Susan Krinard - Come the Night

And if he knew about werewolves, he ought to know how dangerous it was to tangle with one. Even a part-blood like Ross.

“How do you know Jill?” he said, deliberately using the nickname he’d given her in London.

“Not that it is any of your business, Mr. Kavanagh, but Mrs. Delvaux and I are neighbors and old friends.”

“Where is Mr. Delvaux?” Ross asked abruptly.

“He died in the War, shortly after their marriage.”

Ross released his breath. Gillian was a widow. She’d never remarried. He didn’t know what that meant. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t.

But there was one thing he did care about. He spun on his foot and strode toward Warbrick, stopping only when he had a fistful of the Englishman’s lapel in his grip.

“He is my son, isn’t he?”

To his credit, Warbrick didn’t flinch. His face remained deceptively calm, but Ross wasn’t fooled. This guy was no fighter.

“I’ll find out one way or another,” Ross said. “So you might as well tell me now and save us both a lot of trouble.”

Ross could see Warbrick weighing the chances of his getting out of the apartment with his pretty face intact. He made the right decision.

“Yes,” he said. “Kindly release me.”

Ross let him go. Warbrick smoothed his jacket.

“The fact that Tobias is your son is of no consequence,” he said. “He doesn’t know you. He wasn’t even aware of your existence until a fortnight ago.”

“How did he find out?”

“It was entirely an accident, I assure you.”

“And he decided to come to New York all by himself?”

“He is a precocious child, but he is still a child. You can have no possible interest in a boy you have never seen.”

Ross stepped back, cursing the booze for muddling his thoughts. Warbrick was right, wasn’t he? Maybe the kid was bright, but he was Ross’s son in name only.

Gillian had made sure of that. She could have written, sent a telegram. She hadn’t bothered. Instead, she’d married this Delvaux guy and passed the boy off as his.

Ross knew how easy it would be to let his anger get out of control. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Mrs. Delvaux asked you to run me down and make sure I hand over the kid as soon as he turns up.”

“That is correct.”

“How is he supposed to find me?”

“The same way I located you. He knows that you worked for the New York City police.”

Worked. Past tense. “He learned all this by accident?”

“It hardly matters, Mr. Kavanagh. You will be doing Mrs. Delvaux a great service, and she is sensible of that. We are prepared to offer you a substantial sum of money for your cooperation.”

Sure. Buy the dumb American off. Neat, convenient, painless.

“Why didn’t she come herself?” he asked. “If she’s so worried about the kid…”

“Since she knows that I have been resident in New York for nearly a year,” Warbrick said, “it was hardly necessary for her to come in person.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “I have been authorized to present you with this check for one thousand dollars as soon as the child is safely in my custody. Even if I am able to locate him first, you will receive it as consideration for your—”

“Get out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” He grabbed the Englishman’s shoulder and propelled him toward the door. “You can tell Mrs. Delvaux that I don’t need her money.”

The heels of Warbrick’s shoes scraped on the landing. “You are making a serious mistake,” he said, anger rising in his voice. “If necessary, I will enlist the police to—”

“You do that.” Ross pushed Warbrick toward the stairs. “Don’t trip on your way down.”

He listened until he heard the door in the lobby snap shut. His hands had begun to shake. He went back into his apartment, closed the door and leaned against it, waiting for the fury to pass.

For eleven years he’d had a son he didn’t know about. For eleven years Gillian hadn’t bothered to contact him—until she needed something from the American chump who’d been stupid enough to fall for a lady of wealth and privilege and pure werewolf blood.

He was still a chump, letting her get to him this way. He had to start thinking rationally again. Think about what he would do if the boy did show up. It wasn’t as if he had anything to say to the kid.

Maybe Warbrick would find him before he got this far. That would solve everybody’s problems.

Then you can go back to drinking again. Forget about the kid, forget about Mrs. Delvaux, forget about the job.

There were just too damned many things to forget.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet in the bathtub and stuck his head under the stream of cold water. When his mind was clear, he shed his clothes and scrubbed himself from head to foot. He got out his razor and shaved the stubble from his chin. He was just taking his last clean shirt and trousers from the closet when the telephone rang. He let it ring a dozen times before he picked up the receiver.

“Kavanagh?”

Ross knew the voice well. Art Bowen had been one of the last of his fellow cops to stand by him when everyone else had left him hanging in the wind. But finally even Bowen had decided that it wasn’t worth jeopardizing his career to associate with a suspected murderer.

“Hello, Art,” Ross said. “How are you?”

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence. “Listen, Ross. You need to get down to the station right away.”

Ross’s fingers went numb. They found the real killer. They know I’m innocent. It’s over.

“There’s someone here looking for you,” Art continued. “He claims he’s from England.”

The floor began to heave again. “Who?” he croaked.

“His name is Tobias Delvaux. He says he’s your son.”

ETHAN HAILED A TAXI and gave terse instructions to the cabbie, promising a generous tip for a quick ride back to his hotel.

As unbelievable as it seemed, Kavanagh had gotten the better of him. Considering the ex-policeman’s circumstances, Ethan hadn’t been prepared for his hostility, let alone his refusal of the check. The man had lost everything, including his means of support, and he was clearly not in a position to refuse financial assistance.

But he had—and far worse, he’d presumed to treat Ethan as if he were a commoner.

Of course, he had made a mistake in allowing Kavanagh to know that Toby was his son. He had been too eager to observe the American’s expression when he realized that Gillian had concealed the boy’s presence all these years, that she hadn’t had the slightest desire to renew their relationship.

He had received some satisfaction in that, at least. Kavanagh’s pretense at indifference had been spoiled by the anger he had unsuccessfully attempted to conceal.

But was the anger merely at Gillian’s deception? Or was there something more behind it? Something that would make Kavanagh far more of a problem than Ethan had anticipated?

He had no intention of taking a chance. When the cab pulled up in front of his hotel, he already knew what he must do.

Bianchi’s secretary was polite and apologetic when she informed Ethan that the boss was on holiday. When Ethan pressed, she provided him with the mobster’s location, though she carefully reminded him that the boss didn’t like to be disturbed when he was fishing in the Catskills.

Ethan dismissed her warnings. He’d become quite wealthy as a result of skilled investments in American industry and less “legitimate” pursuits, and he’d contributed generously to Bianchi’s defense the last time the boss had been under investigation.

Bianchi owed him, and what he wanted wasn’t much of an inconvenience for a man of the boss’s power and influence. Ethan knew that there was some risk in leaving town at this juncture, but he had a number of hired men watching for Toby, including several in the police department.