Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3)

Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3) Page 8

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” he asked.

His preoccupation was irritating. “I asked if we could wait for my niece.”

“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “The other two clients have been waiting for you. I couldn’t ask them to wait even longer. I hope you understand.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you,” he said. “The others will, no doubt, appreciate your cooperation.”

“Who are they?” she bluntly asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“I was asking, Mr. Edwards, who the other clients are.”

“Mrs. Trapp is from Cleveland, and Judge Collins’s plane arrived from Miami.”

Carrie hadn’t heard either name before and wondered if they were famous. She certainly hoped so. She could use as many influential connections as she could get. Maybe the judge was one of those celebrities on television. Wouldn’t that be something?

They finally reached the baggage claim area and joined the hordes of passengers pushing their way to the front. “How long will the drive to the spa take?”

“Not long,” he answered. “You won’t be going directly to Utopia this evening, however,” he added. “There was a problem with the water main, but it will be repaired by midnight. So that you won’t be inconvenienced, the director has made arrangements for you and Mrs. Trapp and Judge Collins to spend the night at a private retreat.”

Carrie was about to protest that, yes, it was an inconvenience. She would have to unpack and then pack again, but then Mr. Edwards said in a casual, off-handed way, “I believe Mr. Cruise and a companion were the last guests.”

Her eyes widened. “Tom Cruise?”

“That’s right. Then tomorrow morning,” he continued smoothly, “you’ll be taken to the spa.”

“Will my niece be staying at the retreat too?”

“I’m not certain. If the problem has been solved by the time her flight arrives, then she’ll be taken directly to the spa.”

“Is the retreat near Aspen?”

“Just outside, high up in the mountains in an area called Land Between the Lakes. It’s quite beautiful there. Cold nights and warm, mostly sunny days this time of year. Great climate for hiking and camping.”

“I’m not the outdoor type, but you certainly look like you are,” she said, noticing the thickness in his shoulders and the bulging muscles straining the fabric of his obviously custom-made suit. What were they paying chauffeurs these days?

They must have stood side by side for a good ten minutes before the bags began to roll along the conveyor belt.

“That one’s mine,” she said, pointing to an overstuffed, black Gucci bag moving along the conveyor. “Be careful,” she warned. “It’s heavy.”

“Is this the only one?”

Surely he was joking. “No, there are three more.”

“How long are you going to be at the spa?” he asked.

“Two weeks. How long have you worked there?” she asked, making idle chitchat to pass the time while she waited for the rest of the luggage. If they lost any of her bags, she was up a creek because her extra batteries for her laptop and her other cell phone were packed inside.

“A year,” he answered.

“That’s nice,” she remarked, not really interested. Where the hell were her other suitcases? She could feel herself getting anxious and took a deep breath. Relax, she told herself. You’re on vacation.

She glanced around the luggage area, spotted a ladies’ room and said, “Before we leave, I’d like to splash some cold water on my face.”

“If you could wait until we get to—”

“Actually, I can’t wait,” she interrupted. She handed him her carry-on but kept her purse. “Don’t let go of that bag. It’s got my laptop and my cell phone inside.”

Then she hurried into the rest room. As she was washing her hands, she remembered she’d put the other cell phone in her pocket and decided to call Avery right then.

Carrie went into the last stall so she would have some privacy, prayed the signal wouldn’t get blocked, then hit speed dial. She called Avery’s apartment first, listened to the answering machine, and told her to call her as soon as she got this message. Then, thinking she might have left for the airport, Carrie hit speed dial again. The number was a direct line to Avery’s desk. Her voice mail picked up on the second ring.

“Damn it, Avery, you were supposed to call me back with your flight information, but you forgot, didn’t you? I hope to heaven you’re on the plane now and will check your messages from Denver. I think I’m obsessing because I don’t want you to bail on me. I know how that job of yours sucks you in. If I find out you’ve missed your plane because you got stuck in one of those horrid meetings, I’ll pitch such a fit your ears will be ringing for a month. Honestly, Avery, when I think about all the things you could be doing and all the money you could be making, and here you are, stuck in that windowless dungeon analyzing God only knows what. It’s a waste of your talents. Surely you realize that. I wish you’d let me help you change careers.”

Carrie realized what she was doing and laughed. “Listen to me going on and on. You’ve heard it all before, haven’t you? Anyway, I called to tell you I’m in Aspen now. I wanted to wait until you landed so we could ride to the spa together, but there are other guests here, and it would be too much of an inconvenience to make them sit and wait. I won’t be going to the spa tonight. They had some kind of plumbing problem, which my escort tells me should be fixed by the time you get there. I’ll be sound asleep by then. The other two women and I will be spending a luxurious night at a posh mountain retreat. I’ve already forgotten the other women’s names, but one of them is a judge. I’ll bet she’s famous. Then tomorrow,” she continued, “I’ll check in at Utopia and find you.”

Carrie felt another burst of excitement. “The retreat is called The Land Between the Lakes. How quaint is that? Tom Cruise was their last guest, so you know it has to be incredibly beautiful. I mean, he’s on top of the A list, and they wouldn’t put him in anything shabby. I better hang up now before my escort comes looking for me in the ladies’ room. I can’t wait to see you. We’re going to have such fun. Oops, I hear my escort calling my name. The spa sent a real hunk to carry my luggage. He’s kind of stiff and formal, and he has the faintest British accent. And, oh, is he sexy. His name’s Monk Edwards, but trust me, he doesn’t look like any monk I’ve ever seen. Maybe they’ll send another hunk to pick you up. Bye, brat. See you soon.”

Chapter 3

THE TRAIL LED TO UTOPIA. JOHN PAUL RENARD HAD BEEN tracking the professional killer for over a year now, but he hadn’t had much success. The last known hit had taken place on the Riviera, an execution of a wanted man named John Russell, but since then, the killer calling himself Monk seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. There had been a hint of his work in Paris and in Cannes, but nothing substantial enough to be considered a real lead.

Until now.

When John Paul had been in the Marines and then, for a short time, had worked for the Agency, he’d learned patience. He figured that eventually the killer would return to the United States. It had been a hunch, nothing more, but lo and behold, he’d been right. Just three weeks ago, Monk had finally resurfaced. He’d actually messed up too. He’d used one of his old credit cards. It was such a sloppy thing to do and so out of character for a man who, up until now, had been pretty damned flawless in his executions. John Paul wondered if Monk had thrown the card away and someone else had found it and used it.

It was worth checking out. A charge had been made at a spa in Colorado called Utopia for a woman named Carolyn Salvetti. John Paul ran a credit check on her and discovered that she had more than enough money tucked away in her IRAs and her pension plans to buy a couple of spas. Was there a connection to Monk here? Had she hired him to kill someone? Or was she his next victim?

John Paul also ran her name through the government database. He used his old code to get access, knowing full well that as soon as he logged on, the men who had run him would immediately know it and would leap to the incorrect assumption that he was ready to come back. For that reason he didn’t stay on the computer long. In less than two minutes he found out what he needed to know. Salvetti was clean as a whistle. No warrants outstanding, no parking tickets, no illegal activities of any kind. Her husband was also clean. Carolyn Salvetti was president of a company called Star Catcher. Tony Salvetti was vice president.

The database hadn’t given him any answers. If Carolyn Salvetti was Monk’s next target, then who had hired him? Who wanted the woman dead?

John Paul was determined to find out. Since his brother, Remy, lived in Colorado Springs, he decided to drive there to see him. Known in his hometown, Bowen, Louisiana, as a surly recluse, John Paul shocked his family and few friends when he purchased an old Ford SUV. He made a few alterations, souped up the engine, packed it with a couple of kitchen chairs he’d made for Remy, and headed out.

He spent two days with his brother, but on June sixteenth, the day Salvetti was scheduled to arrive at the spa, John Paul was there waiting for her. His hope was that Monk was right behind her, and he could nail the bastard.

Carolyn Salvetti didn’t show. The desk clerk, an uptight, exceedingly nervous young man with weird, oversized, capped teeth, told John Paul that Mrs. Salvetti had canceled her reservation at the last minute. “But it’s noted right here, under her old reservation, that her niece, Avery Delaney, will be staying at the spa. Miss Delaney will only be here one week,” he thought to add. “Is that at all helpful?”

Instead of answering the question, he asked to speak to the manager. The clerk tripped when he hastily pivoted, then went running to fetch his employer.

Tim Cannon showed up a minute later, with the clerk half hiding behind his back. Since John Paul had left the Agency, he didn’t have any credentials to threaten the tight-lipped, sweaty little man, and so he used intimidation. As usual, it worked like a charm. For some reason he couldn’t quite understand, people tended to be afraid of him. His sister, Michelle, told him it was because of his size and the fact that he rarely smiled. Though he thought it was peculiar that strangers backed away from him, he used their fear to his advantage. Cannon, operating under the false assumption that John Paul worked for the government—an assumption John Paul had hinted at but hadn’t actually stated—and obviously embarrassed to admit that he was afraid of John Paul, didn’t call security or ask to see identification. The fact was, the manager couldn’t have been more helpful. He invited him into his office, offered him the use of his desk and phone, and then, stammering about an emergency errand he simply had to complete, he left his office and pulled the door closed behind him.

The second he was alone, John Paul turned on Cannon’s computer, found the site, and typed in his access code. How he hated the technology, but it was the only way he could get the information he needed. He wanted to see if an alert had been posted regarding Monk and was pleasantly surprised that there hadn’t been. The spa wasn’t swarming with agents yet—in John Paul’s estimation, they were as easy to spot as nuns in black habits—which could only mean that the Bureau didn’t know that Monk was back in the States. John Paul wasn’t inclined to tell them. The FBI would only screw it up. Monk would spot the agents, get spooked, and vanish into thin air again.

John Paul wasn’t about to let that happen. He was one step in front of the Bureau, and that was all he needed. He had a personal reason for going after the killer, and he wasn’t going to let anyone get in his way.

A little over a year ago, Monk had tried to kill John Paul’s sister, Michelle, and had it not been for her husband and a friend, he would have succeeded. Monk got away, which, in John Paul’s estimation, was unforgivable. He vowed he wouldn’t rest until he had hunted the bastard down and sent him to Hell where he belonged.

Once he started doing the research, John Paul’s need for vengeance intensified. One case in particular had really shaken him up. A father had hired Monk to kill his teenage daughter so that he could collect the insurance money and pay his gambling debts. The FBI knew Monk had murdered the girl because the killer always left behind a rose, and though the father had removed the evidence, a thorn was found in the girl’s bedspread. There wasn’t any other family to mourn or seek justice for the young girl. John Paul knew there were other victims the FBI didn’t even know about yet. How many more innocents would die before the killer was stopped?

Chapter 4

MONK KEPT THE THREE WOMEN ENTERTAINED WHILE HE drove them to their destination. Carrie thought he was charming and oh so terribly correct. He was her idea of the perfect English butler.

He had transferred their luggage into the back of a brand-new, fully equipped Land Rover, explaining that the SUV was suited for the mountain roads, and for that reason he hadn’t driven one of the spa’s limos. Anne Trapp sat in the front, and Carolyn sat next to Judge Sara Collins in the back. The seats were plush beige leather and very comfortable.

All of them were excited and nervous, but there was little conversation among them. Monk told them a brief history of the spa and then regaled them with several fascinating stories about some of the famous people who had stayed at the mountain house he was taking them to.

Carrie wasn’t sure how long they had been driving. She hadn’t checked the time when they’d left the airport, but it seemed that at least an hour had passed, maybe even more. Monk’s stories so intrigued her she didn’t mind the long drive or the slight case of car sickness. While Sara ooh’d and ah’d over the scenery as they climbed higher and higher up the mountain and Anne sat in stony silence, Carrie questioned Monk about the previous guests he’d served. She wasn’t particularly interested in hearing about politicians. She wanted to hear all about the peculiarities of the movie stars.

“Russell Crowe was a guest? What was he like?”

Monk replied with an amusing tidbit about the Australian actor. “He was quite fond of the house,” he added, “and wanted to purchase it.”

“It must really be nice,” Sara remarked.

Monk assured them that the house had all the amenities and that he would be acting as their butler until they checked into Utopia.

“I certainly hope there won’t be any more screwups,” Anne said irritably.