"I know he wants to touch base with Marty right away," Connor continued. "That way, the police can get started on the additional security for Saturday. Put him through. I'll give him the updated information he needs. By that time, Stephen will be reachable on his cell. So, if . Marty has any questions, he can call Stephen directly."
"Great. Hang on, and I'll forward the call."
Connor scooped up the phone when it rang. "Hi, Marty."
"Connor." The police chief sounded puzzled. While he and Connor were certainly acquainted through Stephen, they were hardly drinking buddies. "I was surprised when Celeste said I'd be talking to you. Is everything okay?"
"Absolutely. It's just that Stephen's out of cell range, and I know you two have been trying to touch base about security at the mall opening."
An uncomfortable silence. "Well, yes, but that's not why I'm calling now. He'd asked me to check into something for him. City business. I'm following up." Another awkward pause. "Any idea when he'll be reachable? I know he's anxious for my report."
Connor did next what he did best: he followed his instincts and took a risk. "Is this about Walker Development?"
Hart's silence told him he'd guessed right.
"Marty, I'm helping my brother check this company out. I'm doing some financial investigating to supplement Greg's, and I know you're doing a criminal background check. Did you turn up anything?"
"Not in the way you mean, no. But I did run through the entire list of cars that have been stolen from Leaf Brook municipal lots in the past six months. Funny, but not one of those cars was stolen from a lot maintained by Walker Development."
"Interesting coincidence."
"I've been a cop for a long time, Connor. I don't believe in coincidences. I believe in instincts. And mine are bugged by this."
Connor pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe Walker's security staff is so good they scare off potential thieves."
A snort of disbelief. "He doesn't exactly hire the secret service. And, not to toot my own horn, but my department is damned good. I'd buy it if fewer cars were stolen from Walker's lots than from ours. But none? It doesn't wash. So, yeah, maybe Walker's security makes his lots the safest ones in Leaf Brook. Or maybe he's just doing something to convince people of that."
Exactly what Connor was thinking.
"Connor, is there more to this than Mayor Stratford's telling me? Does he have reason to believe Walker's doing something illegal?"
Connor didn't miss a beat. "The truth is, there's not a shred of proof that Walker's anything but on the level. Stephen's just being cautious. Exactly like you are. I'll pass this on to him. And I'll have him call you back."
"You do that."
Bingo, Connor thought, replacing the phone. They were onto something. Time to follow it through, to get some proof. Or at least enough pseudo-proof to counter-blackmail Walker with.
He was pondering ways to do that when his cell phone rang.
He punched talk. "Connor Stratford."
"Hi, Connor." It was Tom Roderman, his own primary contact. Tom was a renowned corporate attorney who specialized in high-level mergers and acquisitions. His connections ran the gamut, from manufacturing giants to rapidly developing technology companies to corporations that were solid household names. And that included banks, insurance companies, and a host of other corporations that would have access to more sensitive, inside information on Walker Development.
"Tom. Excellent. Do you have anything for me?"
His friend blew out his breath. "Nothing as incriminating as you were looking for. I made a few discreet phone calls. And, yeah, this Philip Walker is definitely a borderline operator. He's pushed the boundaries in a lot of his business dealings. The problem is, nothing illegal has ever been pinned on him."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Connor crossed one leg over the other. "He's smart, and he's careful. Okay, so a blatant illegality is not going to cut it. I'm going to have to get to someone he's done business with, someone who feels Walker screwed him. Can you get me some names?"
"Most of it's a matter of public record, so, yeah, I can put together a list." A slight hesitation. "Look, Connor, I have no idea why you need this, but if it's so important to you, why not start with your father? I know he's not your first choice when it comes to sources, but in this case he might be the easiest. Especially since time is of the essence, and..."
"My father?" Connor interrupted. "Why would I go to him with this?"
"He and Walker did a couple of real estate development deals together. I don't have the details—it was a number of years ago, and, frankly, I assumed you knew. Now that I think about it, I don't know why I'd assume that. You were pretty young, maybe even still in grad school. Let's see, they joint-ventured on a strip mall in Danbury and an office complex in Stamford. Both of those were shrewd investments. The populations in those areas have grown by leaps and bounds. So have the profits."
"Damn," Connor muttered. His mind was racing, remembering the vague sense of familiarity he'd experienced when Stephen first mentioned Walker's name. So that's what had been nagging at him that night. He hadn't tried to decipher it then—he'd been concentrating on patching Stephen up and getting him home, and everything had been too hectic. But now . .. yeah, he did remember.
Next question: was it a coincidence?
Like Marty, Connor didn't believe in coincidences. Not in business. And definitely not when they involved his father.
"Connor?" Tom prodded.
"You're right, I do remember them co-investing." Connor gripped the phone more tightly, recalling that earlier that day his father had brought up—albeit in passing—the municipal contract dispute and the good press it would result in. Another coincidence? Doubtful.
"Do me a favor, Tom." Connor was suddenly very eager to wrap things up. "Start compiling that list of names for me. In the meantime, I'll touch base with my father. I'll get back to you first thing tomorrow about where things stand."
"You've got it."
"Thanks. I owe you one."
6:30 P.M.
Central Park West
Harrison Stratford strode through his apartment, tossing his coat onto a chair and unknotting his tie as he headed for the living-room bar. It had been a damn long day. Too long. In his twenties and thirties, he'd thrived on these meeting marathons. But at sixty-one, it was getting old. Or maybe he was getting old—although he doubted it. Not one of these cocky Generation X hot shots could hold a candle to him for brains. Not for ambition or insight, either. In fact, most of them were so wrapped up in making a million overnight, they missed the big picture entirely, tripping on then own egos and landing flat on their faces.
Which was why his empire kept flourishing and his millions kept multiplying.
He splashed some Makers Mark into a glass, taking a deep, appreciative swallow. The upcoming generation was, by and large, quite pathetic. Then again, so were their parents. They were the ones who'd raised a bunch of weak, spoiled brats with zero grit and zero ingenuity.
He, on the other hand, had done it right.
Refilling his glass, he turned to cross over and sit down—and started as he saw Connor perched on the edge of the sofa, watching him.
"Hello, Dad. I figured you'd be wrapping things up around now. Hope you don't mind my letting myself in."
Harrison's eyes narrowed, assessing his son. Connor's tone was even, his expression bland. But that didn't fool him. His son was ripping mad about something.
"Next time, mention that you're here," he retorted. "Unless your goal is to give me a heart attack so you can inherit early." He gestured toward the bar. "Do you want adrink?"
"No." Connor shook his head. "I want to talk."
"I was under the impression that we did that, all morning." Harrison remained standing. It gave him the advantage, which he intended to keep until he knew the basis for this impromptu get-together.
"That wasn't talking. That was interrogating," Connor corrected. "And you did all tha
t." He leaned back, stretching his arms across the back of the sofa and meeting his father's gaze head-on, letting him know that sitting could wield as much authority as standing. "Now it's my turn."
A corner of Harrison's mouth lifted. He was damned proud of Connor. In so many ways, he was his father's son.
Nursing his drink, he propped an elbow on back of the leather chair. "Shoot."
"I want to discuss Philip Walker."
"What about him?'
"You two ever work together?"
"If you're asking, I'm sure you already have the answer." Tired or not, Harrison felt his adrenaline kick in. He was going to enjoy this sparring match. Further, he was intrigued as hell about where it was leading. "But if you want clarification, here it is. Yes, Walker and I have partnered on a couple of deals. A few of them were years back; a few others were more recently. Do you want details?"
"Only as they relate to Stephen." Connor eased forward slightly. "This morning, you brought up the subject of the debate over the municipal parking contract. That wasn't a random example, was it?"
"You tell me. Obviously, that's what you came here to do."
"How do you factor into Walker's bid for the contract? Did you know about it before the fact?"
Harrison took a swallow of bourbon. "It was my idea."
Connor's jaw tightened. "That's a new low, even for you. What were you doing, drumming up good press for Stephen's election campaign?"
"Bingo."
"Do you have any idea what kind of scum Walker is? How far he'd go to get what he wants?"
A shrug. "I know he grew up a street kid. He's used to fighting dirty to get ahead. If that's what you call scum, so be it. I call it ambition."
Connor rose slowly to his feet. "His ambition is what's choking the life out of Stephen's marriage."
"Really? How's that? By putting pressure on him? By adding a little challenge to his job?" Harrison made a harsh sound of disgust. "If so, it's about time. Being mayor of Leaf Brook has become entirely too cushy for your brother. As far as his constituents are concerned, he walks on water. Well, he's going to have to win bigger and tougher popularity contests than that. He's got to learn to deal with pressure, to rise above it and come up with creative solutions, if he wants that senate seat—and all the other seats to come. And if he wants the White House, he's going to have to learn not just to deal with pressure but to thrive on it."
"In other words, to become a son of a bitch like you." Connor said it as calmly as if he were making polite conversation.
"I think that's a bit optimistic where your brother's concerned. I'd settle for a close second."
A brittle glare. "What about his marriage? His family?"
Again, Harrison shrugged. "Nancy knew what she was getting into. The night Stephen slid that engagement ring on her finger, I pulled her aside and told her exactly what kind of future she should expect. She welcomed the idea of being in the political limelight. If she's suddenly decided otherwise, that's tough. She said her I do's. She'll stand by them. Even if it's for Brian sake."
Disbelief flashed across Connor's face. "This whole thing's like a game of chess to you. Every step's a calculated move; every person's a pawn to exploit."
"If you're waiting for an apology, you're not getting one. I raised my sons to succeed. That's just what they're doing. Take a look at yourself—I'd say I did a damned good job."
Connor ignored the accolades. "Speaking of pawns, what about Cheryl Lager? Was she your idea, too?"
Harrison's brows drew together. "Who? Oh, that obnoxious journalist. No, she just jumped in on her own. But her little digs and innuendos do add some spice to the local paper." A tight smile. "Although I am glad she got diverted by the contract debate. Her recent cracks about my bankrolling your brother to the senate were beginning to get on my nerves."
Connor drew a sharp breath, and Harrison got the feeling he was choosing his words carefully. Whether he was hoping to go for a shock effect or mentally confirming that whatever he said, or didn't say, would protect Stephen, that remained to be seen.
"Let's get back to Walker," was what Connor finally settled on. "How would you react if I told you he arranged for cars to be stolen from municipal lots not maintained by Walker Development in order to cast himself in a more favorable light?"
Harrison inclined his head with interest. "Did he?"
"I think so. I have no proof—yet."
"Then I'd say it was a shrewd idea, as long as he covered all his tracks and doesn't get caught."
That got his son's attention. Lightning flashed in Connor's eyes. "You really don't have any scruples, do you? Not a single, goddamn one."
"Business is business." Harrison polished off his drink. "You do what you have to to succeed. I'm not a crook myself, but if I were one, I'd make damned sure no one realized it. So my answer to you is this: If you find proof, then Walker's an ass. If you don't, he's either innocent or clever as hell. And if it's the last, I'd want him on my team—under my watchful eye, of course."
Connor walked away, heading for the door. "I'm getting out of here before I lose it." He turned and shot his father a hard look. "I hope to God you don't end up paying dearly for this one. But you know those keen instincts I inherited from you? Well, they're screaming otherwise."
7:05 P.M.
Leaf Brook
Philip Walker swiveled around in his desk chair, peering out the window of his office suite. Sunset in the suburbs. It looked a lot nicer from up here than it did from the gutter.
He grinned, thinking about the fact that Harrison Stratford was in town, wondering what his reaction would be when he heard about the events that had taken place over the past few weeks.
He'd be impressed by some of the ingenuity Philip had displayed, especially since the son of a bitch thought he had the cornerstone on brilliance.
On the flip side, some of what he'd done would piss Stratford off, big time.
As for what he had planned, that would give the mayor's daddy a coronary.
7.15 P.M.
Central Park West
Connor was still breathing hard when he swerved his Mercedes out of the parking garage, heading for Leaf Brook. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but if he'd hoped for a shred of compassion, then he was a jerk. His father was a cold-hearted bastard. Meeting with him had done nothing but confirm that. Okay, fine. That was bad enough. But his reaction to Walker's actions, to the fact that he might be an out-and-out criminal? Christ, the man had all but applauded his initiative.
That in itself made Connor sick. But more important, it worried the hell out of him. It raised some really ugly questions about how much his father knew. Was he aware of the lengths Walker had gone to to secure that contract? Had Harrison turned a blind eye to it or, even worse, agreed to it? He'd made it indisputably clear that he wanted to toughen Stephen up. Was this part of that toughening-up campaign? Would he really go so far as to let Walker beat the crap out of his son and threaten his grandson?
Connor was no longer certain.
But if his father did know about Walker's violent tactics, then he also knew what had provoked them. Which meant he knew about Walker's campaign contribution and about the fact that he was blackmailing Stephen.
As well as what ammunition he was using to blackmail him with.
That was the most disturbing prospect of all. Despite the great lengths Connor and Stephen had gone to to keep their father in the dark, did he know about Stephen's gambling? Had he kept that knowledge from them since whenever the hell he'd figured it out? If so, why? Why hadn't he shoved it in Stephen's face, demanded that he clean up his act for the sake of his future? It didn't make sense.
But someone had tipped Walker off to Stephen's gambling. Could that someone have been Harrison Stratford? No way. That's where this line of reasoning reached an irrefutable dead end. To give Walker information like that would risk undoing everything their father was working for. It would give Walker the power to blow Stephen's political car
eer to bits and to drag the Stratford name through the mud. Neither of which Harrison Stratford would allow.
So it was doubtful he knew about Stephen's Achilles heel. If he did, he'd be concealing it and battling to eliminate it all at once.
But how much did he know?
Connor gritted his teeth. He wished he could have tested his father by dropping the entire two-week scenario in his lap—sans the gambling issue. But it was just too big a risk. If he breathed a word about Walker's blackmail, and if Harrison wasn't aware of Stephen's compulsion, Connor would be throwing open Pandora's box.
So his hands were tied.
Cursing under his breath, Connor whipped out his cell phone and snapped it into place. It beeped, indicating that it was recharging. He'd shut it off during his time in the penthouse. If nothing else, he'd been determined to confront his father without interruption.
Another beep, announcing that the phone was all juiced up and ready to go. The LCD announced that he had a voice-mail message.
He retrieved it. The message, left a half hour ago, was from Stephen, asking him to call him at home right away.
He punched up the number as he turned the car onto the highway.
Stephen answered on the second ring, his voice strained. "Where have you been?" he demanded.
"At a meeting." Connor ducked the question. "I'm on my way back. Did the PI give you anything?"
"Yeah, but before I get into that, when I walked in here, there was a message from Nancy. She called a few hours ago, when she was sure I'd be at work. Anyway, she said she and Brian are fine. His ear's doing better. She said that if they're not home soon, she'll let him call and talk to me."
"Did she say where she was?"
"No." An audible swallow. "But she sounded really weird and on edge. Like she wanted to say more but didn't. Or couldn't. Who knows, maybe she had company."
"Then she would have waited until later to call," Connor retorted.
"Right. Anyway, at least I know they're all right and that Brian's feeling better." Stephen cleared his throat roughly. "Did you hear from your contact?"