LINKED (The Bening Files Book 1) Page 34

  A men and women’s bathroom took up space between the two. From where Matthew stood, he could see Birmingham as he opened the door labeled, NOT AN EXIT, stepped inside and came to an abrupt halt. He caught a flash of something large and lightly colored lying on his floor before the other man backed out of the office and shut the door.

  When he started to turn, Matthew ducked into the men’s bathroom and caught the door before it closed completely. Footsteps fell on the stairs as the same bouncer he’d noted earlier, met a pale-faced Birmingham in the hallway in front of his hiding spot.

  “Mr. B, you feeling okay?”

  “Has anyone been in my office?”

  Tough-Guy-Bouncer’s eyebrows rose on his forehead. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  The older man paced a short length of the walkway between his employee and office. “Close off the alcove. Send everyone down the other set of stairs.”

  “Mr. B?” A questioning expression lit the employees face. “Is everything okay?”

  “Just do it. We’ve got a plumbing problem up here. Get everybody downstairs and keep them there. Once the plumbers get here, we’ll close the bar.”

  “As in, early?”

  “Yes. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Sure thing, Mr. B.” Then he hurried toward the unsuspecting crowd located in the alcoves.

  Birmingham didn’t move, but pulled a cell phone from his pocket, hit a few buttons and brought it to his ear.

  “I’m done,” he said into the receiver. “You know exactly what I mean. Get down here and get that parting gift out of my office before my club smells like a morgue.” As soon as he hung up, his phone gave a loud peel again. “Birmingham.” Irritation laced his voice. “I’m fine, Rupert. I appreciate the concern, but now is not a good time.” Silence. “Why don’t we meet at the house later? Uh-huh. Good.” Again, he hung up and turned toward his office, giving Matthew his back. He opened his office door and slipped inside.

  There was no way Matthew would leave, not when whatever lay behind Birmingham’s office door warranted closing the club. The other man hadn’t done that since the fire back in 1990. Sending a silent prayer heavenward, for guidance, forgiveness—because neither Jordan nor McKenna would forgive him if something happened—he stepped out of the bathroom. He pulled a Glock from the back of the waistband of his jeans. Between himself, Jordan and McKenna, they’d agreed he needed a means of protecting himself. Two days ago, he’d filed the serial numbers off of Jordan’s personal weapon.

  After a lengthy debate, Cassidy’s son had, none to happily, reported it missing. Before Matthew could change his mind, he made a beeline for the office, opened the door and stepped inside.

  An empty desk and chair greeted him in the main office, the object he’d glimpsed, gone. The door connecting the office to the old living area, closed, a curse coming from the other side. The door opened again and Birmingham stopped in his tracks.

  Shock registered on his face as he inched the door, behind him, shut.

  Matthew caught the sight of the item he’d seen earlier. A corpse lay in front of the table. A pale pink blouse and a once black pencil skirt covered the fragile looking bones. A patch of pale hair remained affixed to the skull. Everything around him stopped. He knew that blouse, that skirt and soft, pale hair. The outfit had been one of Cassidy’s favorites. She’d worn the ensemble on one of their last dates.

  He worked at pushing the gathering saliva out of his mouth. His clammy hand gripped the gun and aimed it in Birmingham’s direction.

  The other man was faster, the barrel of a gun in his face already, the finality of metal against metal echoing in his ears. A .45 centered on his heart. “Who are you and what are you doing in here?”

  Possibilities swirled in his mind, denying his thoughts, while his heart beat the truth to a staccato rhythm. Like he’d been decked in the face too many times in a boxing ring, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. The gun in his hand wavered. Birmingham took that moment to shoot it from his fingers.

  A searing jolt of pain went up Matthew’s right hand.

  The black metal hit the floor with a loud thunk and clattered to a stop under the desk. All Matthew could see was Cassidy’s body, eaten away by time. He stared at the chunk of fleshing missing from the top of his index finger, an angry, jagged line, an inch long, starting to well with blood. He hadn’t been prepared. Wasn’t that one of the first rules he’d learned as a cop? Always be prepared. Never go in alone.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, but you picked a bad time to come into my office.”

  Jordan had been right to be suspicious.

  “Your phone call. Who was it?”

  “Are you delusional? You see this?” Birmingham raised the gun toward the ceiling, then re-centered it. “This means I ask the questions.”

  Every cell in his body was numb. His wife, the love of his life, was beyond that door. It didn’t matter that her bones only signified what she’d once been. The fact still cut like a jagged knife, one that he couldn’t feel, but was forced to watch slice through the remaining tissue of his life.

  “You haven’t changed one bit. Always thought you could take what wasn’t yours. Always hiding something. Selfish. Self-serving.”

  The gun wavered as a sliver of genuine fear crept onto Birmingham’s face. “Blaney?”

  ###

  “Have you heard from him?” McKenna asked.

  “Not yet, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  Jordan’s words didn’t assure her. It was after eleven p.m. and they sat in their office. She couldn’t sit still. The four walls around them didn’t seem the same with the revelations and activity of the last few weeks. Her awards and achievements stared at her from one wall. Jordan had begun to hang several of his own.

  The basketball hoop sat in the corner, the ball beneath it, abandoned like an old school building. Across from her, Jordan clicked away on his computer.

  The office was the same.

  She was different.

  Tightness threatened to burn a hole through her stomach muscles. She got up and grabbed the basketball. “I don’t feel right.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to come here.” No accusation, just statement.

  “To avoid those story whores.” A group of reporters still camped on their front lawn. No respect.

  Jordan scribbled something on a piece of paper. “And because you can’t sleep.”

  She gripped the ball in her hand a minute, then discarded it. “Neither can you.”

  He looked up then, a small smile mixing with exhaustion. “That’s not out of the norm.” He drummed the pen on the note pad, on which, he’d previously written. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better. Try a deep breath.”

  “Fine. Know-it-all,” she muttered.

  That grin on his face got a little larger as he returned to whatever his computer screen held.

  She sat at her desk and opened her email. She deleted spam messages. Replied to a request from one of their field agents and ignored an email from HQ titled, CIRG position details. The clock, in the corner, confirmed she’d killed ten minutes. “You know they’re related.”

  Jordan scrubbed his hands over his face. “Prove it. That’s what they’ll say. Prove that the disappearance of your mother’s body is related to the Gaidies case.”

  She stood. “Mrs. Gaidies didn’t put those flowers on that grave by accident. Mr. Gaidies didn’t die after discovering those flowers, by accident. I was abducted after Rupert came clean about those flowers. Why?”

  “The only connection is Clarence Roden, and even that’s a stretch. His affair with Mrs. Gaidies ended over a year ago. My mother worked with his company prior to her death, ten years ago. Their paths never crossed.”

  “Birmingham wanted in on that project. His club wasn’t thriving then, the way it is now, and he needed some diversified advertisement.”

  “Matthew said she wouldn’t work with Birmingham.”

  She brought u
p Google and searched for the history of Balm Corp’s web pages. Their current page had an advertisement banner that constantly streamed different merchandise of various companies around the country. Everything from car insurance to tooth paste. Back in 1990, it had held only a few ads, one of them for Club Italia, announcing its reopening after a small kitchen fire.

  The bottom of the page held the copyright logo, circa 1990, Bening Photography. “I guess he was wrong.”

  Jordan came around the desk and stood behind her.

  “Why did he want on that project so bad in the first place?” His breath whispered over her neck. “And why did she finally agree to work with him?”

  Guess I should thank you for your life-saving measures a few weeks ago. Birmingham’s voice bounced around in her head. He’d lifted his hands out of his pockets to hug her. In her panic, she’d backed away. But what she saw in her mind now, was the bruising on his knuckles.

  Guess I should thank you. The words, soft, reached into something locked within her mind.

  “McKenna?” Jordan’s voice floated to her from far away.

  Now we’re even. It kept repeating. The dumpster. Light. The grass. Darkness. Then nothing. Same soft voice. Meant to sooth, but caused anxiety instead.

  “McKenna.” Jordan touched her shoulder.

  “Now we’re even.” This was bad. It was…

  “What?”

  She jumped up and grasped Jordan’s arms. “He pulled me out of that dumpster.”

  “Who?”

  “Birmingham.”

  A hooded expression covered his face. “You’re sure?”

  “Ninety-nine percent positive.” She relayed her discovery.

  “That’s conflicting. If he pulled you out, that means he knew about it.”

  “And maybe called it in, too. From a disposable phone. Like he was doing damage control.”

  Jordan started to shake his head, to disagree or disbelieve, McKenna wasn’t sure.

  “If I could talk to him, see him again, I’d know for sure.”

  “I don’t know.” The negative answer sat on her husband’s face, waiting for verbalization.

  “Think a minute. What’s the protocol after a Cardiac Catheterization?”

  “Don’t lift anything,” he mumbled.

  “It’s rare to tear the femoral artery without strain, even after surgery like that. He injured himself so bad, he ended up in the ICU. Don’t tell me that came from lifting some boxes. The timeline fits with when you found me.”

  No response. Jordan stared at something behind her head, maybe fighting the evidence or his own demons. She wouldn’t let him do it alone.

  “Hey.” She waved a hand in front of his face. “We’ll still need evidence that he placed the call. From there we can find out if he’s an accomplice or merely in the right place at the wrong time.” McKenna pressed her lips to Jordan’s. “Let’s finish this, Bening.”

  “Okay.” The man who’d become her best friend at a young age, didn’t look happy, but when this was all over, he’d be able to live again. Maybe, for the first time in ten years.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The parking lot at Club Italia seemed empty for a Friday night, but Jordan could hear the clubs pulsating beat as both he and McKenna exited his truck.

  Something coiled in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t even pretend to have no clue why he’d let her talk him into this. Closure only came in a number of ways. His situation was unique, at best.

  If what McKenna suspected was true, why had Birmingham gone to the trouble of dragging her out of that dumpster? The monster image he had of the man didn’t fit with this possible evidence. And if they connected the prepaid phone to him, they could connect him to the murder. The whole thing could be bigger than he’d ever imagined.

  The thought made him sick, because it meant he could have prevented Rupert’s family from death, had he not run away after his mom’s death.

  “Don’t worry.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “I’m packing. We’re not here to arrest him, just to poke around a little.”

  “I know that should be reassuring, but it’s not.”

  “Pretend I’m another agent you’re working with.”

  Oh, yes, that was possible. Not. The yellow dress she wore, accentuated her curves and brought out the color of her eyes. It left one shoulder bare and tied at the curve of the other. There was no way he could pretend anything with her dressed like that.

  She tugged his hand and stopped. “At least wipe that this-is-my-woman-hear-me-roar look from your face.”

  Oh, boy. “Be careful, okay. Any hint of unease, call Robinson.” They reached the front door and he tugged it open. Music blasted past them, the sound bringing back images of the moments he’d spent upstairs as a kid. He shook it off. A meager twenty people filled the lower level. Some danced, others mingled at the tables strategically placed throughout. A bouncer checked their ID’s and took a cover charge before they were allowed to enter.

  A hand to her back, he steered McKenna toward the bar and ordered a beer and a club soda with a lime. After paying for their drinks, he handed the soda to her and feigned a sip of his beer. The lights remained on in the upper level, but not a soul lingered up there. A bulky man in black pants and a blue shirt with SECURITY printed across it, stood at the base of the nearest set of stairs, preventing anyone from heading in that direction.

  Jordan leaned toward her, so his lips almost rested on her ear. “It doesn’t look like getting upstairs will be easy.”

  She shook her head, then turned back to the bartender and pointed in that direction. They exchanged some words before she turned back to Jordan. “Birmingham’s here,” she said.

  “Ask and you shall receive?”

  “They closed the upper level shortly after he arrived. Some plumbing problem.”

  The men guarding the stairs didn’t look like they’d move with a simple request. And he wasn’t sending McKenna up there alone. Alerting Birmingham to their presence was the last thing he wanted.

  “Why not use your badge?” she asked.

  “Might create panic.” They walked in the direction of the guard.

  McKenna shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

  “No risks okay? Let’s make this as simple as possible.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “No schemes. Promise me or we’re leaving right now.”

  She made a funny face as she sipped her drink. “Is it hot in here?”

  “No. Promise?”

  One hand fluttered to her stomach and her brow scrunched together.

  His heart started to pound in his ears.

  “What’s wrong?” He stopped her at the base of the steps.

  No answer.

  “McKenna?” He tipped her chin up. “Talk to me.”

  “I feel…” The drink dropped from her hand and crashed to the floor, scattering ice and glass at their feet. Her eyes rolled backward and her body went lax. He caught her mid fall.

  In that instant, he couldn’t breathe. “McKenna?” He patted her face.

  No response. No. Not now.

  The man near the stairs rushed toward them. “She okay?”

  “I’m fine.” The soft whisper fell across his ear. Her lips didn’t move. Had he imagined it? “Go.” This time he noted a slight twitch to her lips. “I’ll find a way up.”

  Jordan’s heart started to slow as he laid her on ground, careful to avoid the larger chunks of glass. The guard knelt near them and some people who’d heard the crash started to come from the dance floor. It took everything he had to slow the adrenaline rush in his body. When he looked at her through clear eyes, her color looked fine and a pulse beat at her neck.

  What part of ‘no schemes’ didn’t she understand? He was going to strangle her. Later.

  “Sir?” The man beside him looked at McKenna.

  “We were talking and then she got pale and fainted, I think. I barely know her.”

  The man pushed Jordan o
ut of the way and placed a hand on McKenna’s neck. “She’s got a pulse and is breathing.”

  “Oh, good.” He tried to fidget and glanced at the door a few times as if contemplating escape.

  “Relax, man. This happens all the time. She probably got overheated from dancing and fainted. Get us some ice water.”

  “Yeah.” He backed away. “Sure.”

  He headed toward the bar, but as soon as the other man turned his back, he jogged up the stairs. From the top, he peaked over the ledge and watched as McKenna opened her eyes, sat up and acted a little disoriented and skittish, pushing the man’s hands away from her. After a moment, she bashfully assured everyone she was fine.

  He would have to pay her back for that little stunt.

  ###

  The music melded from Michael Jackson’s, Thriller to Creed’s, With Arms Wide Open and several couples rejoined the dance floor.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” The man perched next to McKenna asked. His gaze traveled over the dress she’d thrown on earlier.

  “Positive.” She checked urge to deck the Neanderthal in front of her. Then, she threw a surreptitious glance toward the stairs and found Jordan nowhere in sight. “I’m fine. Really.”

  The employee’s eyes glanced at the cast still surrounding her elbow. “Maybe we should call an ambulance, just in case?”

  “No, no. I just drank too much tonight. I’m kind of a light weight.”

  The few people gathered around her faded back into the party around them. Glass crunched under their shoes as they passed her. A pair of Italian loafers came into her line of view.

  “I’m sure she’s fine.” A male voice said. A chunk of lime squished beneath those loafers as Rupert extended his hand toward her. “Let me help you up.”

  A blip of panic shot down her spine. What was he doing here?

  “You know him?” The employee asked. His gazed flicked between them.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry Miss, but it seems like the guy you were with, bailed.”