Chapter Fourteen
It was already dark when Johnny returned from visiting Katherine. The doctor had ordered her to stay in bed for the day and had given her some salve for the bruises on her throat. Bailey had come by later, and that despicable man, Green, had taken her statement. Johnny had stood his ground, not willing to leave her side as the questioning turned to him.
Did he know where Jerry was? No? Why not? Weren’t they coworkers? How could he have no idea what Jerry was planning? He better be sure to inform the police at any sign of Jerry, or else—
He wearily climbed the two flights of stairs to his room. His legs felt like jelly and his mind was overwhelmed. His broad shoulders were slouched dejectedly as he unlocked the door and swung it open.
An uninvited, unwanted visitor had made himself at home and was sitting on the single dingy leather couch which took up most of the space that doubled as the living and dining room. Jerry. “What the hell are you doing here? Get out, or I’ll call the police!” Johnny tossed his hat onto a chair and stalked into the kitchen.
“Didn’t you hear me?!" Fury shook his voice. "I know what you’ve been up to this afternoon—and I’m not going to stand for it.”
“Oh, I was only messing with her. You should know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”
“Do I? The police don’t know that, and neither does she. And those bruises on her throat say different. There’s a warrant out for your arrest, and I’m not in the least upset about it. Why are you still here? Get out.”
“We didn’t finish our conversation from earlier. I thought you knew that.”
Johnny emerged from the kitchen, cold beer in hand. “I thought I made it very clear we did finish that conversation.”
Jerry stood up, leaving Johnny the couch. “We didn’t. I talked to Doug, and we decided it’s not finished at all.”
Johnny sat down angrily on the couch and snapped off the beer cap against the low table. “Katherine doesn’t know anything about the letters. You’re wasting your time. I thought you would’ve found that out today when you roughed her up.” The fact that Jerry was standing and he wasn’t made Morgan feel uncomfortable, as though he were at a disadvantage. “Here, sit down, there’s plenty of room.”
“No, I’ve been here long enough waiting for you to get back,” Jerry replied shortly. “I’m giving you one last opportunity to find those letters before we’re forced to take more drastic measures with your girl.”
“She doesn’t have them!” Johnny stood up suddenly, facing Jerry, and part of his beer splashed onto his hand. “We already searched her place thoroughly. They weren’t there. You roughed her up already. She didn’t talk. Where else could she be possibly be hiding them—in her brassiere? Just because the old professor outsmarted you and Doug doesn’t mean she’s responsible. Leave her out of it.”
“Then why did she have to buy that particular desk? Huh? Tell me that!” Jerry’s voice matched Johnny’s in volume. “Of all the late professor’s belongings, why did she have to choose his personal desk, with all his personal papers?
“He was her mentor. He meant a lot to her,” Johnny snarled back at Jerry. “Some people actually have respect for other people. Nothing you would understand.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Jerry said, his voice cool and calculating. “Either you find the letters by tomorrow or we’re going to have use more interesting persuasion than last time. Maybe her ex-boyfriend is hiding them for her at his place.”
The loud smack of Johnny’s fist hitting Jerry’s jaw filled the room and gave Johnny satisfaction as Jerry stumbled backwards, catching himself on the wall. He straightened back up and rubbed his jaw, spitting out some blood onto his hand. “I’d recommend you don’t act the same way in your meeting with Torres tomorrow. He doesn’t have the same patience I do.”
“You stay away from Katherine or there will be a lot more where that came from.” Johnny informed him coolly, all the while wondering at himself where he’d suddenly collected the courage to finally stand up to Jerry.
Jerry stood there a minute longer glaring at Johnny before he turned and left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Johnny stared at the closed door for a moment, the dim lights casting his shadow behind him as he resisted the urge to throw his bottle against the door in frustration. Instead the shadow raised a bottle to its lips and finished it, then began moving around as its owner searched for something stronger.
A nearly empty vodka bottle was the only option he found. He pulled it out and flung away the cap before returning to the couch. What should he do? He took a large swig from the bottle and the liquid fire burned down his throat. He would go to that meeting with Doug tomorrow. Then . . . he wasn’t sure what next. Keeping Katherine safe was his top priority, but how could he keep her safe from Doug Torres?
He slammed the bottle down on the table and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. Professor Drake . . . where had he hidden the blackmail letters? He’d threatened that they would surface to expose them all if anything happened to him, but none of them had shown up. Where were they?
Exhaling back into the couch he relaxed his head into the cushions and allowed his mind to drift back to that fateful day in Rio . . .
The tropical thunderstorm was gaining intensity and was almost to the point of becoming a hurricane. And then it happened: the wind had crushed the early stages of construction on Torres’s building, smashing the flimsy structure down to a pile of steel and rivets within a couple hours.
The pouring rain showed no sign of letting up but instead came down in buckets, running in little rivulets off the end of Johnny’s hat as he limped down the street towards Torres’s nightclub. He put his hand out to let the water pound his palm, feeling as he did so the thickness of the darkness.
Then he was sitting in Doug’s smoky office across from Torres himself and the intern from the building project, Philip Drake. Jerry stood conveniently next to the mini bar, placidly drinking a tonic as he listened to the conversation, speaking up only, Johnny thought bitterly, to lick Torres’s boots when necessary. Boots. His own leg was sore and as stiff as a freshly pressed linen shirt. Against it leaned the wooden cane the hospital had provided “temporarily.”
The conversation was reaching him in waves like a radio going in and out of signal as he tried not to focus on the dull pain in his foot, tried to resist drinking another shot of whiskey to numb it.
In came Philip Drake, his face strained and white as he remained a victim of Doug’s influence.
“So you can see, Mr. Drake, it wouldn’t do for a man of your potential to be held back by a mistake made as an intern, as a novice. Do you really want the rest of your life, the rest of your career to be ruined because of a slight oversight on your part?”
“Of course not,” Phillip replied through stiff lips, his eyes shifting about the room like a caged animal. “But it wasn’t completely my responsibility. I was only an intern on the project; my supervisor is the one in charge. The one who finalizes the plans—not to mention the engineers.” He shot a pointed glare at Johnny and Jerry. “It’s the engineers’ responsibility to make sure everything is structurally sound; that’s their job.”
“Tish. Tish.” Doug was shaking his head in a patronizing manner as Phillip ranted on. “That’s what you can say, but there’s also the power of what little rumors can spread as well. Are you aware that my wife is an editor for a gossip magazine in South America?”
Phillip nodded, looking down at the floor, looking up again to meet Torres’s eyes, back to the ground, raking his hands through his hair. “I can’t have my career ruined. Not now. I’m just starting it. Just starting to get my foot in the door.” His voice almost broke on the last note.
Doug exchanged glances with Jerry, who nodded. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Drake.” He reached over and patted him on the back as though he were a father rewarding and welcoming back his prodigal son, not like he was a merciless blackmailer cheering his vic
tim.
“All I have to do is take your painting? And you won’t call the police on me?” Phillip asked in a voice much too small for his stature.
“Of course I’ll have to call the police,” Torres said. “They have to report it as officially stolen. But of course I won’t give any inkling it was you. In fact I’ll point them completely in the opposite direction. Let’s see . . . maybe in the direction of your supervisor, Sam, who isn’t willing to play ball. Yeah, that would work. The building he was working on collapsed, so he knew he was ruined, needed the money and stole the painting from me. That should do the trick. Sounds like ample motive to me.”
“And you collect the insurance money,” Phillip replied in a dead voice.
“Yes. I knew you were a smart man. I collect the insurance money, and you secretly return the painting, which I can sell on the black market. Then voila! The authorities suddenly find my painting on the black market in Italy. That must be where the thief sold it!” Doug finished his fantasy looking as proud as a Cheshire cat with a full measure of milk.
Johnny tuned out Doug and studied Phillip’s downcast demeanor, feeling a slight stir of pity for the man. He knew what it was like to be coerced into something, but he wasn’t one who could help Phillip against Doug. Nobody could. He had too much influence..
He still had too much influence, even here in the States. Johnny came back into the present, his mouth dry. Jerry had told him what had happened to Sam when he'd fled to the States. Doug had had his men track him down; he was found “accidently drowned” in Lake Michigan. Johnny took another sip of the vodka and set the bottle onto the now splintering table. How he wanted to break out of the deadly spider’s web he was wound up in—but by what means? He had to meet Doug tomorrow. Then he’d plan his escape with Katherine.