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In five minutes, Carl Oldfield would be dead.
L.J. smiled, pleased with the irony. The nosy reporter would die like he lived—clueless.
Concentrate. Don’t get ahead of yourself. He pushed the oversized dark glasses snug against the bridge of his nose and tightened his grip on the white cane. A man with a seeing-eye dog walked by. Perfect. He merged into the slipstream of blank-eyed figures, confident he’d breeze through the security checkpoint’s x-ray machines and metal detectors.
“Go right on through, sir,” the officer said. “The elevators are straight ahead.”
“Thanks, son,” L.J. answered. “Have a nice day.”
He silently applauded the organization for the blind. It took clout to snag the Hart Senate Office Building’s ninth-floor conference room. The gathering met his needs perfectly. Even the weather was cooperating with his game of blind-man’s bluff. An icy rain-sleet mix prompted a sea of raincoats, scarves and hats, making him just one more anonymous trench coat with a dripping hat brim pulled low. The wig and fake moustache almost seemed overkill.
Clicks from dozens of canes echoed in the soaring atrium. It sounded as if the blustery wind had blown in a swarm of hapless cicadas. He tapped his white cane on the marble floor, adding one more discordant note to the invasion of rain-spackled supplicants.
He concentrated on holding his head rigid. No blind man would crane his neck to study the towering sculpture dominating the atrium. His gaze roamed behind his black glasses.
Where the hell was Charles? He’d given the senator’s nervous aide two simple tasks. Escort the meddlesome Washington Post reporter from Senator Yates’ office on schedule. Engage the target in conversation beside the elevators until Oldfield’s fate was sealed.
With one poke, the tip of L.J.’s cane would induce a massive heart attack. By the time the journalist collapsed, L.J. and his deadly cane would be nine stories up, listening to sightless lobbyists plead with deaf congressmen.
Given the pudgy Oldfield’s three-pack-a-day habit and fondness for MoonPies, nobody would think twice about the forty-five-year-old’s demise. Even if the death raised questions, no one would suspect L.J. of providing the fatal catalyst.
L.J.’s heart stuttered as he neared the elevators. Taking a deep breath, he told himself his nerves were normal. He was a businessman, not an assassin. His partner had made long-distance arrangements to eliminate the procurement officer. He should have done the same, but Oldfield pissed him off. He wanted to give the prying slob a personal send-off to hell. The self-righteous liberal prick was just like the journalists who’d hounded his father to the edge of insanity after that traitor-bitch bankrupted his family.
Dammit. Some goddamn broad was chatting up Charles and Oldfield. He didn’t need a witness.
As the woman gestured, her voluminous raincoat ballooned like a spinnaker sail in a stiff breeze, keeping her shape a secret. He could only gauge her height—almost as tall as Charles, maybe five-eight. As he drew closer, L.J. spied wisps of glistening auburn hair peeking beneath her rain bonnet. His gaze traveled down—tailored slacks, no-nonsense, low-heeled pumps.
She shifted and her freckled face sprang into view. Recognition hit him like a body blow. Riley Reid.
The interloper doffed her rain hat and tossed her shiny curls like a bedraggled spaniel. What if she recognized him? He wanted to scream. Get the hell away.
Her lively hands danced as she spoke. He doubted she’d shut her trap soon. Like all women, she liked to yammer, share her smug opinions. She was screwing up his careful plan.
The woman was chummy with her companions. Charles worked for her uncle, Senator Yates. Oldfield had interviewed her dozens of times when the reporter worked for the Greenville News and she was in the FBI’s Greenville office.
She knew L.J., too. Thank God he’d added the wig and moustache. He slowed his pace.
Do I stick with my plan?
Time to decide. He’d reach the yakking trio in seconds. He couldn’t walk any slower without attracting attention—a molasses anomaly in a fast-paced kaleidoscope. The deadly cane slipped in his sweat-slicked palm. He tightened his grip.
Tap. Tap. Goddammit.
Tap. Tap. Wish I could poke her, too.
He inched forward. Oldfield had his back to him. The woman was focused on the journalist.
He believed in risk-reward analysis. A murder committed in front of a former FBI agent definitely bumped up his risk factor. He bit the inside of his lip and tasted blood. He smelled wet wool. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears.
A crowd bunched near the elevators. Blind people milled around, bumping into things. I won’t stand out. Reward outweighed risk.
He pressed a lever. Like a serpent’s tongue, a needlelike sliver of metal flicked out of the cane’s tip. He felt a tiny jolt as the needle point punctured Oldfield’s leg. L.J. retracted the tip. He’d moved a yard past Oldfield when the reporter emitted a pig-like squeal. L.J. resumed his innocent tap-tapping on the marble. Two yards away. Tap. Tap. Three.
He sidled up to a blind woman super-glued to the man patting her arm. As L.J. waited for the elevator, no one yelled.
Home free.
* * * *
The reporter’s wisecracks about Blue Ridge University turning into a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah punched Riley Reid’s on button. She realized she was talking with hands a-flutter and caught Oldfield’s grin. She laughed. The journalist was up to his old tricks, good-natured baiting, and she’d fallen for it.
Riley forgave Oldfield. She felt wired, alive, having spent the day with Nexi Ketts and Kate Johnson. The trio called themselves the “Smart Women, Dumb Luck Club.” Dumb luck had brought them together. The “Smart Women” tag was a joke, poking fun at themselves, since their supposed “smarts” seemed to go missing when it came to family relationships and men.
When the fates aligned to bring them together, the ladies made the most of it. This time they all had reasons to be in D.C. Nexi had a forensic accounting gig, Kate was checking out a nearby university’s doctoral program, and Riley was attending a conference focused on security.
Oldfield cocked his head. “You seem...well, happier. Not sure I ever saw you laugh when you were with the FBI.”
“I am happier.” Riley grinned. “Always appreciated your jokes, but surely you know smiling is against agency regs.”
At lunch, Nexi and Kate had made a similar observation, teasing Riley about losing her wooden FBI “mannequisms.” Their jests held a kernel of truth. As an FBI agent, Riley fought the urge to move more than an eyelash when she spoke. Now she felt free to reveal her emotions—frown, shrug, wag a finger, raise an eyebrow.
A small knot of blind people passed by. Her gestures would be meaningless to them. She thought of all the wonders sighted people take for granted. No sunrises. No smiles.
“Have you read this?” Oldfield’s question stopped her woolgathering.
Oh, crap. Now there was a smile she didn’t want to see—Wolf Valdes’s hundred-watt grin plastered on the book jacket of his erotic thriller. Oldfield fanned himself with the best-selling novel. “Hot, hot, hot.”
Riley’s smile froze as her gaze fastened on the author’s bedroom eyes. Her one-time lover’s popular novel constantly reminded her of her transgression. She felt a blush creep up her neck as she imagined Oldfield reading the fictionalized account of her steamy interlude with Wolf Valdes. Wonder if he’s reached page 158?
The journalist waggled his eyebrows. “I may not write for the Greenville News any more, but I still keep tabs on South Carolina happenings. I’m considering doing a piece on Professor Valdes’s troubles at Blue Ridge University.”
Oldfield chuckled. “Lot a good it did Valdes to publish Firelight under a pseudonym. The minute that publishing screw-up put his photo on the book jacket, he was outed. I hear your faculty conservatives want to tar and feather him.”
Riley shrugged and flat-out lied. “The drama’s blown over.”
She didn’t want the reporter nosing around and digging up the morbid connection between her family and Wolf’s relatives. Riley’s mom didn’t need her son’s death rehashed. Her mother did a fine job of picking at that scab all by her lonesome. Good lord, could it be twenty-six years since Jack died?
Oldfield shook his head. “From what I hear, it’s still a juicy story. BRU’s self-appointed morals police are plotting to terminate Valdes.” He cupped a hand around his mouth and whispered. “Wish all my homework was this much fun. I give Firelight five stars.”
Oldfield stuffed the volume deeper into his nest of papers. “Do you miss the FBI?”
Riley sighed in relief at the change of topic. “No, keeping three thousand students safe is challenge enough. Young people are a tonic. They’re so enthusiastic, full of life.”
She didn’t comment on the irritant of seeing Wolf strut around her campus with coeds panting in his wake. Nor did she mention that some faculty barely tolerated her, believing security measures ran counter to intellectual freedom.
She glanced at her watch. Two minutes and she’d be late. In her FBI days she’d faced down drug dealers and crazed neo-Nazis. Still her uncle, the senator, intimidated her.
She offered Oldfield a farewell handshake. “Gotta run. My uncle gets heartburn when people are tardy.”
The reporter’s body jerked. His fingers spasmed, nearly crushing the bones in her hand. A strangled cry escaped his lips. His eyes scrunched shut; his face contorted.
“You okay?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
Oldfield’s grimace relaxed slightly, but his color wasn’t good.
“Just a twinge.” He panted. “Felt like someone branded my leg with a hot poker. My doc says it’s past time to quit smoking and start dieting. Same load of crap he hands everyone over forty.”
The reporter’s expression didn’t jibe with his nonchalant quip.
“You look shaky. Why don’t you come to my uncle’s office and sit a spell.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
Before she could utter another word, Charles grabbed her elbow. “Better catch the next elevator if you want to be on time.” The aide sounded stressed.
What’s his problem? In the ten years she’d known Charles, he’d never touched her. Never touched anyone. Now his fingers dug into her arm as if she were a fleeing felon. His insistent tug pulled her toward the elevators.
“Nice to see you,” she called over her shoulder. “You know those doctors aren’t always full of crap. Take care.”
An elevator door tried to close then hiccupped open. A man gently took his blind wife’s elbow and guided her to the left. “Mae, honey, your cane stopped the door from closing.”
When he spotted Riley and Charles, the husband stuck out his hand to interrupt the safety beam. “There’s plenty of room.”
The blind woman sighed. “Sorry. Am I in the way?”
“You’re fine, doing great,” her husband said.
“Give yourself time,” added a stranger, waggling a white cane. “Took me a year to get used to feeling my way with this cattle prod.”
The fourth passenger kept silent. Black glasses hid his eyes. A hat brim shadowed the small wedge of visible features. His chin burrowed deep in a heather scarf. His moustache and bushy sideburns—something peculiar about them—drew her attention.
Her eyes fixed on the blind stranger. Riley automatically noted the minutia, the ingrained habit of observing details remained strong. If that fellow could see, I’d apologize for staring.
She faced forward as the doors closed and the elevator shot up to Uncle Ed’s eighth-floor offices.
* * * *
L.J.’s hammering heart made him wonder if Oldfield would be the day’s sole heart attack. Thank God the Reid woman didn’t glance back when she stepped off the elevator. What prompted her to stare at him like she was prepping for a police sketch artist? Did she decide he looked familiar? Knowing her, she’d brood on Oldfield’s death. Maybe connect him. Damn her.
When L.J. came up with the university portion of his plan, he considered sidelining the security director early in the game. He decided against it—even though the uppity bitch begged to be smacked down. Time to revisit his decision?
Her unexpected appearance in D.C. tipped the scales. They weren’t in her favor.