Sidney Sheldon's After The Darkness Part 27

MITCH C CONNORS LAY ON HIS BED, reading. Davey Buccola was a bottom-feeder, but he was a meticulous bottom-feeder. His report was diligently researched. Of course, a lot of the information was hearsay, based on unofficial interviews with staff at the coroner's office or the Nantucket coast guard. Less than half of it would stand up in court. But the overall picture it painted, of a wealthy man surrounded by false friends, parasites and hangers-on, rang horribly true. reading. Davey Buccola was a bottom-feeder, but he was a meticulous bottom-feeder. His report was diligently researched. Of course, a lot of the information was hearsay, based on unofficial interviews with staff at the coroner's office or the Nantucket coast guard. Less than half of it would stand up in court. But the overall picture it painted, of a wealthy man surrounded by false friends, parasites and hangers-on, rang horribly true.

Mitch imagined Grace reading it. If it made him him sick, how would she feel, wading through the sticky web of half-truths, greed and deception spun by her nearest and dearest? No wonder she hadn't turned to any of them when she broke out of Bedford. With friends like the Brooksteins had, who needed enemies? sick, how would she feel, wading through the sticky web of half-truths, greed and deception spun by her nearest and dearest? No wonder she hadn't turned to any of them when she broke out of Bedford. With friends like the Brooksteins had, who needed enemies?

The only problem with the information was that there was so much of it. Too many people had had the motive and the opportunity to do away with Lenny Brookstein. Mitch thought, Grace is following these leads, just like I am. Where would she go first? Grace is following these leads, just like I am. Where would she go first?

ANDREW P PRESTON OPENED HIS EYES. HE'D been waiting for Grace to shoot him, but so far the expected bullet hadn't come. He was surprised to see her cheeks were wet with tears. been waiting for Grace to shoot him, but so far the expected bullet hadn't come. He was surprised to see her cheeks were wet with tears.

"I want you to admit it," she sobbed. "I want you to say you're sorry."

"Grace. I am am sorry for what I did. But I didn't kill Lenny and that's the honest truth. I was in New York the day he died. Remember?" sorry for what I did. But I didn't kill Lenny and that's the honest truth. I was in New York the day he died. Remember?"

"I know you were. And I know what you were doing there. You were paying off a hit man." Grace reached into a rucksack and pulled out a photograph. "Donald Anthony Le Bron. I suppose you're going to tell me you don't recognize him?"

Andrew's face drained of color.

"No. I recognize him. And you're right, he is a hit man. He works for a Dominican gang known as the DDP. It stands for Dominicans Don't Play, which is something of an understatement, as it turns out." He laughed nervously. "And yes, I did hire Le Bron. But not to kill Lenny."

Grace hesitated. "Go on."

"They said they were debt collectors. 'Legitimate businessmen,' that's how they described themselves. They came to the house and showed me pictures of women being raped and mutilated. They said Maria would be next. Then a month before the Quorum Ball, one of them showed up at the office. He brought a severed finger, wrapped in a kitchen towel." Andrew closed his eyes at the memory. "I'd paid off what Maria owed by then, but they still came back for more. They wanted interest, hundreds of thousands. It was never going to end. I couldn't go to the police, in case they found out about the money I'd stolen from Quorum. So I contacted Le Bron. He and his people took care of it."

Grace tried to take this in. When she'd read the file entry about Andrew's embezzlement and learned of his contacts with the New York gang, she was sure she'd found her man. It all made sense: the thefts Lenny had discovered were the tip of the iceberg. In reality, Andrew must have been siphoning off billions from Quorum's coffers, cooking the books to make it look like Lenny was the thief. Then he'd hired a professional hit man to murder Lenny, and stood by and watched while Grace took the blame. But listening to Andrew talk, watching the horror on his face as he remembered the threats made to Maria, she was convinced he was telling her the truth.

Andrew Preston was not Lenny's killer.

It was a crus.h.i.+ng blow.

"Lenny was like a father to me, Grace, and I betrayed him. I'll carry the guilt of that with me till the day I die. But I never wanted him dead. Not like Jack Warner."

Grace had read Davey's file on Jack, too. She knew about the gambling debts and Lenny's refusal to pay them. But it hardly amounted to a motive for murder. Besides, Jack's alibi was rock solid. The coast guard had rescued him miles away from where Lenny's boat was found.

"Jack was mad at Lenny. I know that."

"Mad?" Andrew looked surprised. "He hated hated him, Grace. Lenny had Warner over a barrel. He knew all of his dirty little secrets. Everyone in the Senate knew that Jack Warner was Quorum's puppet, that he voted however Lenny Brookstein told him to vote. Lenny squeezed Jack like a wet rag. The guy couldn't breathe." him, Grace. Lenny had Warner over a barrel. He knew all of his dirty little secrets. Everyone in the Senate knew that Jack Warner was Quorum's puppet, that he voted however Lenny Brookstein told him to vote. Lenny squeezed Jack like a wet rag. The guy couldn't breathe."

Grace looked disbelieving. "I'm sure it wasn't like that. Lenny would never have blackmailed Jack. He would never have blackmailed anyone."

Andrew Preston smiled. It was a flash of the old Grace. Unquestioning, adoring, convinced that Lenny could do no wrong. Not that he blamed her. Andrew knew better than anyone what it was like to love someone so much you would defend them against all reason.

"Grace," he said gently, "whatever happened to Lenny, it happened at sea and it happened on the day of the storm. Jack was also out on the water that day, remember?"

Grace remembered. Like Michael Gray, Jack Warner was an expert sailor. Expert enough to somehow board Lenny's boat and kill him? To dump him overboard and make it look like an accident? Expert enough to somehow board Lenny's boat and kill him? To dump him overboard and make it look like an accident? It was possible. It was possible.

"Try to find a lady called Jasmine," said Andrew. "That's the best advice I can give you. She might make you see things in a different light."

MITCH HAD GONE TO THE P PRESTONS' apartment on impulse. He'd hoped to quiz Andrew about his alleged embezzlement from Quorum, but was met instead by a hysterical Maria. It was almost midnight, and Andrew hadn't called. No one had seen him since he left the office at five. She'd called the police but no one took her seriously. Mitch did. "Let me pour you a brandy, Mrs. Preston." apartment on impulse. He'd hoped to quiz Andrew about his alleged embezzlement from Quorum, but was met instead by a hysterical Maria. It was almost midnight, and Andrew hadn't called. No one had seen him since he left the office at five. She'd called the police but no one took her seriously. Mitch did. "Let me pour you a brandy, Mrs. Preston."

Had Grace taken the law into her own hands? By now, she would know that Andrew had been stealing from Lenny. What if she'd abducted him? Or worse? If Grace got it into her head that Andrew was behind Lenny's death, there was no telling what she might be capable of.

When the apartment door opened and Andrew Preston walked in, Mitch was at least as relieved as Maria. Andrew's s.h.i.+rt was bloodied and his nose badly bruised, but he seemed calm. Unlike his wife, who flung herself melodramatically into his arms.

"Oh, Andy, Andy! What happened? I've been out of my mind. Where have you been?"

"At the hospital. I'm fine, Maria. I had a slight accident, that's all."

"What sort of accident?"

"Ridiculous really. I slipped and fell in the rain and landed flat on my face on the sidewalk. I would have called, but I was stuck in the ER for hours. You know what those places are like. I didn't want to worry you, darling."

"Well, you did worry me. The police are here."

Maria gestured toward Mitch. Andrew Preston recognized him from the TV reports as the guy who was looking for Grace. He did his best to sound nonchalant. "My goodness. Does one errant husband warrant a search party these days? I'm sorry if I've caused any trouble, Detective."

"Not at all, Mr. Preston. I actually came to talk with you about another matter, but it can wait. I'm glad to see you home safe. Look, this is probably going to sound like a ridiculous question. But I don't suppose Grace Brookstein has tried to contact you by any chance. In the last forty-eight hours?"

Andrew looked puzzled. "Grace? Contact Contact me me? No. Why on earth would she do that?"

"No reason," said Mitch. "I'll see myself out."

LATER, IN BED, ANDREW WATCHED HIS wife sleep. wife sleep. I love you so much I love you so much, my angel. my angel. He'd been touched by Maria's concern when he got home. Perhaps things were going to be all right between them after all? He'd been touched by Maria's concern when he got home. Perhaps things were going to be all right between them after all?

He'd considered telling Detective Connors the truth about Grace and what had happened that afternoon. But only for a moment. Grace had spared his life and forgiven him his sins. The least he could do was return the favor.

If Lenny really had been murdered, Andrew wished Grace luck in finding his killer. Whatever the world might think, Lenny Brookstein had been a good man. Reaching across the bed for Maria, Andrew pulled her close, inhaling the heady scent of her body. The faint whiff of aftershave he detected as well brought tears to his eyes.

Andrew Preston never wore aftershave.

TWENTY-THREE.

JASMINE D DELEVIGNE ADMIRED HER NAKED BODY in the mirror. She was twenty-four years old, with smooth cafe au lait skin, long, slender legs and a new set of perfect silicone b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a birthday present from a powerful client. Cupping them lovingly in her hands, Jasmine thought, in the mirror. She was twenty-four years old, with smooth cafe au lait skin, long, slender legs and a new set of perfect silicone b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a birthday present from a powerful client. Cupping them lovingly in her hands, Jasmine thought, No. He's more than a client. He's my lover. I adore him. No. He's more than a client. He's my lover. I adore him.

It was unlike Jasmine to get attached to the men who paid to share her bed. The daughter of a French businessman and a Persian princess, Jasmine Delevigne didn't need the money she earned as a hooker. She did it for the thrill. Just knowing that rich, powerful men, men with beautiful wives and even more beautiful mistresses, found her irresistible, so intoxicating that they would pay pay for the privilege of bedding her, gave Jasmine an incredible high. It was years since she'd dipped into her trust fund. Her Fifth Avenue apartment, her vintage MG convertible, her wardrobe full of couture dresses and thousand-dollar-a-pair shoes; Jasmine's perfect body had paid for them all. Other people might call her a wh.o.r.e. People like her father, who lavished all his attention on Jasmine's mother and never noticed his daughter's efforts to please him. But Jasmine didn't care what they thought. for the privilege of bedding her, gave Jasmine an incredible high. It was years since she'd dipped into her trust fund. Her Fifth Avenue apartment, her vintage MG convertible, her wardrobe full of couture dresses and thousand-dollar-a-pair shoes; Jasmine's perfect body had paid for them all. Other people might call her a wh.o.r.e. People like her father, who lavished all his attention on Jasmine's mother and never noticed his daughter's efforts to please him. But Jasmine didn't care what they thought.

I'm a feminist. I f.u.c.k who I like, when I like, because I like. I answer to no one.

She wandered into her dressing room and picked out some underwear. Chocolate-brown, silk La Perla panties and a matching camisole. Cla.s.sy and feminine. Just how he likes it. Cla.s.sy and feminine. Just how he likes it. It had been weeks since Jasmine had seen him and she was excited. There were others, of course. All her clients were good-looking, successful men, and all of them were good in bed. Jasmine Delevigne was the best, and she only worked with the best. But none of the other men had gotten to her the way that he did. It had been weeks since Jasmine had seen him and she was excited. There were others, of course. All her clients were good-looking, successful men, and all of them were good in bed. Jasmine Delevigne was the best, and she only worked with the best. But none of the other men had gotten to her the way that he did.

The buzzer rang.

He's early. He wants this as much as I do.

Jasmine opened the door coolly, like the princess that she was.

"h.e.l.lo, darling."

He grabbed her by the throat. "Take your f.u.c.king clothes off. Now."

Jasmine's pupils dilated with excitement. I've missed you so much. I've missed you so much.

"PLEASE! NO!"

Gavin Williams tightened the knots around Grace Brookstein's wrists. Then he lifted the cane and brought it down hard across the backs of her legs. Two livid red welts joined the others. Gavin Williams smiled.

"I'll ask you again, Grace. Where is the money?"

She was crying. Begging. Lenny Brookstein's wife, his most treasured possession, was begging him, him, Gavin Williams, for mercy. But Gavin Williams would show no mercy. Gavin Williams, for mercy. But Gavin Williams would show no mercy.

Let the sinners be consumed out of the earth, and let the wicked be no more.

He felt himself getting hard. He lifted the cane again.

"Excuse me, sir? Are you okay?"

Gavin Williams's fantasy evaporated. He was back at his desk at the SIBL, the Science, Industry and Business Library on Madison Avenue. The librarian was standing over him. Stupid, meddlesome b.i.t.c.h. Why couldn't she mind her own business? Stupid, meddlesome b.i.t.c.h. Why couldn't she mind her own business?

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look very flushed. Would you like me to open a window or something?"

"No," Gavin snapped. The old woman got the point and returned to her seat.

It was ridiculous, being forced to work in a public library. After Harry Bain had summarily dismissed him from the Quorum task force, Gavin's bureau chief had insisted that he take a paid leave of absence.

"You're stressed out, Agent Williams. You need some time off. Happens to all of us."

It happens to weak idiots like you, you mean. Not to me.

"I'm fine. I'm ready for service."

"Take the vacation, Gavin, okay? We'll call you in a couple of months."

A couple of months? Gavin knew what was going on. John Merrivale had been conspiring against him. Poisoning the well. Gavin knew what was going on. John Merrivale had been conspiring against him. Poisoning the well. They all think I'm crazy. Obsessive. But I'll show them. When Grace Brookstein leads me to that money, they'll be eating their words. I'm close. I can feel it. They all think I'm crazy. Obsessive. But I'll show them. When Grace Brookstein leads me to that money, they'll be eating their words. I'm close. I can feel it.

Gavin Williams pulled an antiseptic wipe out of his briefcase and started cleaning the spot where the librarian's fingers had touched his desk. Then he closed his eyes and tried to recapture his fantasy: Grace Brookstein, at his mercy, tied up like an animal.

It was no use. She was gone.

"SIR, TAKE A LOOK AT THIS."

Mitch leaned over the younger detective's computer screen.

"You asked me to do some digging on Senator Warner. This e-mail just came in from vice squad."

Mitch read the e-mail.

"No one ever followed this up?"

"It appears not, sir. Senator Warner's a big supporter of NYPD causes."

I'll bet he is.

"This is all off-the-record. My buddy in vice was doing me a favor. I told him we'd handle it sensitively."

"Do you have an address for the girl?"

"Yes, sir. It's a pretty sw.a.n.ky address, too." The detective clicked to another window. "Do you think maybe we should send a female officer out there first? We don't want to spook her."

JACK W WARNER SAT IN THE BACK of his limousine, feeling the adrenaline course through his veins. Being with Jasmine again, touching her, f.u.c.king her, gorging himself on her body...it was the best feeling in the world. Knowing that the whole of America idolized him as a Christian conservative, a walking embodiment of righteous ness and family values, only added to the thrill. Jack remembered Fred Farrell's advice to him, about his gambling. of his limousine, feeling the adrenaline course through his veins. Being with Jasmine again, touching her, f.u.c.king her, gorging himself on her body...it was the best feeling in the world. Knowing that the whole of America idolized him as a Christian conservative, a walking embodiment of righteous ness and family values, only added to the thrill. Jack remembered Fred Farrell's advice to him, about his gambling.

"I get it. It's a turn-on. All this risk. But is it as much of a turn-on as being the next president of the United States? That's what you have to ask yourself, Jack. You could lose everything."

Ah, yes. But that was the thrill, wasn't it? Knowing you could lose everything. Fred Farrell knew about the gambling and the extramarital flings. But he didn't know about Jasmine. Only one person had ever known about Jasmine.

And that person was a rotting, worm-eaten corpse by the name of Lenny Brookstein.