Deceived (15 page)

Whether Rose or Kate wanted to believe it, Brandon knew that Victor was dead. Black Raven was good, and Sebastian was the best. If they said Victor was dead, he was gone. Good riddance. By mile five, after winding his way though City Park and circling the art museum, his anger ebbed. Until Kate or Rose brought him up again, he would not think of Victor.

At mile eight, he turned into Lakelawn Cemetery, then sprinted along tree-shaded pathways for the half mile to the tomb where Amy and their unborn child were buried. He reached it, out of breath, and stopped. After they died, he’d been ripped apart by a sadness that manifested itself in uncontrollable rage. Now, he was better, and especially now, with Michael in his life, he had to be better. He stood next to the tomb of Amy Adams Morrissey and Catherine Adams Morrissey, their baby who had never been born, and told them, in his thoughts, of the changes that had taken place in his life since his last visit to the cemetery, only three days earlier.

Single parenthood. Life with an infant. How Lisa had died. Waves of sadness and its ever-present friend, guilt, filled his thoughts. He deserved guilt, because on the night of the accident, he and Amy had decided to take two cars so that Brandon could work for another hour. He had one more pleading to read, a stack of cases to re-read, and one more walk-through on the appellate argument he was giving the next day. So he wasn’t driving when, on Amy’s way to her father’s birthday party, an eighteen-wheeler, the driver hyped on amphetamines, had crashed into her. Tonight, his survivor’s guilt had a new twist. He was getting to experience fatherhood, when Amy had never experienced motherhood, when Catherine hadn’t experienced life.

He didn’t handle sadness or guilt well, and those emotions turned to anger that coiled through his gut. Anger, his go-to emotion, was always there, festering. To repress it, he forced his mind to search for something to assuage the pain. He found a lifeline when he remembered the night before, when Taylor told him to focus on Michael’s breathing. Her idea had worked. He stood, touched his index and his middle finger to his lips, and pressed a fingertip kiss onto the A in Amy’s name and the C in Catherine’s name. He glanced at his watch as he started to run. It was 6:45. He was two miles from home. He’d be there at seven or shortly after. Taylor should still be there, and he felt better with that thought.

Damn.

Other than the fact that she was a Bartholomew, born with more privileges than money could buy, born into a world where he’d never be welcome, she was irresistible.

***

Taylor left the D.A.’s office at four thirty and drove to the HBW Tower. She had to be at her father’s house for a five-thirty meeting with the party planner and staff who would be handling the Saturday evening patron party. She had only a few minutes, but it should be enough time for her to look for original design drawings of the Hutchenson Landing Craft in the corporate library. She’d find the drawings, figure out whether the drawings that were in the private library matched the museum’s design drawings, or whether Benjamin Morrissey’s name was on the originals, and then she’d let Brandon know the answer. She didn’t want to be the one to burst Brandon’s bubble, but she would. To the extent that his theory rested upon concealment of the identity of the true drafter of the design drawings, his theory was flawed.

She was certain of it.

She took the box of crystal desk items out of the trunk of her car, rode the elevator to HBW’s private floors, and was met with the broad smile of the HBW receptionist. “Good evening, Ms. Bartholomew. I’m delighted that I’ll be seeing you on a more regular basis. Would you like assistance with that box?”

“No thank you, Sam,” she said. “It’s small and light,” she smiled at the elderly man, “and I’m not that much of a prima donna.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to suggest that you were,” he winked, “but you wouldn’t be the first person with an office on the top floor who fit that description.” He had manned the reception desk since Taylor was a child. She had always loved his quiet manner, his stately presence, and his sweet chit-chat as she signed the register for the corporate floor. “Is my father here?”

Sam nodded. “Your father, Mr. Westerfeld, Mr. Hutchenson, and Mr. Landrum are meeting in your father’s private conference room. They requested that they not be disturbed.”

Avoiding interaction with her father was a good thing, but Taylor tried not to look relieved as she took the private elevator that led to the top floor of the high rise. The top floor housed suites of offices for the three members of the HBW Board of Directors and, as Taylor and Claude used to joke, the precious few others who would ascend to the thrones. The Bartholomew office suite consisted of her father’s corner office, his private conference room, and, next to that, the office that was now hers. The hallway door to her father’s private conference room, where the meeting between George, Claude, Andrew, and Lloyd was taking place, was closed. Two cubicles sat outside the Bartholomew suite. One would be for Taylor’s secretary, who Taylor hadn’t yet hired. She’d been so hopeful that she was going to stay at the District Attorney’s office, she had put off interviewing secretarial candidates. The other cubicle, which was directly outside George’s office, belonged to Judith Kaine, her father’s secretary, who was on the phone. Judith wore a conservative black pantsuit, her dark hair was in a neat bun, and she wore red reading glasses. She put the caller on hold when she saw Taylor.

“Good evening Taylor. May I help you?”

“No, thank you, Judith. I’m only here for a couple of minutes.” Judith nodded and resumed her call.

Taylor walked into her office, deposited the box on her desk, then drew a deep breath as she scanned the space. The best thing about the office was the wall of windows that overlooked the Mississippi River. She’d have to redecorate the office, which was filled with dark rugs and oil paintings that reflected her father’s taste, not hers. The antique mahogany desk made her shudder. She couldn’t work the rest of her professional life at that desk. It was too dark and too heavy. Taylor’s office had a door that led into her father’s private conference room. On the other side of the door, a loud
whack
resonated, as though something was slammed against a hard surface. Taylor jumped at the unexpected noise.

Claude’s voice was loud enough to escape through the thick walls and door. “What do you mean you have no clue who is doing this?”

George responded, his voice authoritative and even, but equally loud. “Calm down. We have a problem, Claude.” Some of his words were lost, as though he had turned in the opposite direction as he spoke. The words picked up with, “We are directors. We deal with problems.”

She heard a voice that was slightly lower than Claude’s and her father’s. She recognized it as Andrew Hutchenson, Andi’s father.

“Is paying…” again some of the words disappeared, “…an option?”

George answered, but although she could identify her father’s voice and sharp tone, she couldn’t make out his words. She stepped closer to the door, trying to hear. She heard, “We need to be dismissive.” She heard, “Hutchenson…” then more unintelligible words, then, “letter,” and more words that she couldn’t decipher.

Claude asked, “What the hell does that mean?”

“A hoax,” George said. “It isn’t complicated. Fraud. Lloyd?”

After a pause, then words that she couldn’t decipher, Lloyd responded, “The timing. Don’t you think…” more words disappeared, “…that this could…” his words were gone. Taylor thought she heard “police.”

Her heart raced. She thought she heard all kinds of things, but the reality was she couldn’t make out Lloyd’s words. Whatever Lloyd said prompted George to say, “Absolutely not under any circumstances.”

More conversation ensued, but the words were muffled. The conference room’s hallway door opened. Whoever departed went in the opposite direction from her office. Taylor took the departure as a cue to leave. She made her way to the corporate library, saying goodbye to Judith and nodding to other staff that she passed along the way.

Taylor used her access card, opened the library door, and, as the lights automatically brightened, she walked past shelves of books, to the area that housed design drawings. From the company’s inception in 1934, various original designs of the naval architects at HBW had been noteworthy. Drawings of those vessels were archived in the library, in an elaborate filing system that consisted of hanging, custom-made, glare-proof sleeves of clear plastic, with wooden bindings. Taylor began at 1934 and started flipping though the drawings. In the years 1937-1942, where drawings of the Hutchenson Landing Craft should have been, there were drawings for other vessels, but none for the landing craft.

“Looking for something?”

Taylor’s heart raced as she spun around. Claude stood an arm’s length behind her. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. His tie was loose. His shirt was starched and neat, but the top button was open. “I saw that your office light was on. Judith saw you come in here.”

Dark circles formed crescents under his blue eyes. Taylor said, “You look exhausted.”

“It’s been a long day, and it isn’t over yet.” He glanced around the library, then focused on the stacks where Taylor stood. He met her eyes with a puzzled glance. “Looking for naval design drawings from the 1930s?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Why?”

“The Tulane student who was murdered was preparing her thesis on spies of World War II, in particular focusing on the treason case involving the Hutchenson Landing Craft. Her notes indicated that she interviewed you. You didn’t tell me that last night when I asked you about her.”

The fatigue in his eyes was replaced with an intense, bright burn of worry. “Taylor, drop it. As of today, you’re no longer an assistant D.A., and the murder isn’t your concern. Now you’re corporate counsel for HBW, which means that you work for your father.” His bitter tone was out of character. “Like we all do. He rules this place, and he wouldn’t want you to be asking questions.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head. “I’ve already told you too much.”

“You haven’t told me anything. I overheard some of the conversation from the conference room. What was that about?”

He glanced at the entrance to the library, then back at her. “Stop with the questions, please, for once. I can’t discuss board information with you.”

Claude had always been more than a friend. He was a few years older than Andi, Taylor and Collette and, at times, he’d been as much of a big brother to Andi and Taylor as he was to Collette. There weren’t secrets between them. At least there hadn’t been, until now.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly serious.” Claude said. “Information around here is on a need to know basis.” He paused as a flush turned his cheeks red. “And your father is the person who decides who needs to know what and when. Just because you’re going to be general counsel, that doesn’t mean you’re going to know everything the board discusses. I’ve got to get back in to the meeting,” he said, looking over her shoulder at the stacks, to where the drawings of the Hutchenson Landing Craft should have been. “And you need to figure out something else to do with your time.” He turned and headed for the door.

She followed him. “Wait.”

“I warned you before and I’m warning you again.” Claude turned to her one last time before stepping out of the library. “You won’t like being in orbit of your father, Taylor. You won’t. Trust me. Don’t waste your life working here.”

George stepped into the library as Claude stepped out. “Hello, Taylor. I didn’t know that you were here.” George’s black-brown eyes gave her his typical hard once-over, he glanced at his watch, and frowned. “Weren’t you going to be meeting with the party planners now?”

“I’m on my way,” she said, pushing past the anxiety that his frown inspired. From here on out, she was going to be working
with
him, not
for
him, she reminded herself. She had to stop feeling like the daughter who couldn’t get anything right.

“The conversation that you were having in the conference room. It sounded heated. What was it about?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, “at least not this weekend. Did Lloyd mention that you will be providing the remarks on behalf of the families at the gala on Sunday?”

Taylor recognized the brush-off, and Claude’s comments had primed her for an argument. She lifted her chin, drew a calming breath, and said, “The fact that the board is having a private meeting now means that the issues won’t be discussed in tomorrow morning’s board meeting, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Taylor,” George said. The harsh look in his eyes said
deal with it
in a way that made further words unnecessary. A pulse beat at his temple. Taylor knew that the pulse signified irritation. He had steered HBW for more than forty years and he was easily capable of harsh decisions, yet he had no idea how to relate to her. He didn’t appreciate her academic achievements, and, at times like now, all she had to do was speak, and he’d be irritated.

Once, as a teenager, he had told her to stop acting as a silly girl. The disdain he used for both
silly
and
girl
had cut through her and, at that moment, Taylor understood why he always looked at her as though he was disappointed, no matter what she did. She had yelled that she was sorry that she hadn’t been born a male. He had snapped that he was sorry, too. It had been a childish comment on her part, but she’d never forgiven him for his response, which had inspired her to play up her feminine side, in every way that she could. She’d never broken the habit, and that’s why at the gala, she’d be giving welcoming remarks in a red silk halter dress with a plunging neckline that was anything but conservative. She’d chosen the dress before she had learned that she was giving a speech. He wouldn’t approve, but attire was the least of her problems.