”

  “Why does he want us to slap this op together so fast?�
� That question had bothered him, too. Uneasily, Doran shrugged his shoulders. Quinn barged on, “How about why the only input we’ve had from Wes have been undocumented conversations over supposedly non-existent scrambled lines?” Quinn’s mouth flattened.

  A knot of dread formed in his stomach, but he played it cool. “So?”

  “Something does not feel right about this.”

  Though a chill rippled over Doran, he tried not to show his anxiety. “Are you saying we should delay until the paperwork trail has all typos corrected?” Quinn shrugged. “How many times have we gotten ops stuck with red tape?” Quinn’s brow furrowed. While he mulled that one over, Doran added, “Wes asked us to expedite this, because his information indicated that they planned to make major changes shortly.”

  “My guts still don’t like it,” Quinn muttered. Doran swallowed as he recalled another time his best bud had an inexplicably accurate gut reaction and not listening had nearly cost him his life. “And I don’t like the way you’re ready to jump into this op, half prepared because someone who hasn’t worked outside his cozy office in the last decade says we have some sort of unprovable deadline.”

  “Why did you wait until now to say something?”

  Quinn’s mouth flattened. “If you’d listen to me, you’d have heard reservations from the moment Wes mentioned that bogus deadline. You'll get yourself killed going into that shark’s nest without full department backup.”

  Wes had called him earlier and said, ‘I don’t know anyone else I’d trust with this because the situation requires someone who isn’t greedy enough to be bought – someone who wasn’t afraid of the political clout – someone who doesn’t think the damned MacLennan Family are saints.’ Wes had paused to clear his throat. ‘Someone who knows firsthand that gorgeous women can have hearts of a snake. Someone who can focus on the object instead of get distracted by a woman’s charms.’ Doran wished he felt as confident about his invulnerability as Wes obviously did. Doran sighed. ”You don’t have to back me up.”

  Back stiff, Quinn swiveled his wheelchair to the bank of monitors. "Guess it won’t matter if we get killed, since I’m already half dead.” Quinn’s quiet proclamation raised the tiny hairs on the back of Doran's neck as it echoed through the surveillance van's shadowed interior. “I’ve watched you stare at the surveillance footage we got of her. Makes me think you’re thinking with the wrong head."

  Instead of pursuing the discussion and getting into a situation where he needed to lie, Doran plucked the photo of his kid sister from his wallet. Over the past decade, the paper had softened and Marnie’s image had developed a wrinkle in its corner, but her big blue-gray eyes still looked trustingly at him and her senseless death still infuriated him. He smoothed out the wrinkle then slipped her memory into the pocket of his black T-shirt. Having her likeness next to his heart felt right; particularly tonight, when he began this operation. If children couldn’t get the damned poison from parasites at the playground, then other brothers wouldn’t be haunted by memories of funerals or sickened by the scent of lilies. Doran squared his shoulders and steeled his resolve, then he slapped his billfold onto the surveillance van’s minuscule counter, next to his badge. The thump resounded in the tight surroundings with the finality of the jail-cell door he intended to slam on the MacLennans. “The flow of poison has to be shut down,” Doran said.

  Quinn grunted in agreement, but kept his attention on the screens. Doran lifted his chin; though the next phase of this operation wasn’t officially signed, sealed and sanctioned, he’d come too far to quit. Tonight, he would set in motion a plan to gain evidence on the drug ring. Eventually, they should be able to collect enough evidence to convict the scum.

  Doran looked over Quinn's tense shoulder at the infrared monitor, which showed a wide view of Kelsey MacLennan’s house and garage, then he looked at the other monitors. There was no sign of life on any of the screens.

  “What do you expect me to do with the information you and Wes gleaned on their cartel involvement?” Doran asked. When Quinn ignored him, he added, “I can’t sit back and do nothing when we’re so close to having solid evidence.”

  “There is no guarantee any of them will ever serve time. All they gotta do is figure out who else to nail and the fucking DA will roll over on his fucking back to give them immunity for their testimony.”

  Doran sighed at the way so many wealthy bastards got off scot-free. He shoved the palm-sized drill into his pant's pocket and deliberately secured the Velcro flap.

  “Worst thing the damned politicians ever came up with was the fucking witness protection program,” Quinn growled. “I’d like to know who thought that one up and if they really figured the slime-balls would go straight after they got the chance to build a new life.” Quinn twisted a dial. Green tinged the shades of gray and reflected off Quinn’s face, giving his rugged profile a sickly cast. Damn, he hated it when his partner started using the electronics to communicate his emotions.

  Doran swallowed a Tums, hoping it would silence both his qualms and his acid stomach. "The good thing about going after a high-profile family like the MacLennans is that they’re too superior to choose the program and become nobodies. And, if Wes is right about their distribution ring being on the fringes of Ling’s operation, we have the added bonus of knowing that Ling likes permanent solutions.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Quinn snapped as he gave Doran a look meant to remind him that Ling also knew exactly who they were and wanted them to have a 'permanent solution'.

  Doran ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. Ling’s pushers had spent over a decade lurking in schoolyards and getting kids hooked on poison. Wes believed the MacLennan political clout had protected the cartel for years, but beliefs did not get convictions, so he’d figured out a way to gain the evidence he needed for a jury and if the plan worked, all the key players would finally end up behind bars.

  “You’ve spent most of the last decade trying to stop Ling and that slippery bastard keeps getting away,” Quinn said. “Do you really think this cobbled-together op will finally give you vengeance for your sister?”

  “This hasn’t been about revenge in a long time.”

  Quinn glanced pointedly at the pocket covering Doran’s heart. His fingers dug into the black leather arm of the wheelchair he’d been forced to rely on since their last encounter with Ling’s alliance. His knuckles whitened. “You can’t change the past.”

  "I’m not trying to.” Doran adopted his most conciliatory tone. “I want to change the future.”

  Quinn took a deep breath, then relaxed his grip. He worked the kinks out of his hands, before he tweaked another button. The image of the vine-clad front porch turned into angry slashes of sickly green and black, which rolled discordantly over the screen. If Quinn had doubts, why hadn’t he spoken up sooner? Why continually claim to want a piece of the action, then wait until moments before they were ready to set their plan in motion to vent his doubts? As the silence lengthened, the pixels swirled faster.

  Doran rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. "We can spend the rest of our lives following a narrow-minded interpretation of the rules or we can die infiltrating his local operation." Doran’s right fist connected with his left palm. The smack echoed throughout the van like thunder. “The end justifies the means.” Mouth flat, Doran fastened his night vision goggles around his neck and adjusted his audio headset.

  Movements rigid with tension, Quinn calibrated an audio receiver. The call of a whippoorwill echoed hauntingly through the van. Finally, with nothing else to putter at, Quinn swiveled his wheelchair and faced Doran. ”Ling’s kind is why I signed on to begin with.” He sighed. “It’s still about the pushers, but now, I want revenge for my legs, too.” Quinn bit out each syllable. “There hasn’t been time to do a full analysis and there's only circumstantial evidence that the MacLennan chick is involved." Doran snorted. Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “She’s one hot number, and I’ve seen you watch her.”
r />   “I hear she’s an ice queen. I’ll probably get frost bite.” Preferably while warming her from the inside out.

  “More like she’s discriminating.”

  “Meaning Lancaster is her lover?” Doran asked. Quinn shook his head. “I heard that rumor and I’ll bet you did, too.”

  Quinn raised his gaze. “There’s a world of difference between urinal talk, what’s printed in the society column and a deposition,” Quinn said. Doran snorted. Quinn's mustache quivered. "Dev, I feel like we’re being setup, but I can’t figure out by who. I don’t want to think it’s Wes, but who else could it be?"

  Ling. Coldness settled in Doran’s stomach. “What exactly do you suspect? That Wes is throwing us to the cartel so he can pocket the reward?” That Ling had made a trail he knew they would follow, so he could finally have the satisfaction of killing them?

  “That much money can change values, particularly if you’re living on a government salary.” Quinn adjusted a knob. Kelsey's front porch replaced the rolling gray-green slashes.

  Doran's gaze dropped to Quinn's once muscular thighs, which were now an emaciated ruin beneath his faded Levi’s. Nothing had felt right since Quinn had shoved him out of the way of the bullet aimed at his heart. “If that’s what is going on, it’s my fault.”

  Quinn grunted in disagreement.

  “No, it's true. I was young, stupid, egotistical and gullible enough to believe screwing Pia would give me a gold-plated invite into daddy’s little cartel.” He sighed at the bitter memory of romancing a deadly viper like Pia Chen to get to daddy Ling. “I learned my lesson. I just wish you hadn’t paid the price of my stupidity ... if this is a setup, I want you out.”

  “You need to quit beating yourself up. I was team leader, the whole fiasco was my fault.”

  Doran stared at Quinn, shocked that after so long, they were actually talking about the debacle. “I told you to fuck her. If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have been there and we wouldn’t be analyzing the past.” Quinn closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “The MacLennan chick looks good.”