Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (14 page)

Two weeks after her dream wedding and nightmare follow-up, Laurel approaches the first real task she’s been allowed since. She selects Colin’s newly completed studio as the site for the meeting with Emmet Hollingsworth. The converted dairy is distant enough from the main house to be considered neutral territory and austere enough to discourage socializing, making it the ideal setting for a job interview.

That she’s conducting the interview at all is concession to an informal committee headed by Colin and including all present staffers and social acquaintances. Or so it seemed when they ganged up on her, arguing that as a former member of the profession she is best qualified to pass final judgment on Emmet, who’s in line to become Colin’s next legal advisor.

Nate has taken himself out of the selection process for having known Emmet when they were both undergraduate students at Penn. On that basis she perhaps could recuse herself for having had a nodding acquaintance with Emmet when he was one of David Sebastian’s protégés and burning up the fast track leading to junior partner and a plum London assignment.

But too late for that now; the crunch of footsteps on a gravel path announces his punctual arrival at the studio.

Emmet’s unruffled exterior belies the relentless energy and ambition that got him where he is at a relatively young age. She’d compare him to a duck—smooth and sleek on the surface and paddling like hell underneath—if she were in the habit of employing tired old metaphors.

She greets him at the open door, where they exchange pleasantries almost as clichéd as duck comparisons, and welcomes him into the distraction-free environment—distraction-free unless he has undeclared interest in the standard furnishings of a professional recording studio.

At the large work table, she hopes to get down to business without delay, but no, he has to make consoling noises about “that dreadful business in the States,” as he puts it.

Beyond sick of consoling noises, she’s ready to shut him down when she sees an opportunity, a fresh brain to pick.

“Yes,” she says, “the dreadful business . . . over there. What have
you
heard about it that I might not have? What’s the official buzz over here?”

Without deviating from duck mode, he responds with what he calls the loudest buzz—that the assailant has been identified. “Some are saying that those close to the situation have known his identity for quite some time.”

“I see.”

“The second loudest buzz centers on the rumor that David was not the random victim of a madman, but rather the mistaken victim of a cunning assassin out to get your husband.”

That’s what she was afraid he’d say. If she reacts at all, he’ll know how much truth there is in that rumor.

“Backing up a moment . . .” She pauses until composure is a certainty. “What constitutes ‘quite some time’ and who are those considered ‘close to the situation?’” She limits her body language to air quotes around the pertinent phrases.

“I’ve never heard a specific timeframe mentioned and can only assume those close to the situation would be you, your husband, Nate Isaacs, and his brilliant little assistant.”

“By brilliant little assistant you mean Amanda Hobbs.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Anything else?”

“Only a bit of speculation about your father’s death.”

“In what respect?”

“That he didn’t die of natural causes.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Chiefly in New York. At David’s funeral. You must have picked up a bit of it yourself.”

“I heard very little other than the crackle of walkie-talkies. Keep in mind that Colin and I and my American family were three-deep in cops and bodyguards at the time. We had zero opportunity to socialize at the funeral service and abstained from the funeral luncheon rather than turn that into a circus as well.”

“I feel certain your sacrifice was appreciated once it was understood. But there was no misunderstanding the fantastic courage you showed by appearing at all.”

He refers to the media blitz and crowd frenzy outside a Fifth Avenue mortuary that made her maiden experience with the mob scene outside Royal Albert Hall seem as nothing. She shudders to recall either one.

“I couldn’t
not
attend. I couldn’t
not
eulogize David, could I?” She falters; she’s revealing too much.

“From what I’m told of your shared history with David, I can see how that would have been an absolute requirement . . . absolute.”

“What were you told?”

“That David was an executor of your grandmother’s estate and for a time functioned as unofficial guardian to you and your siblings. I believe it was also mentioned that he mentored you through Columbia Law.”

“That’s all? Are you sure that’s
all
you were told?”

“Yes.”

If he’s not telling the truth he’s either very good at not telling the truth or very good at not assimilating gossip. “Very well, but I’ll hazard a guess that you were aware David and Colin had come to a parting of the ways before . . . before David’s tragic demise.”

“Yes, I was. That had been discussed earlier, so I was indeed aware that the need for a new retainer was not imposed on Mr. Elliot. I fully understood that I would not be picking up dropped reins, so to speak, but would instead be issued a fresh set of reins if I were tapped for the position. That said, I’m relieved to know the resistance I feel from you is unrelated to any accidentally cast impression that I’m attempting to usurp or inherit.”

His little burst of candor rates high marks, causes her to take an actual look at his resume and pretend she doesn’t already know he comes with strong recommendations from Penn, Harvard Law, and equivalent institutions on this side of the Atlantic. From the several other sets of papers brought to the table, she chooses a rough outline of what his initial duties would entail, slides it across to him, inadvertently including the latest report from Special Agent Bell of the FBI.

She moves to retrieve the report. Too late. Emmet has already summarized the opening page and is verbalizing what’s known about the five murders allegedly committed by Jakeway. He then displays the page as though introducing evidence; he points at each victim name and eyes her as he might a presiding judge.

“Shouldn’t Rayce Vaughn’s name appear here?” he challenges.

Laurel clears her throat to cover the gasp that escapes her. “What . . . what makes you think so?” She hesitates so as not to stammer again. “I can’t imagine where you got an idea like that.”

“From whatever element in an international chain of command that’s caused the Yard to take another look at the Vaughn matter. They’re not saying precisely where the nudge came from, but it was obviously enough of a nudge to refresh interest in the stalled investigation and draw attention to similarities amongst a series of cases the Bureau’s currently working on in the States.
These
cases.” He flags the page again. “But regardless where the nudge originated, I’m to understand the renewed Vaughn investigation was put in motion yesterday.”

“Where did you get
that
idea?”

“Direct from Scotland Yard by way of today’s broadsheets. Official release, it was.”

“I see.” This time she coughs to cover her mounting concern. “I fail to see the connection, though. What
is
the connection?”

So far he’s reading her reaction as natural reluctance to pin her hopes on the suicide ruling being overturned. At least that’s how it seems, going by the way he responds to her question.

He presents a dizzying string of theories and what-ifs that are no less compelling than the ones she and Nate formulated with good reason. But Emmet doesn’t have good reason, does he? And if he does, where did he get it?

“It all comes down to the drug match-up, doesn’t it then,” he says, satisfied that he’s made enough of a case to go forward with.

“No, it doesn’t. Even if the cocaine that killed Rayce is from the same batch that killed my father and was found at two other murder scenes, you still have to establish that Jakeway had opportunity and that’s . . .”

Emmet’s sudden grin is broad and confident.

“What?”

“My sources were right. Your father
did
die of questionable cause and you
do
know who the assailant is.”

“Shit!”

Emmet laughs. So does she, releasing tension and easing the way to a less guarded exchange. She nevertheless limits her contributions to a form of verbalized boilerplate that justifies her business here and isn’t apt to produce any more surprises.

“I’ll leave those proposals with you,” she says at the end of their hour together. “But I prefer to keep this.” She retrieves Agent Bell’s report and adds it to the other papers she’ll be retaining. “Colin will be in touch,” she assures him even though they both know that’s only a formality, that Emmet is a shoo-in.

They walk together to the porte-cochère, where his car is parked. He declines her invitation to stay for lunch, and just as well. That could be jumping the gun; that could risk further comment on a taboo subject in an open forum.

“Match or not,” she cautions as he’s gets into the late model German sedan. “You’d still have to establish how the drugs got into Rayce’s possession and I don’t see that ever happening.”

“You’ll see it happening if the Jakeway bloke talks once he’s run to ground,” Emmet says in parting.

She says nothing in parting. She can’t. When she coerced the promise from Nate to remain mum about Rayce’s probable cause of death, she never once considered the possibility Emmet just raised. The thought keeps her rooted in the covered entryway long after his car has disappeared from sight.

A chorus of barking dogs and shouting children jars Laurel back to life. Colin appears and makes himself heard over the uproar.

“Bit of good news came our way,” he says. “They’re having another look at Rayce’s cause of death.” He waves a section of newspaper at her and her heart sinks to the ground. She’s numb to his quick embrace and temporarily immobilized again.

“Well . . . I’m waiting,” he says as he releases her. “What’s the verdict?”

“That I should never
ever
play poker.”

“Sorry?” He cocks his head and motions Anthony and his playmates to take their racketing elsewhere. “What has that to do with—”

“Nothing, never mind. All you need to know is that Emmet Hollingsworth is
eminently
suited to handle your legal affairs. Mine too. He’s the kind of guy you want to make sure is on
your
side when the chips are down. I left it that you’d be in touch.”

He maneuvers her deeper into the shelter of the porte-cochère. “I wasn’t expecting you to finish so soon. You okay? Everything all right in there?” He passes a hand over the slight swell of her belly.

“I’m fine, we’re fine. What have I interrupted by finishing early?”

“I was about to organize an expedition to the oasts. There have been requests. Pleadings, actually.”

“Don’t let me stop you. I’d never hear the end of it if Anthony was denied because of me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I have plenty to do. I have calls to make, any number of things to take care of,” she says. I have potential to examine, worrisome thoughts to examine, she says to herself.

“I’ll let you go then and I’ll be off.”

He gives her some tongue and a hard squeeze before hurrying away to round up Anthony and his friends. She retires to the unoccupied kitchen, where she dutifully prepares a nourishing lunch which she eats while standing over one of the prep sinks—just like old times. While eating, she confirms by the stove clock that it’s not too early to call New York. She also calculates that Simon won’t wake from his nap for another hour—more than enough time to pursue some answers.

From her north wing office, she dials Nate’s direct line at work and learns that he’s attending a board meeting in Philadelphia and will be gone for the day. Three calls later, she locates Amanda at her Brooklyn apartment, of all places. Any other time Laurel would comment on this, wonder aloud why Amanda hasn’t dropped lingering pretenses and moved in with Nate. But today the only thing she cares to wonder about is who briefed Emmet Hollingsworth and to what extent.

Amanda professes ignorance when asked. “And I know Nate’s stayed well out of the vetting process for obvious reasons.”

“Well
someone
has convinced Hollingsworth that Jakeway is somehow responsible for Rayce’s death. Inasmuch as Nate and I are the only ones who know that’s a good probability and
I
sure as hell didn’t—”

“Wait! What did you say? You and Nate know
what
?”

“Shit! I’ve done it again. It must be the damned hormones. Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“What
are
you shitting about?”

“I’m coming apart, Amanda. This morning when I met with Hollingsworth, I accidentally confirmed a couple of his pet theories—nothing all that damaging, only indicative of how far off my game I am.”