Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

It was interesting, really, to watch the agonized look that overcame Justin Denbe’s face. The clear internal struggle. Be there for the daughter he adored, but also return to the life of responsibility. Or go. Just go. No commitments, no obligations, a free man with eleven million dollars in his pocket.

He looked at Tessa.

He looked at Kathryn, not even speaking, just making pleading sounds in the base of her throat.

And then…

He ran for the doorway. Leapt through it. Got as far as the deck. Tessa yelled his name, gun coming up, but holding fire as she couldn’t very well shoot a man in the back. Wyatt thrust Kathryn aside, preparing to give chase.

As somewhere in the distance, a rifle cracked. Tessa registered the sound, then dropped instinctively to the floor, Wyatt joining her, as together they watched Justin Denbe’s head explode on the front porch.

Now you see him, now you don’t.

Justin’s body collapsed.

Kathryn started to scream.

There wasn’t a second shot. Or a third. The first round had gotten it done.

After an eternity had passed, Tessa climbed shakily to her feet. Wyatt rose to stand beside her. They took in Justin’s lifeless form.

Wyatt said: “Told you the hired muscle involved a brain or two.”

THEY PHONED SPECIAL AGENT ADAMS. Let the federal agent flex her muscle as neither one of them had legal standing. Plus, it meant she’d inherit the paperwork. Kathryn was led away, still screaming. Most likely would be taken to a local emergency room and treated for shock.

In the meantime, uniformed officers patrolled the neighborhood. Rooftop deck, two houses down and across the street, they recovered a rifle and a single brass cartridge. Serial number filed off the rifle. Fingerprints wiped off the cartridge.

“Professional-grade work,” Nicole said, stating the obvious.

“Dead men tell no tales,” Wyatt intoned.

“One of the kidnappers?”

“You take Justin into custody, he’s bound to talk,” Tessa supplied with a shrug. “Most professional arrangements involve signed confidentiality agreements. Let’s just say, Justin appeared at risk for violating his.”

“You see anything?” she asked.

“No,” they replied honestly.

Nicole sighed, returned to her vehicle to update the APB. Not needed for anything else, Wyatt and Tessa finally departed, Wyatt walking her to her car.

“Think Libby and Ashlyn are now safe?”

“Well, think about it. If Justin was here when Mick attacked his family…”

Wyatt nodded. “Kind of thinking the same thing. One of the hired guns, maybe the leader, took out his own guy.”

“Interesting profession. Very strict rules of employment. But said guy also left Libby and Ashlyn alone afterward. So, yeah, hopefully dust will now settle and they can start rebuilding their lives.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked.

She answered him as honestly as she could: “Some days better than others.”

They’d arrived at her Lexus.

“So,” he said.

“So,” she answered.

“This is the awkward part. ’Cause technically you’re buying dinner, and yet I’m dying to ask you out.”

“Can’t meet my daughter,” she warned seriously. “Not for a bit.”

“Wouldn’t expect it.”

“I got space issues.”

“Noticed that. I got a thing for wood. Sometimes, I have to build things. Just do.”

She nodded. “I look really good in heels,” she said at last.

“Really? Because I’m told I’m damn hot in a jacket and tie.”

“No tie. Just the jacket.”

His gaze warmed. “Still the heels?”

“Still the heels.”

“Friday night?”

“Next Friday. I need to spend some time with Sophie.”

“Fair enough.”

Wyatt leaned forward. Caught her off guard with a low whisper to her ear. “And wear your hair down.”

Then he turned, already sauntering down the street. Tessa remained standing there a moment longer, a slow smile spreading across her face. She thought of families, old and new, and survivors, then and now.

Then, she got into her Lexus and drove home to her daughter.

Chapter 44

THIS IS WHAT I KNOW:

My husband started siphoning funds from his own company sixteen years ago. Not just a slush fund, but an Exit in Case of Emergency fund. The federal financial wizards believe he accrued a little over thirteen million dollars by setting up dozens of fake vendors in his own company books, then vouching for their authenticity.

According to e-mails recovered from his computer, he began to make his exit plans back in June, approximately five days after I discovered his affair. By the time Ruth Chan caught wind of the embezzlement in August, it hardly mattered. Justin’s escape strategy was well under way. No doubt he sent her to the Bahamas simply to get her out of town for the big event. Certainly, he’d already purchased a forged passport, later found on his body, for the name Tristan Johnson. He’d also used that name to purchase a plane ticket for the Dominican Republic, as well as open a new bank account, where he most likely planned on transferring the bulk of his illicit gains.

Those funds have yet to be tracked down, maybe still sitting in another bank under a different alias; the forensic accountants are working on it.

Finally, the Great Escape: My husband hired three professionals to kidnap his own family. He gave them a security code to enter our home (the date I’d discovered Kathryn Chapman’s texts on Justin’s cell phone; Paulie, Justin’s top security guru, discovered it when auditing the system). Justin then prepped the men with all the information they would need to successfully ambush us in our own home, while also providing a secure location for our incarceration.

He gave them guidelines: They could not harm his wife or his daughter. And apparently, he granted them permission to Tase and beat the shit out of him. After all, the kidnapping needed to appear genuine in order for his death to appear genuine, not to mention he needed the insurance company to cough up nine million dollars in ransom. It’s not like Denbe Construction had that kind of money, and heaven forbid Justin should dip into his own cash reserves.

Z and his team performed their job admirably. But I think, in hindsight, Z became increasingly disgruntled about working for a man whose master plan involved, at the very least, terrorizing his unsuspecting wife and daughter. Hence the expressions of frank hatred I caught so many times on his face.

Was that why Z and/or Radar assassinated my husband? I doubt it. I think if Z had truly wanted Justin dead, he would’ve taken care of it up close and personal during those final moments at the prison. Plus, Z always struck me as a professional; the kind of guy to get the job done whether he approved of his client or not. I think Radar was probably assigned the job of tailing Justin, to make sure he got safely out of town, just as Z took on the job of tracking Mick. Tying up loose ends, so to speak. When Mick attacked me, Z took the necessary steps to eliminate an untrustworthy associate. And when Justin was collared by the police, Radar took the necessary steps to eliminate an untrustworthy client. As Justin had said, they had nine million reasons to make a clean getaway, which they did.

Mick’s fingerprints ID’d him as Michael Beardsley, a former marine, dishonorably discharged five years ago, and with a reputation for working the “private sector.” For a while, the FBI visited Ashlyn and me nearly daily with photos of Mick’s known associates, hoping we could pick out Z or Radar from the photo array. So far, we haven’t recognized any of the men in the pictures. And so far, the police haven’t been able to find any trace of e-mails or other means of contact between Justin and Z.