Jeanne Adams - Dark and Deadly

“Very good, sir. Unless you need me, I would still like to leave early today. Does that suit you?” she added stiffly, not looking at Torie. Paul wondered if she just didn’t want the younger woman to know she had a real life, or if she still just didn’t like Torie.

“That’s fine. I have to assist Torie with a matter about her office, so I’ll be leaving shortly as well.”

To his surprise, Martha turned to Torie, her lips pursed and disapproval written all over her face. He was about to interrupt, forestall any negative comment, but he needn’t have worried.

“Ms. Hagen, I have to say that your firm has not lived up to its obligations to support you. I’m sorry for that.”

Torie managed to not look shocked as well. “Thank you.”

Martha’s nod was sharp and decisive. She was done with that topic. “Will you need me to get your tuxedo sent to the cleaners again?”

Crap. The dinner. He hadn’t thought about the tux. When was the last time he’d worn it? Had he sent it to the cleaners? Hell. He had no idea, and said so. “I’ll check it.” He jotted another note to himself on the paper.

“Very well. Good night, sir. Ms. Hagen.”

They replied in unison, and when the door was closed, glanced at one another.

“Did I miss something, or was she just nice to me?” Torie asked.

It was infuriating. That’s what it was. Now she was with another man. Again. And who was it? The odious Paul Jameson, whom she professed to despise.

How like a woman to go from one man to the next, turning to the worst possible man if the potential for profit was there. Paul Jameson. The man’s very name made his blood boil. He thought he’d gotten rid of the problem, laid out his plans so carefully, and disposed of the bastard who’d caused him so much grief.

He’d been sure, sure that he would be able to let it go, with the ever cutesy Torie and Todd out of the way. But she hadn’t died. Once again, Paul Jameson had been there to ride to the rescue.

Damn Paul Jameson.

“That’s it,” he realized, saying the amazing words out loud. “Fuck me, that’s it. It was never Todd. It was Paul. Always in the way. Always the one to call the shots.”

He leapt from his chair, paced the room, thinking furiously. It had been Paul, then. Damn.

The revelation was startling.

Not that he regretted killing Todd. It had been a rush to kill him, despite having to handle the illegal firearm. He preferred his own sleek weapons, but they were traceable. The twenty-two had been effective, however. He thought of the neat, tidy hole in Todd’s forehead. It had been so symmetrical. So clean, in fact, that he’d been surprised. The television sensationalized so much that he shouldn’t have believed it about the pools of blood and the spurting spray so often depicted in films and cop shows. It had been remarkably precise, and the blood had been so minimal as to require almost no clean up.

Of course, he’d used a small caliber weapon. He’d done his research on the internet. Off site, of course, never while he was working. Not that it would matter with his safeguards, but everything must be separate.

The twenty-two had been easy to purchase. He hadn’t even had to look very far for it. South Philadelphia was so helpful for procuring the things he needed.

That’s why he would succeed so brilliantly. He was a master at thinking things through.

“Paul Jameson,” he said, returning to his earlier thoughts. He slowed his pacing, glanced at the press release which had come through, featuring a sober looking and entirely too competent Paul. Part of him wanted to shred the noxious document, toss the scraps into the nearest toilet, and flush.

“No. No reaction,” he cautioned himself, speaking out loud to help control the impulse to make confetti of the picture. “That’s what sets me apart. Cool. Think it through,” he soothed.

Sitting back behind the desk, he took up a pen, made a series of notes in his own brand of shorthand. No one could read it. No one but him.

He listed all the points at which Paul had thwarted him. Putting it down on paper, starting with their fraternity, made the pattern clearer. His list had grown so long, he had to use another sheet.

His blood pressure rose as he got closer to the present time. So many incidents.

“It was you, then,” he muttered. “Never Todd. Todd was just your puppet, your front man. How did I miss this?”

He had to hand it to Paul. Only now, with Todd out of the way, could he see the pattern.

“Clever, very clever. But as always, I’m a step ahead.” He dashed off a few more notes. “I know now, and I’m going to act. This time I’ll get you both.”

With a giggle, he thought about the Wicked Witch of the West’s line from The Wizard of Oz . “‘And your little dog, too,’” he cackled.

With a last flourishing stroke of the pen, he added his final reason to the list. Right after that, after the sentence about Torie taking up with Paul, he wrote:

“Time to kill Paul Jameson.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Martha can be nice,” Paul protested, closing and locking his desk. He picked up the paper schedule and several files, and crammed them into his briefcase.

“To you, maybe. She made it quite clear that I was unwelcome,” Torie replied, gathering her own things as well. Not that there was much to gather. “Do you mind if I use this portfolio and pad for a few days? I’ll get another, and get it back to you.”

Paul frowned at it. “Keep it, it’s a spare, and I don’t think I’ve ever used it.”

“Thanks,” Torie said, joining him at the door. Riding down on the elevator with a host of other people, they stayed silent, but once in the car, Torie gave him directions to her office.

“I know where your office is,” Paul replied, pulling into traffic. “Did you call ahead?”

“I guess I should.” Her stomach coiled into a knot at the thought. “At least alert Tristan that I’m coming by.”

“Much as I’d rather surprise him, yeah, you should.”

Torie managed the call, even with her hands shaking. She didn’t mind conflict, nor did she have a problem with her boss, but this unwarranted distancing of the firm from her personally was new territory. Heck, everything was new territory.

“Tris will be waiting for us,” she said, closing her eyes at the thought of being escorted to her desk, watched, stared at.

“Nice of him,” Paul said dryly, the sarcasm evident in his tone. “Of course, since it’s your desk and they haven’t fired you, he really doesn’t need to escort you.”

“Of course.”

The visit was as stilted and painful as Torie imagined. She’d imagined bad. It was worse. Tristan followed them to her office, and anyone still in the building stared at her as she walked in, following her with their eyes. She could feel the speculation building in her wake.

“Torie,” Tristan said, his eyes shadowed. “I’m so sorry about this. I really…”

“Not sorry enough to vouch for me, stand up for me,” Torie said, fighting back tears. She’d never played the weak female card here before, and she wasn’t about to now. Nothing would be worse than crying, so she locked it down. “I’ve worked hard for this firm, helped build its reputation, served on every board or committee you ever asked me to serve on. Given that, I somehow deserve this kind of treatment?” She motioned toward the door, where she could see people peeking over their cubicles to see what was going on.

“No, but—” he began.

“But nothing,” she snapped, letting anger take the place of the tears. “This is so wrong.”

He glanced at Paul, who up to this point had been silent. “I know it’s tough, but the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. We might have lost clients.”