Guarding His Midnight Witness Page 20

  “We suspect you’ve been his only client since he was disbarred, Greta,” Lt. Santos said. “Somehow he was able to keep that from you.”

  Jack didn’t offer to take her hand this time, he simply did. “Simone’s filed an order with the courts in New York requesting access to his home. She and Vince are flying back today to be on scene to act as representatives of this jurisdiction.”

  “Okay.” Greta didn’t understand. “But if he hasn’t worked at the firm for years, what is it you hope to find? What is it you aren’t telling me?”

  “The FBI is requesting to meet with me,” Lt. Santos said. “Mr. Thornwald has been under surveillance as part of an ongoing investigation regarding Paul Calhoun and the Mishenka crime family. Calhoun worked for Lyndon at the same law firm on and off over the years. The evidence seems to suggest that Calhoun was in on Lyndon’s thefts from the start. It may have all been his idea. There’s no real way of knowing now.”

  “We think Lyndon was hiding Calhoun’s stolen money in his clients’ accounts. At least in the accounts he once had access to. But as your account is the only one that’s been available to him for the past couple of years, it’s possible it’s been used as either a cleaning account for the family or as a hiding place. Which means the feds are going to put a freeze on your finances until we figure this out.”

  It served her right for turning a blind eye. For falling so deep into her own make-believe world she hadn’t paid any attention. It had all seemed above her. Or was that what Lyndon had told her? He didn’t want her to worry. He didn’t want to distract her from her art. And she’d been so caught up in her own fear, she’d never questioned any of it. “Was he stealing from me?”

  “It looks that way,” Cole said. “Simone’s in the process of gathering up all his banking and other financial records. We’ll get access to his computer and whatever else he has, don’t worry. We’ll need you to sign off on some things—”

  “Whatever you need.” Her mind whirled. All her properties, all her investments. Was any of it real? Did she still own any of it? “Wait a minute. What does this have to do with Doyle Fremont and what I saw in his office?” And why would Lyndon have been wearing a mask to make him appear to be the man she’d seen killed? Why was Lyndon dead? Why was Calhoun?

  Jack’s hand moved up and squeezed her shoulder. “We have evidence that Calhoun was the middleman between Fremont and the Mishenkas. They planned to invest in one of his start-ups, only the deal went south. Fremont needed to give back money he didn’t have. He knew Calhoun, Calhoun worked with Lyndon and Lyndon had access to one big account. Yours. And once Fremont got a taste of it, he wanted more. Needed more. Fremont is just about broke. He had to have the cash, and he wanted it from Lyndon. The only way for Lyndon to have complete control over that money was to get rid of you.”

  Greta closed her eyes. She didn’t want to hear any more. But she needed to know. “Who killed them? Calhoun and Lyn... Lyndon? Fremont or these Mishenka people?”

  “They aren’t going to hurt you, Greta.” Jack shook his head. “I’m not—we aren’t going to let them.”

  A knock sounded on the door. Greta jumped. Jack’s hand tightened reassuringly. Lt. Santos answered the knock, had a quick, low-toned conversation, then returned, a file folder in his hand. “Mona just gave me her initial report. She’s putting Calhoun’s time of death five to eight days ago. The water makes it a bit dodgy, but she’s pretty confident.”

  “That makes it well after Greta’s call to 9-1-1,” Jack said. “So it was Calhoun at the office but not at the gallery?”

  “Looks like. Calhoun’s cause of death?” Cole asked.

  “Broken hyoid.” Santos flipped through pages. “No other bruising other than this V-shaped mark. No handprint, so it wasn’t strangulation. Must be some kind of weapon, something hinged or—”

  “Fremont could have done it,” Jack said. “He’s an expert at Krav Maga. One strike like that wouldn’t be a problem for him. And it would explain why Greta didn’t see a gun or knife. Fremont is the weapon. But why the elaborate plot? Why not just kill her?”

  Greta shivered. The man who had raised her, the man who had been there to pull her out of that darkness one horrible night, the man who had told her everything was going to be okay had been plotting to get rid of her. She would have helped him. She would have given him whatever money he’d needed. All he’d had to do was ask.

  “Why go to all the trouble of Greta witnessing one murder, then seeing his ghost—”

  “My trust.” Greta felt the pieces slip together. And they all had dollar signs. “The trust says if I die or become incapable of signing documents, all the money goes to charity. All of it. But if I’m incapacitated or institutionalized—” her breath caught hard in her chest “—if I’m institutionalized, then all the money goes into a liquid account for my care. And Lyndon would have complete control and access.” All this time. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the tears escape. All this time he’d insisted he’d been protecting her, when all Lyndon wanted was for her to slip over that edge of sanity just like her mother.

  “You mean they were trying to drive you mad?” Lt. Santos said. “That seems a lot more difficult than planning a murder to me.”

  “It would be.” She swiped at the tears, her head dipped so she wouldn’t have to look at Jack. “Unless there’s a history of severe mental illness in your family.”

  The silence in the room hurt her ears.

  “This has to do with why you changed your name.” Jack released her arm, and for an instant, she felt cold and alone. Until his hand sank into her hair, cupped her face. “Greta, there’s no reason for secrets anymore. They can’t do any damage at this point. What happened, who you are, it won’t change how I feel about you.”

  Wouldn’t it? Would he ever look at her the same? Would he ever say her name and wonder if maybe this was the day she didn’t know him, remember him? Love him?

  “We can leave, if it would be easier.”

  “No.” Greta managed a weak smile at Cole for offering. “No, I’d rather not go into it more than once. But if Allie’s still here, she might be able to help me explain some things.”

  “I’ll get her.” Cole left the room and returned a few minutes later with both Allie and Eden. “Okay?”

  “Yeah.” She found Eden’s calm, almost unreadable demeanor a comfort. When the door closed, she took a deep breath. “My real name is Genevra Lamont. My parents were Serena and Anthony Lamont. I think some of you might have heard of them.”

  “Hollywood power couple in the late eighties, early nineties,” Cole explained at Lt. Santos’s blank look. “They both met a pretty horrible end, if I remember.”

  “They did.” Greta nodded. “I always knew my mother had problems. My father often tried to explain, but what do you tell a child about mental illness? I just remember him saying she had good days and bad, and that sometimes she needed to spend time away, where she couldn’t hurt herself or anyone else. I remember that last year she was gone for a long time, but when she came back, she was different. Happy. Beautiful. She had this long, silver-blond hair and this silk dressing gown, shiny white. We used to play dress-up, and she’d pretend to be Veronica Lake or Gene Harlow. She loved classic movies, which is why my father wanted to direct her in Midnight Witness and, given his recent success, he was given the okay.

  “It was a new writer, a new type of movie, and my mother was so excited. She was on top of the world. And then, the night of the premiere, I remember I was in bed when they got home. I heard a crash, screaming, yelling. And voices. So many voices.”

  “Greta, you don’t have to do this.” Allie bent down and took hold of her hand. “You don’t have to—”

  “But I do. Because I never have. I’ve never told anyone...” And maybe if she had, then none of this would be happening now. Maybe if she hadn’t let herself believe no one wo
uld ever understand, life would have been different. “I remember standing on the steps and seeing my father lying on the floor of the living room, a jagged piece of glass from the table sticking out of his chest. And my mother, standing over him, her hands covered in blood. I knew enough to call 9-1-1, but after that, I only know what people told me.

  “That the paramedics found me standing barefoot in my father’s blood. That the police took my mother away, but when she realized what she’d done, she killed herself. Uncle Lyndon was my father’s best friend. All of my grandparents were gone, and both my mother and father were only children. He took me in without a second thought. He took care of the funerals and the house, and he brought my nanny and made me feel safe again. Kept me away from the media circus, and then, when I was old enough, he sent me to boarding school so I could put it all behind me.” Anger spiked through the grief. “And now I find out that all this time, all he cared about was my money. All he wanted...” Had he ever cared for her at all? Was there anyone she could trust?

  Eden said, “None of this explains why Lyndon thought he could—”

  “I found out later my mother wasn’t the first in the family to suffer from mental illness. My great-grandmother had been committed to an asylum when she was in her late thirties. My grandmother at around the same age. It doesn’t take much to see the pattern. Driving me mad, making me think I saw something that I didn’t, making me think a dead man was still alive—Lyndon was counting on my fear of me turning into my mother. And what jury would believe me if the case went to court? I was discredited before this even started. Lyndon knew me too well. He knew I’d go willingly myself before I’d take the chance of ever hurting anyone. And once I did that, he’d have everything he wanted.”

  Suddenly Jack’s hand felt hot on her skin. She couldn’t look at him. Didn’t want to see the disappointment, the shock on his face.

  “That’s why I was so adamant about what I had seen that night,” she whispered. “I didn’t just need the police to believe me, I needed to believe myself. But I didn’t see this, did I? I didn’t see the truth.”

  “You saw what they wanted you to see,” Allie insisted. “You’re a victim in all this, Greta. And there’s nothing to blame yourself for. If anything, they underestimated you. They probably didn’t count on you calling the police.”

  “None of this was about Calhoun or the Mishenkas,” Cole said. “This was all about Greta and getting her money.”

  “Wouldn’t my mother be proud?” Greta tried to joke. “I’m the star of the show.” Was there anything she could believe in? Was there any part that wasn’t a lie? “I need to get out of here.” She shoved to her feet, stepped away from both Allie and Jack. “Unless there’s something else you need from me?”

  “No,” Lt. Santos said. “No, if we have any other questions, we’ll ask them later.”

  “Great. Thanks.” She hugged her arms around her waist and tucked in. When she lifted her head, Eden was watching her, eyes narrowed. Eden walked over, grabbed Greta’s wrists and pulled them apart, pushed her arms to her sides.

  “No more turtle-tucking,” Eden told her. “Contrary to what Allie said, you are not a victim. You are a survivor. You are a strong, capable, talented woman I admire more than I can say. Don’t you dare let anyone, especially Uncle Lyndon, take that away from you.” She looked hard into her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

  “I won’t,” Greta whispered. But she didn’t know how.

  Chapter 14

  “Do you have to get back to the station right away?”

  Greta dropped her bag and purse on the table as Jack closed the door behind them. “I have some time if you want to talk or—”

  Greta spun around, planted her hands on his shoulders, shoved him against the door. She kissed him. No, she didn’t just kiss him, he thought, she devoured him. Her mouth, her tongue, her entire body sank into him. He went hard instantly, all of the blood draining from his brain as she hooked her foot around the back of his leg and pressed against him.

  “I don’t want to talk.” She caught his lower lip between her teeth and bit. He gasped. “I don’t want to think.” Her hands dragged his shirt free of his pants, her fingers diving beneath to scrape against his bare skin. “I just want to feel. I want to feel you. On me.” She kissed him again. “Inside of me.” She shoved his jacket off his shoulders, then his shirt. Her hands, somewhat uncertain just last night, didn’t tremble. Didn’t hesitate. Not as she undid his pants. Not when her fingers slipped inside to grasp him.

  “Greta—” Pleasure ripped through him, a chain reaction he couldn’t and didn’t want to stop. He hissed out a breath through clenched teeth and tilted his head back as he felt her mouth go around him. He could feel the frenzy building inside of her, the way she moved her lips, her tongue, the way her hands manipulated, tightened and squeezed. He vibrated under her touch, the sensation coursing through him, reaching new heights when he dragged his head forward to watch her. When he came, she let out a gasp of part triumph, part ecstasy and looked up at him, the smile on her face one of promise. And in that moment, he knew he’d never wanted anyone more. He’d never loved anyone more.

  With a groan, he reached down, grabbed her arms and hauled her up. “You are one fast learner.”

  “I want more,” she murmured against his lips as she hitched her legs around his hips and locked her hands around his neck. “Give me more, Jack. Make me forget. Make me forget everything.”

  His hands held her hips as she ground against him. When he moved, he could only hope he could make it to the bedroom. When they did, when he lowered her onto the mattress and stripped them both bare, he knew there would only ever be Greta.

  * * *

  It was an odd feeling, Greta thought days later as she stood back to examine the array of paintings she’d chosen for the gallery showing. An odd feeling indeed to not know where the ideas, the images came from.

  She’d finished the final work, a completely new and different piece that stood both in stark contrast and in perfect harmony with the others. The pressure valve she’d been waiting to release hadn’t burst but had sighed, letting the residual energy and adrenaline slowly disperse, like steam through a tea spout. The last painting, Evergreen, was perfect, maybe the best thing she’d ever done, and contained every bit of anger, every bit of resentment, every bit of love she’d felt surge through her system when Jack touched her. Held her. Made love to her.

  He had opened unexpected and unexplored doors inside of her even as she’d closed them behind her. The morning he’d brought her home from the police station had given her what she’d needed to break through those final barriers of doubt, of fear and allowed her to accept the fact that she was, despite being hopelessly and utterly in love with him, destined to be alone.

  She set her brush down, carried the tray table over to the sink and turned the music down. The throbbing beat of techno-classical had given way to the soft, pan-flute sounds that facilitated her drift into the new world her mind had created. But now, she wanted silence. She needed the void around her so she wouldn’t make a mistake. This had to be done right. And it had to be done soon. Before walking away became impossible.

  The knock on the door didn’t surprise her. She’d been hearing it off and on over the past few days, when Jack—or Ashley or Yvette and one time even Bowie—had stepped inside to bring her food or tea or poked their heads in just to make sure she didn’t need anything else. She hadn’t locked her studio door. She’d never lock it again, and she was grateful these people in her life understood her need to be alone to work out everything that had gone wrong. It was Jack, however, she had the hardest time dealing with. Because he mattered the most.

  “Music’s off.” Jack leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “You must be done sulking.”

  “I haven’t been sulking.” She didn’t like the edge to her voice, but she attributed that to hunger
and lack of sleep. She tried not to notice how just the sight of him, barefoot, wearing simple jeans and a white T-shirt, hair falling nearly over one eye, was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. She couldn’t notice. She couldn’t risk it. The other day, the day she’d begged him to make her forget, to push all the ugliness and fear and hurt out of her, had been a goodbye. The only way she could think to say it. “I had a job to finish. Now it’s done.”

  “Great. Join me in the kitchen. I’ve got dinner waiting.”

  “Dinner?” Greta looked out the window only to find them blacked out with paper. She’d forgotten she’d done that to stop herself from obsessively looking into Doyle Fremont’s office. She pried one corner of paper free and saw it was dark outside. “What time is it?” She looked at the clock and saw it was nearly eight. “Oh. Wow. Okay.” No wonder she was hungry.

  She picked up the plate someone—she thought it was Ashley—had left earlier and greeted an eager if not irritated Cerberus on her walk to the kitchen. “Sorry. Time got away from me. Smells good.” She went over to the stove while Jack pulled down bowls from the cabinet. “Did you cook?”

  “I can manage a mean pasta. Yvette had a spare set of keys to the building. I gave them to Cole so he and Eden could check out the apartment.”

  “Oh.” Greta cringed. “I forgot about that. Yeah, good. That’s good. Did they like it?”

  Jack barely looked at her. “Yes. Can we talk now?”

  “How about after dinner?” She had the lid half-off the pot of simmering meat sauce when he came up behind her.

  “How about now?” He covered her hand, lowered the lid and pulled her away. “How about we talk about the fact that I told you I love you.”

  Everything inside of her slowed. Her blood, her heart. Her pulse. “I know you did.”

  “That’s your only response?”