A Deadly Game

A fleeting wave of regret passed through him, but he dismissed it impatiently and returned his weapon, a computer laptop cord, to its place on the credenza. He’d had no choice. The man’s death was his own fault. He could have cooperated, made them both some money. Instead, he’d resorted to threats. Well, this was one rich man who would never threaten to expose anyone again, would he?

The killer glanced at his watch. Not much time. If he were caught here, everything would fall apart. They’d convict him of a whole list of crimes, a list that started with murder. Even if the police didn’t catch him, there were others who would, and he feared them even more. He may yet end up as dead as his victim. Adrenaline and fear in equal measures coursed through his body and his gaze slid around the office. So many possible hiding places. Where to start?

Ten minutes later, he could no longer ignore the compelling urge to flee. He hadn’t found a thing. But he wasn’t ready to give up yet, not by a long shot.

He let himself out of the office and hurried to the secretary’s desk out front. A quick search of the drawers paid off. From a file labeled Personal Receipts in neat block letters, he extracted a cell phone bill and copied down the name, address and phone number printed at the top. Then he slid the file back in place and closed the drawer. Two smiling faces peered into his from a framed photograph on the corner of the desk, a young woman and a child with golden curls.

A smile crept across his lips as he committed the faces to memory.

ONE

The moment she rounded the corner of the building, Susanna Trent knew something was wrong. To her right, darkness shrouded the wooded area that ran the length of the building housing Ingram Industries. Tiny frozen daggers of sleet sliced through the nighttime sky to fall onto the crowded evergreen branches, the contact goading the trees into an eerie dance. To her left, slivers of light peeked through the cracks of closed blinds in the floor-to-ceiling office windows. Sleet stung her cheeks and slapped at the nylon hood of her jacket as she skidded to a halt on the sidewalk.

Behind her, Jack Townsend didn’t stop quite as quickly. He bumped into her, and almost knocked her off her feet.

Jack slipped a strong hand under her arm to steady her. “Sorry about that.”

Susanna acknowledged the apology with an absent nod, her stare fixed on the windows. A finger of disquiet tapped at the edges of her mind. She’d expected to see her boss standing there, waiting for her to arrive with his new Corvette. Mr. Ingram had been ecstatic when she called him after the auction ended to tell him that she’d succeeded in buying the car he wanted. Why wasn’t he watching for the moment she arrived, ready to dash outside to see it? Something definitely wasn’t right here.

Jack’s head turned as he followed her gaze. “Is something wrong?”

Susanna shook her head, as much to dislodge the uneasy feelings as to answer. “It’s just that the blinds are closed. They’re never closed.”

“Maybe he wanted some privacy.”

“From what?” She pointed toward the desolate woods. “Nobody ever comes back here except him and me.”

Jack peered into the ice-covered evergreens, then shrugged. “Why don’t we ask him?”

His smile tilted sideways, and Susanna couldn’t help but admire the guy’s strong jaw, chiseled nose and short-cropped dark hair. They’d just met a few hours ago, at the car auction, and she’d noted his wholesome good looks right off. Normally she would have found him attractive, but Jack Townsend was exactly the kind of man she made a point of avoiding. He shared too much in common with someone she hoped she’d never have to see again.

Still, he was doing Mr. Ingram a favor by delivering the new Corvette. She had to admit that was a nice gesture, especially when he had been bidding against her for the same car. Unusual, too. In Susanna’s experience, the sons of billionaires were far too self-centered to do something nice for someone else.

She glanced again at the closed blinds and couldn’t completely dismiss the feeling of foreboding that bloomed. Hurrying to the heavy metal door, she shrugged the strap of her voluminous handbag from her shoulder. The cavernous interior of the purse held a wealth of useful personal items, with plenty of room for the envelope containing the papers for Mr. Ingram’s new car. But it also ate keys. She rummaged inside, shaking to listen for the telltale jingle. Finally, she found them. Her gloved fingers fumbled to locate the right one, and she shoved it into the lock.

The hallway inside was empty, but it would be at this time of night. Susanna led Jack down the short corridor and around the corner. A quick glance toward the front of the building showed that the main lights were off in the accounting department. Stillness filled the office, normally bustling in the daytime. A few safety lights cast a dim glow over the empty desks.

She didn’t pause when she entered her own work space, but hurried across the carpeted floor, past her tidy desk. The door to Mr. Ingram’s private office had been pulled almost closed. Was he on a phone call, maybe? She halted for a moment, but didn’t hear any noise from inside.

“Mr. Ingram?” She tapped on the wood, the sound muted by her gloves. “I’m here with your car.”

No answer. Alarm crept like spider legs up the back of Susanna’s neck. Something was wrong; she could feel it. She exchanged a glance with Jack, whose brows had drawn together over eyes dark with concern.

“Mr. Ingram? Is everything okay?”

Susanna laid a gloved hand on the solid door and gave a gentle push. It swung inward, and she slipped through the enlarged opening. The desk chair was empty, but her gaze was drawn to the floor.

A body lay halfway hidden behind the big wooden desk. But the head was visible. The image seared into Susanna’s brain like a hot brand, and she knew she would remember it as long as she lived. Mr. Ingram’s face was purple, his eyes bulging from their sockets to stare at something no living person could see.

A scream tore from her throat.

While the police officer took his statement, Jack tried not to look toward Ingram’s open office door. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash from the investigator’s camera as it photographed the body. He suppressed a shudder and glanced in the opposite direction, where Susanna sat huddled in a chair, her face hidden behind a curtain of blond hair. The horrified sound of her scream still echoed in his ears. She spoke quietly into a cell phone, which she held cupped to the side of her head with one hand while she massaged her temples with the thumb and forefinger of the other. Something about the way her drooping shoulders gave an occasional heave, as if she was holding back sobs, made Jack want to cross the room and place a comforting arm around her.

The thought brought a sour taste to his mouth. An offer of compassion might be viewed as an invitation, and he wasn’t about to get himself any more involved with Susanna Trent than he already was. They’d known each other only a few hours, and already the gruesome specter of a dead body had polluted any budding relationship they might have enjoyed. That, and the fact that she knew who he was. The name Townsend cast a long shadow in Lexington, Kentucky.

“Thank you for answering our questions, Mr. Townsend.” Jack pulled his attention away from Susanna and focused on the police detective. The man, who had identified himself as Detective Rollins, gave a quick smile. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to get an address and phone number where we can reach you in case something comes up that we need to clarify.”

“Of course.” Jack slid his wallet out of his jeans pocket and extracted a card.

Rollins took it out of his hand and studied it. “Vice President of Supply for Townsend Steakhouses, Inc.” The detective didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was impressed. “That sounds like an important job.”

“Yes, it certainly does.” Jack worded his answer carefully, and hoped his smile was sincere.

The detective’s expression turned quizzical, but he didn’t pursue the matter. “Well, we may be in touch. In the meantime, if you think of anything that could be helpful, give us a call.”

Rollins handed the card to the uniformed officer standing next to him, who began copying information from it. With another quick smile, this time in dismissal, the detective headed for Ingram’s office.

Apparently Jack was free to leave. He glanced toward Susanna, who had not moved from her chair and was still speaking quietly into her phone. Hopefully she was talking to someone who would offer her the support she needed. A boyfriend, maybe. Though he felt a twinge of guilt at leaving her to face the detective’s questions alone, he had his own call to make. He’d put it off long enough.

Jack extracted his cell phone from his pocket and pressed the power button as he stepped from the building into the cold evening air. He hurried down the sidewalk toward his truck, which still had the big covered car trailer hitched to the back. The sleet had stopped for the moment, but his breath froze in visible puffs as he scrolled down the listings in his cell phone address book to the entry for his father, R. H. Townsend. When Jack came to work in the office of Townsend Steakhouses, his father had insisted that he stop being childish and address him as R.H., like all the other management employees. In Jack’s mind, he’d been R.H. for years anyway. Giving that cold man the title Father had felt wrong for a long time.

The time read just past nine, which meant that R.H. would be in his home office, working for several more hours before he went to bed. Jack pictured him behind his desk, reading from a neat stack of papers, jotting notes on the yellow legal pad he kept nearby at all times to record the not-infrequent ideas that kept the research and development department at Townsend Steakhouses in a perpetual state of flustered activity.

The phone didn’t finish the first ring.

“I’ve been trying to call you for hours. Did you get the car?” No greeting. R. H. Townsend rarely wasted time on pleasantries.

“I’m afraid not. The b—”

“What?”

A string of foul language polluted the airspace between Jack’s phone and his father’s. Jack set his teeth together and endured the tirade. If the frigid air had turned blue around him, he wouldn’t have been surprised. His father’s language was rarely appropriate for Sunday school, but this outburst went on longer than usual.

When he paused for a breath, Jack jumped in to defend himself. “Wait a minute. If you’ll just listen—”

“Listen? That’s what I expected you to do—listen to me, and do as you were told. But I guess it was asking too much to expect you to follow one simple request.”

The scorn in his father’s words was all too familiar. It was a tone Jack had heard many times since his boyhood.

“Who bought it?”

Jack squeezed his eyes shut before he said the name. “Tom Ingram’s secretary.”

“You let a secretary buy my car out from under your nose?”

Another tirade followed, and Jack let it run dry before he offered his explanation. “The car sold for thirty thousand dollars. I checked a whole list of comparables before I left for the auction, so I know that’s more than it was worth. But I located another red Corvette up near Indianapolis, and it’s in even b—”

“Just forget it. I don’t want to hear your excuses.”