Vendetta

“What happened to Henry Carlson and his family is regrettable,” she said softly. “But it wasn’t my fault.”

“A lot of other people don’t see it that way.”

“People have skeletons in their closets. I didn’t put them there.”

“Maybe not, but you sure as hell don’t seem hesitant about trotting them out when you find them.”

Winter thought about that. She’d had a choice about revealing everything she’d discovered in the Carlson matter, of course. Her publisher had even had a choice in deciding whether to go to press with the book. In the end, they both decided to go forward with what she’d found out. In their minds, revealing the truth served the greater good.

“What I relayed in my book had been whispered about in Hollywood for years,” Winter told him. “Victoria Chase, Carlson’s maternal grandmother, had been suspected of being a Nazi sympathizer.”

“Those documents you found seriously hurt Carlson’s international corporate image. Wall Street bailed on him as soon as word about your book hit the streets.”

Winter knew that. She still felt badly about how it had gone. But Henry Carlson and BriteFutures Pharmaceuticals were rich enough to afford a fickle stock market for a time. In the end, Carlson was a success because he was a good businessman. His grandmother’s twin careers of Hollywood diva and German spy wouldn’t change that.

“I’m not here to defend that book, Counselor.” Winter returned her attention to the iPAQ. To her way of thinking, revealing the fact that Victoria Chase had been a Nazi spy had shown again how strange Hollywood could be, and how disillusioned and vulnerable. In the book, Winter had used the example to address some of the other bizarre behavior exhibited by stars and the Hollywood crowd.

“You need to realize that some things are better left alone,” David said.

Ah-ha! Winter squelched the sense of triumph that surged through her. Although Christine had told Winter on the phone that she preferred not to get into the matter until they could talk face-to-face, she’d given Winter the impression that the matter was of grave importance.

The whole “some things are better left alone” riff told Winter that what they were talking about was history. But whose?

“What things,” Winter asked quietly, “need to be left alone?”

David’s face reddened. Before he could respond, if he was going to, the door opened.

Christine Evans entered the room and closed the door behind her. For a moment Winter could hear the familiar noise of the outer office, computer keyboards clacking and students talking to office personnel. It took her back twenty years in a heartbeat, and she remembered how happy she’d been at Athena Academy.

And how incredibly young and naive.

“Hello, Winter,” Christine said, then cut her eyes over to David Gracelyn. “David.”

David nodded curtly.

“Hi,” Winter said in greeting.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.” Christine walked behind the desk but didn’t sit as she checked through the memos on her computer screen.

The years had been good to her, Winter decided.

Almost sixty, Christine Evans still maintained the erect military posture she’d learned while serving in the United States Army. Short-cut gray hair that almost matched the color of her eyes—even the left one, which was artificial, the result of a military encounter that she’d never shared with anyone—looked immaculate. She wore a dark blue business suit.

The last time Winter had seen Christine had been at Marion’s funeral nearly twelve years ago. Winter had almost returned a couple of years ago after Lorraine Miller had been killed. But she hadn’t been part of Rainy’s group. Winter had also been working undercover on a book about the Asian Triads in Seattle that had won her a Pulitzer Prize.

“You haven’t kept us waiting too long at all,” Winter replied. “David and I were just catching up on old times.”

Christine raised an eyebrow at that, then returned her attention to the computer.

Behind Christine’s back, David scowled. He didn’t say anything.

“I hadn’t expected you here, David.” Christine made a couple of notes.

“I told you I might drop by.”

“I thought we’d agreed to follow this course of action.”

“You didn’t mention who you were bringing in to handle this.”

“No.” Christine faced him. “I didn’t. I only told you that I was bringing in the best that I could.”

“What you’re talking about doing is incredibly sensitive,” David said.

“It’s also incredibly important that it be done well,” Christine countered. “You know that.”

Winter’s curiosity shot up immediately. She also felt vaguely flattered that Christine would hold her in such high regard. However, at the same time, she couldn’t help thinking that the whole production might be an act designed solely to get her to lower her defenses. She was no longer the naive young woman she’d been when she’d left the academy.

“Athena Academy and secrets have always gone hand in glove,” David said.

Winter knew that. When the decision had been made to build an all-girls school that would specialize in preparing young women for successful lives that included career paths for intelligence agents, military officers, investigative and forensics law enforcement personnel, a lot of government interest had been sparked. Winter had heard stories of agreements for funding from different government branches that Marion Gracelyn had considered and maybe accepted.

That would be a story, wouldn’t it? Winter told herself. Over the years of her career, she had been tempted to tell the story of Athena Academy and the iron-willed woman who had envisioned it. But there had been a code of silence about the school that no one, not even television news reporters Tory Patton or Shannon Connor—also Athena grads—had broken.

“I know that,” Christine said. “I’ve helped with some of those secrets myself.” She paused. “Now, with all due respect, David, let me get on with what I need to do. This is the best course of action at this juncture.”

David’s eyes swiveled to Winter. “Perhaps. But you’re extending a lot of trust.”

“I am,” Christine agreed. “But I would rather trust one of our own than someone from outside.” She turned to Winter. “You just got in from a long drive. Maybe you’d like to stretch your legs and have a look at the improvements that have been made since you were last here.”

“Sure.” Winter stood, ignoring David and falling into step with Christine as they left the office. She felt his eyes on her until the door closed behind her.

Uneasy and angry, David Gracelyn glared through the window of Christine Evans’s office. It was situated so that it faced the front of the school.

One of the short school buses was letting out a group of girls that had gone off on a field day. The academy believed in putting the students into real-life circumstances on a regular basis.

A moment later, Winter Archer and Christine Evans stepped into David’s field of view. His eyes were drawn immediately to the writer’s slender body. He could remember what she’d looked like when she’d gone to school with Allison, his sister.

Winter Archer was the only daughter of wealthy, career-driven parents who had been too glad to find a private school for their daughter. As a young girl, David remembered that Winter had always been an observer, never one for saying much. She’d struck him as pretty then, and that beauty had blossomed during the intervening years.

She had thick black hair, perfectly arched eyebrows, and plump lips. Her skin was pale, not unhealthy, just untanned. Like cream. The color made her hair and her light purplish hazel eyes stand out even more.

Winter’s eyes were what David remembered most about her. She’d always been watchful. But she’d been so quiet she’d been hard to get to know.

It was strange that he remembered her after all these years. He knew who she was, of course, because he’d read some of her books.

As an investigative reporter specializing in reconstruction of events and happenings that had complicated timetables, Winter Archer had few peers. Her books came out slowly, but they sold strongly. She worked on projects that covered the history of countries to the personal lives of media figures.

She had a reputation for telling the truth. But sometimes she told too much of the truth. The Carlson book was a perfect example.