Coming Home (The Santa Monica Trilogy Book 2) (8 page)

Quinn covered her hand with his, and she managed to swallow her anger.

“So you thought he might hurt himself.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if he had discovered something new? Or maybe he was hiding something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about your ex-husband’s activities that day?”

“No.”

“Tell us about the call you placed to Barbara Blackwell. What did you discuss?”

“I left her a voice-mail, asking that she check on Harry.”

“You didn’t actually speak with her.”

“I did not.”

“Did you say anything else?”

“I asked her to remind Harry that he shouldn’t be contacting me.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Have you had any other contact with Barbara Blackwell following your divorce from her son?”

“Yes.”

“What was the nature of your contact?”

“I called her several times, requesting her help with Harry.”

“What do you mean, requesting her help?”

She’d already answered this question. Was the man hoping to catch her in a contradiction? If so, he was bound to be disappointed.

“Harry’s depression was worsening,” she repeated. “He wasn’t consistent with his medications and doctors’ appointments. He needed help. I asked his mother to intervene.”

“Did you discuss anything else with her, besides her son’s health?”

“Not that I recall.”

“You didn’t discuss her husband’s trial?”

“No.”

“What about the business? Or money?”

“No.”

“Did you have any other contact with her, besides these calls requesting her assistance?”

“Just that call last Friday.”

“Very well.” Wallace paused, allowing the silence to stretch. At length he tapped his hand against the table and rose. “Thank you for coming in today. If we have any other questions, we’ll be in touch. If you should recall anything else that you think might be relevant, anything at all, you have my card.”

Grace stood. “Yes.”

Quinn touched her elbow. “Are we through here, gentlemen?”

“Yes. We appreciate your cooperation.” Wallace opened the door. “My partner will escort you out.”

###

“That went well,” Quinn said.

Grace managed a small smile. “I appreciate your help.”

“Any friend of Angie’s, and all that.”

She and Angie weren’t exactly friends, had in fact last seen each other at Angie’s high school graduation a decade ago. But Grace didn’t bother to correct him. Whatever Logan had told his sister, it had worked, and she was grateful for Angie’s arrangements on her behalf.

They exited the Federal Building, pausing for a moment in the glare of late afternoon sun. If not for that pause, Grace might have missed seeing the man loitering near one of the stone benches just outside. Jeans, rear-facing baseball cap, shoulder bag large enough to hide professional recording equipment.

She slipped on a pair of sunglasses and smoothed out her expression. “Don’t look now,” she murmured. “But we’re about to have company.”

Sure enough, the man sprang into action as they turned toward the parking lot.

“Hey, Grace! Who’s the suit? New boyfriend? Personal bodyguard? Yo, buddy, how about a smile for the camera?”

Quinn didn’t falter. One hand on Grace’s elbow, he guided them past a row of cars emblazoned with the
Homeland Security
logo, and toward the far end of the lot.

“Do you mind dropping me back at the office?” he said. They’d met at the law firm offices earlier and driven in together, to allow for a quick briefing before her interview.

“No problem.” She unlocked the Jag.

“Grace, come on, give a guy a break! What did the FBI want? Was Harry in trouble with them, is that why he killed himself? Did he tell you where the money was before he died?”

She started the engine. The man stopped in front of the car, aiming his camera through the windshield. She tapped the horn.

Quinn secured his seatbelt. “You know this joker?”

“Not personally.” Another tap on the horn. “But he’s been following me the last few days. Persistent bugger.”

“You want a restraining order?”

She eased the car into drive. Just as she’d hoped, the man scrambled to the side. She pulled out slowly, ignoring his shouts and the impact of his hand against the car frame as she drove past.

“I’m sure he’ll lose interest soon enough,” she said. “Besides, I hear First Amendment arguments are pretty hard to beat.”

“True. But there’s a fine line between persistence and harassment. The guy was banging on your car. Pretty ballsy, if you ask me, considering we’re in the parking lot of an FBI field office with security cameras all around.”

Grace glanced in the rear-view mirror. There was a van several car lengths back that looked an awful lot like the one she’d noticed near her grandmother’s house. “You may have a point.”

Quinn cracked a smile. “Let me know if you decide you want to do something about it.”

While Logan waited for Grace to return from the restroom, he scrolled through his emails. A message from Angie caught his eye.

Check it out, L: your girl’s in the news again.

He clicked on the accompanying link. As he skimmed the article, his jaw got tighter and tighter.

From Riches to Rags and Back: The Life of a Blackwell Widow Raises Questions

May 22  | 8:00 a.m.

Los Angeles — After months of enduring a cramped studio sublet in a seedy section of New York, Grace King, ex-daughter-in-law of convicted fraudster William Blackwell, is suddenly living on easy street. King’s new digs are located on La Mesa Drive, in one of the most desirable (read: expensive) neighborhoods in Los Angeles.

How can King, who claims to have walked away empty-handed from her marriage to Harry Blackwell, afford to live a few houses down from the 11,000-square-foot $22 Million mansion that belonged to late Hollywood legend Kathryn Grayson?

Something doesn’t compute.

Why not fess up, Grace? Did you have a little something-something squirreled away for a rainy day? Was Harry passing you some cash under the table? Maybe his family was buying your silence, paying you to keep from mouthing off about his bad-boy antics? Remember those champagne & caviar parties, with the ten-grand-a-pop prostitutes for entertainment?

And what was it that finally pushed Harry over the edge? Who holds the keys to that mystery?

Turns out we’re not the only ones with questions. Grace King was recently seen exiting the Federal Building, home to the Los Angeles FBI Field Office.

With William Blackwell awaiting sentencing, his wife Barbara holed up in the Manhattan penthouse she’s trying to save from repossession, and their son Harry  dead by his own hand, looks like the Feds are running out of people to question.

Time to come clean, Grace. Unless you’ve got something to hide?

“Logan?”

He started at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Clicking off the phone, he glanced up.

The woman was tall, with dramatic auburn curls and a figure-hugging red dress that should have clashed but didn’t. “I thought that was you!”

He smiled and rose. “Cheryl. How are you?”

“Great.” She leaned in to air-kiss his cheek. “How about you?”

He glanced toward the back of the restaurant, where the restrooms were. Still no sign of Grace. “Fine, thank you.”

“You’re looking good, Logan. Are you here on your own?”

“No.” He paused, wondering how to describe Grace. Friend? Girlfriend? Significant other? He sidestepped the issue altogether by returning the question. “You?”

Cheryl smiled, waving toward a large table surrounded by women. “Bachelorette party.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize...” When had this happened?  They’d dated for nearly six months last year. And broken up for the same reason most of his breakups occurred. He wasn’t interested in getting fitted for a matching tuxedo, china service for twelve, jumbo mortgage, two-point-four children, and furry pet. “Congratulations.”

Her soft laughter, which had once made him stand at attention, washed over him without any visible effect. “Oh, you should see your expression, Logan! Commitment’s not a dirty word, you know.”

“Well...”

“It’s okay, don’t apologize. Besides, the party isn’t for me. It’s for one of the girls at the office.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I assumed...” He trailed off as he caught sight of Grace weaving between the tables toward him. Desire stirred in the pit of stomach. And immediately on its heels, a touch of panic. He had maybe five seconds to get rid of Cheryl before introductions became inevitable. “It was nice seeing you, Cheryl.”

“You, too, Logan. Don’t be a stranger, okay?” She leaned in again, this time making contact with his cheek, while he stood frozen, eyes glued to the only woman in the room who mattered.

“Sorry, the line took forever.” She turned a polite smile toward Cheryl. “Hi. I’m Grace.”

“Cheryl.” They shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

Logan cleared his throat. “Cheryl works in the university’s intellectual property office.”

The woman returned Grace’s smile. “Patent law. Boring stuff.”

“Oh, I’m sure not,” Grace said. “You get to see results of cutting edge research before it hits the market, right? Sounds pretty interesting. Have you been with UCLA long?”

“Almost a year. Before that, I was at the same firm as Angie, Logan’s sister.”

“Really? What led you to switch?”

As Cheryl launched into a diatribe on the difficulties of being a female associate at a big law firm, Logan searched Grace’s expression for any hint of irritation or jealousy. But all he could discern was polite curiosity.

He should have been relieved. Instead, he felt his earlier annoyance returning. How could she remain so calm? Bad enough that she dismissed his concerns over intrusive and downright insulting press coverage. But this casual acceptance of another woman horning in on their date was too much.

Not that he wanted Grace to be upset. He would have preferred to get rid of Cheryl without introducing the two women. As far as he was concerned, whatever he and Cheryl had shared was firmly in the past. No need to flaunt it in front of Grace.

But a little show of emotion or possessiveness from Grace would have been reassuring. He certainly wouldn’t have been this cavalier if he’d found some ex-boyfriend of Grace’s cozying up to her.

Either Grace’s psychiatry training had taught her to completely mask her reactions, or she was confident enough not to feel threatened by the presence of another woman. A third possibility—that she simply wasn’t as invested in the relationship as Logan—occurred to him, but he rejected it.

The scorching heat of her kiss, the unmistakable promise in her eyes, the burning memory of her body moving against his, all pointed to one incontrovertible fact: Grace wanted him as much as he wanted her. If not for that damned flashback interrupting last week, they’d be well past this stage of circling warily around each other.

He could only hope that eventually his patience would pay off. Not just physically—though this “look but don’t touch” business was getting old fast, and he was tired of walking around with a constant case of blue balls. But even more important than that was earning Grace’s trust.

She’d clearly been traumatized by her bastard of an ex. While Logan was no expert on the after-effects of domestic violence and rape, he’d read enough in the last six days to understand that there were no shortcuts when it came to healing.

He needed to continue exercising patience, biding his time until she was ready. And when that day came, he’d be there.

Because despite all his efforts to convince himself that a friends with benefits arrangement would be enough, he recognized now that he’d been lying. It might have been enough in the past. It had certainly been enough with all the other women he’d dated and slept with after Grace had moved to New York.

But it was nowhere near enough now. And he intended to make that clear to Grace, just as soon as he could get her full attention.

###

“She seemed nice,” Grace said, after they were seated again and the waiter had taken their orders.

“What? Oh, yeah.”

Grace watched him fiddle with his silverware. “What’s going on, Logan? You seem distracted.”

He frowned. “There was another piece about you in some tabloid.”

“I thought you were going to stop reading those things.”

“Angie sent me the link.”

Grace wondered what new garbage had been written about her, and then decided she was better off not knowing.

The mention of Logan’s sister gave her an excuse to change the subject. “I need to call Angie and thank her for sending Quinn my way.”

Logan stiffened. “She sent Quinn?”

“Yes. Apparently he does a lot of securities litigation for their firm.”

“I know. I just didn’t realize he’d be the one helping you.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No.” His fingers tightened around the water glass. “You just need to be careful around him. He’s a player.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m serious. The guy hits on anything in a skirt.”

The image was so at odds with her impression of the man that Grace laughed. “I guess it’s a good thing I wore pants, then.”

“You think I’m joking? Ask Angie, she’ll tell you.”

“Really? I thought there was some code of ethics rule that forbid lawyers from dating clients. Kind of like the doctor-patient prohibition.”

“Maybe. I still wouldn’t trust the guy.”

“You realize this makes no sense, right? Angie was the one who recommended him. She said he’s helping your sister Eva with something as well. Are you telling me you gave Eva the same lecture?”

“Actually, no. I talked with Quinn directly about Eva. Told him that she wasn’t on the market, and he should keep his hands to himself.”

She blinked. “I’m sure that went over really well.”

“Not exactly.” He drank some water, then set the glass down and looked at her. “You think I’m overreacting.”

She raised her hand, thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Maybe a tad.”

He seemed to consider that. “Fine. Now tell me how your meeting today went.”

“You’re not going to jump down my throat?”

“No.” At her skeptical look, he sighed. “I promise.”

She proceeded to summarize the interview, shaking her head in response to his question about what the FBI was really after. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re frustrated because William Blackwell managed to fool so many people for so long. He might have started out trading stocks, but by the end he was simply shuffling investors’ money around, and funneling a large chunk of it into his own pocket. The problem is that so much of it remains unaccounted for. With Harry gone, they’re probably scrambling for someone—anyone—who might help them track it down.”

“I thought the guy in charge of the recovery efforts—what’s his name...?”

“Oscar Chaiken.”

“Yes. I thought he was just slapping everyone with clawback lawsuits. Even people who weren’t aware that the so-called profits they were withdrawing were fake.”

“That’s part of it. He’s also suing the banks and feeder funds that channeled billions into Blackwell Securities. But the FBI is still running the investigation. It’s their job to figure out how the scam was run and who else might have been involved.”

Their appetizers arrived, and for several minutes they concentrated on eating.

The sound of loud laughter had Grace glancing across the room. “Looks like your friend is having fun.”

Logan took advantage of her distraction to steal a ricotta-stuffed zucchini blossom from her plate.

She turned back in time to catch him in the act. “Help yourself.”

“Oh, was I supposed to ask first? Sorry, I thought we were beyond those niceties.”

“Sure, why not. What’s mine is yours. And what’s yours is—” She examined his plate. “Also yours.”

“I can get rid of the prosciutto,” he offered. “The melon is pretty good even without it.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“So you think this will be the end of it?”

“The end of what?”

“The FBI’s interest in you.”

She shrugged. “I hope so. I doubt there’s much they can come up with to justify another trip out here. No matter how crappy New York weather is.”

Logan laughed. “You think that’s the real reason they flew out?”

“Makes as much sense as anything else. Some people like four seasons, don’t mind the snow and ice in the winter and the humidity all summer long. Personally, I can do without it. Give me a nice ocean breeze, seventy degrees year round, and I’m happy.”

“So you’re back for good. No more moving.”

“No more moving,” she agreed.

“I’m glad.” His hand settled over hers on the table.

Her breath caught at the heat in his gaze. Oh, yes, the evening was definitely looking up.

The waiter came by to remove their plates. Logan eased away. “Spring quarter ends June sixth. I was thinking of taking some time off after finals. Maybe driving up the coast, spending a few days in Santa Barbara.”

“Sounds like fun.” She raised her glass. “But don’t you have a lab to run?”

“That’s what post-docs are for.”

She sputtered as her sip of water went down the wrong way.

“I’m kidding,” Logan said, after she stopped coughing. “But I’m sure one of them would be happy to cover for a week or so. And Chuck will be there.”

“Chuck?”

“Charles Liu. From your psychiatry department. He co-directs the lab with me.”