In Old Louisville, Ellie watched Quinn park in front of a large, charming historic home, The Brandeis House, named after Louis Brandeis, the famous Supreme Court jurist from Louisville.
“Wow – you live in this huge mansion?”
“Just one apartment,” he said.
Ellie loved this old section of town: forty-eight blocks of turn-of-the-century homes near the University of Louisville. Architectural experts said the neighborhood had the largest collection of Victorian homes in the United States.
Most were still in excellent condition, despite a hundred years of Louisville’s wet cold winters and long hot summers. The mansions were originally lived in by whiskey and bourbon barons, Ohio River shipping tycoons, and a few scoundrels. Today, some of their descendants lived there, along with business people, professors, families, and one very lucky law student named Quinn Parker.
He led her inside to a foyer of magnificent, polished auburn mahogany. She loved its full, rich scent.
She stepped into Quinn’s apartment and felt like she’d stepped into the 1920s. The antique furniture, kitchen table, chairs and end tables were old, polished maple. A gold and red Tiffany lamp sat on a side table. Law books stuffed his shelves. On his desk sat family pictures of Quinn with his parents and a girl who looked like the older sister he’d mentioned.
But no photo of Jennifer DuBois.
Probably in his bedroom.
His rent had to cost a fortune.
“Quinn – such luxury!”
“Yeah.”
“Do your parents know you sell drugs?”
“Not yet. Actually, this apartment’s only fifty bucks a month.”
“And I’m Lady Gaga.”
“Fifty bucks! Really. This house belonged to a successful Brandeis Law School grad who bequeathed it to the school with two stipulations. First, that they rent the six apartments to six former U of L football player law students at fifty bucks a month. And second that the law students do ten hours of pro bono work at a free legal clinic each month.”
“Such a deal!”
“Yep.” He led her into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
“We’ve got RC Cola, Nehi Orange drink, and … hillbilly penicillin.”
“Huh?”
“Jack Daniels.”
“Jack sounds medicinal.”
He fixed two whiskeys and they sat in side-by-side wicker chairs facing the window. She plopped down in one chair, he in the other. They clinked their glasses and sipped. The liquid felt like velvet going down.
“So, Miss Ellie, after two vehicle attacks, some thugs driving us off Highway 25, a bullet hitting my TrailBlazer inches from your head, and a bad guy circling your house, how you feeling?”
“Like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive.”
He smiled, then turned serious.
“Ellie …?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re safe with me.”
She knew he meant it. “I always feel safe with you.”
He shrugged. “You know what these attacks mean?”
“Someone believes my DNA will match Mr. Radford’s DNA.”
“Or knows it will.”
“But how can they even know about my DNA test? Only Fletcher Falcone, the nurse, and Irene Whitten the housekeeper knew. And they wanted me to take the test.”
“Maybe one of them mentioned it to the wrong person.”
“Which one?” she said, sipping her whiskey.
He shrugged. “The Romans had a wise proverb.”
“They had a slew of them.”
“I’m thinking of cui bono ….”
“Who benefits,” she said.
“Yep. And several people benefit from the Radford estate at this time.”
“Like …?”
“Like the managers for Radford’s many corporate divisions. Radford set up six managers. It’s reasonable to assume they fear you might sell off the businesses they manage, or maybe replace them. As a result, they would lose managerial income and lucrative fees. Big money means big fees and big motivation to keep them.”
“You talked to these managers?”
“A few. Darrel Simmons controls Radford’s businesses and manufacturing. Cecil Crawley controls commercial real estate, a printing company, office buildings, shopping malls. Both seemed like stand up guys.”
Ellie nodded.
“I also chatted with Radford’s investment manager, Heinrich De Groot. He controls Radford’s stocks, bonds, and investment portfolios … hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth. He also manages Radford’s 12,000 acres of coal-rich property in southeastern Kentucky.”
Ellie nodded.
“On the phone, these managers seemed like solid businessmen. But who knows? If you inherit the estate, you may sell everything and bingo – they lose fat fees.”
“Doesn’t Fletcher Falcone, as executor, have overall control of the estate assets?”
“He does. But Leland Radford set things up so these six individual managers run their specific areas and report their numbers to Falcone.”
“So if there’s no heir, what happens?”
“Then the executor, Falcone, sells off the estate assets and distribute the proceeds according to Radford’s will and Kentucky probate law. He’ll liquidate all assets, investments, businesses, properties, land holdings, and The Pines estate itself, everything. He and the managers would get more fat fees for doing that. And on top of that, Falcone and the others would get compensation for all other services they’ve been providing. Lots of hours billed. Possibly huge commissions on all assets they sell off.”
“Like the 12,000 acres?”
“Yep.”
Quinn sipped his whiskey. “The question is – how far would any of these managers go to prevent you from inheriting?”
“Someone’s willing to go all the way.” She touched the scab on her cheek.
Quinn nodded. “Your DNA results will resolve everything.”
“If I live long enough to see them.” She heard her voice crack.
Quinn seemed to hear it too. “Ellie, look at me.”
She turned and faced him. He stood up, raised his arms above his head, made enormous bicep muscles. “Tarzan plenty strong. Two-time All-Eight Conference tight end, meaner than a sack of rattlesnakes. I’ll beat the shit out of anyone who tries to hurt you.”
She laughed. “Thanks, Quinn, but then I’d have to worry about you.”
“Me?”
“Sure. I’d worry about your football knee and your two concussions.”
“How do you know about all that?”
“I read. The Louisville Cardinal and the Courier Journal.”
“Ah …”
“And earlier, I saw you take the Vicodin. Is that for the knee?”
He nodded. “Damn thing still hurts at times. But the concussions seem fine now.”
“How’d they happen?”
“Helmet to helmet hits. In the past, opposing players aimed their helmets at ours. The more dings on your helmet, the more macho you were. I got semi-knocked out twice in the last season. Concussions. Doctor told me it was too dangerous to play. But we needed three more wins for the league championship. I played. We got lucky and won. Doc said if I kept playing I could expect memory problems, maybe a stroke, brain damage.”
“Sort of a no brainer, pardon the pun.”
“Yeah. So I turned down an offer to play for the Detroit Lions.”
“Smart move.”
They clicked glasses and sipped more whiskey.
Suddenly, she yawned big. “Sorry …”
Quinn seemed to fight off his own yawn.
“So what now?” she said.
“Sleep.”
“Sounds good.”
He led her down the hallway toward a small bedroom with an attached bathroom.
“The Presidential Suite. Towels, soap, indoor plumbing, all the amenities – except chocolates on your pillow.”
She pictured Quinn lying on her pillow. Stop thinking like that, she told herself. He’s practically married to Jennifer DuBois.
“What time’s your first class tomorrow?” he asked.
“Eight.”
“Wake you at seven?”
“Perfect.”
She smiled and locked on his dark green eyes. She owed him so much. “Again, Quinn, thanks for riding in on your white horse tonight and rescuing this damsel.”
“Happy to ma’am.” He inched closer to her face. He was going to kiss her. She knew it. Her heart raced.
He leaned closer and touched her cheek. “Your scab is healing well.”
“Oh … good.” She smelled his aftershave.
“Sleep well, Ellie. And don’t worry. Six big tough U of L football players live here.”
“That’s what worries me.
“Why?”
“Illegal use of the hands!”
He laughed. “Could happen if your backfield’s in motion.”
Laughing, she turned and walked down to her room, wondering if her backfield was in motion. He headed the other way to his bedroom. She shut the door and closed her eyes. He’d wanted to kiss her. She was sure. But he’d stopped. Why? Only one reason.
Jennifer DuBois … the luckiest girl in Kentucky.
Minutes later, Ellie climbed into bed.
Despite her exhaustion, she had trouble falling asleep. Her mind was on Quinn … and on whether he cared for her. And if he did – was she ready to risk caring for him … maybe even risk loving him?
She had felt the pain of lost love before.
More than once.