Protector With A Past Page 18

  "I'm Julia Stewart. I believe my father's—" Before she could finish announcing herself she saw the tall, spare figure of Willard Stewart enter the reception area, and she turned to greet him.

  "Julia, it's good to see you."

  Taking her hands in his, he kissed her cheek lightly, and for a moment she could smell the aftershave he'd worn for years—a blend of limes and sharp spices.

  She hadn't admitted it to herself, she realized, but she'd been afraid that his recent ill health would have left its effects on him. But Willard Stewart wouldn't let a little thing like bypass surgery get the better of him, she thought dryly. He looked like a cover from Forbes magazine, with his elegantly tailored English suit and his pale hair, silvered at the temples, brushed neatly back from a lightly tanned forehead.

  "And Cordell—I hear you're out in California now." They shook hands. "How's your father?"

  "He's fine." Cord's voice held genuine warmth. "I haven't had time to visit him on this trip, but I guess Julia's told you why."

  "Yes, I heard about your friends. I only met them the one time when I ran into you four at that restaurant a few Christmases ago, but I was shocked at the news. Miss Yerby—" Stewart turned to the receptionist behind them "—could you have coffee brought into conference room two? And when the other parties arrive, please call and let me know."

  He led the way down a thickly carpeted corridor and then swung open a heavy teak door. "We can talk more privately in here," he said, letting Julia and Cord enter the room ahead of him. "I'd like to get a better idea of what you hope to accomplish with this meeting."

  The room's furnishings had simple lines, but everything was in impeccable, if slightly austere, taste. Like the man who ran the company, Julia thought, sitting in the steel and black leather chair that Cord pulled out for her before taking his place at the long conference table. There was a discreet knock at the door and the receptionist entered, pushing a small cart with a coffee service on it. She set it on the table and then left.

  "We think there's a good chance the man you're about to meet killed Paul and Sheila," Cord said without preamble. "If he did, he's also targeting their child."

  Her father had his faults, Julia thought as Willard Stewart poured a stream of fragrant coffee into paper-thin china cups, but lack of nerve wasn't one of them. He listened intently, but with as little extraneous emotion as if he was being presented with a proposal for a new business venture, as Cord swiftly outlined the events of the last few days. Only once did he make the slightest noise, his cup clattering in his saucer as he set it down a trifle awkwardly on the polished tabletop.

  "Please continue," he said with his usual chilly courtesy as Cord paused. "You say that the person who killed this Jackie woman actually passed himself off as you when Julia ran into him in the dark?"

  "He was a whispered voice, that's all," Julia said, attempting to match his lack of emotion. "But the encounter was an arrogant move on his part. A split second longer, and I would have known there was something wrong."

  "And he would have killed you with as little compunction as he'd just murdered the secretary," murmured her father. "I had hoped that when you left the police force—" He stopped, frowning. "But we haven't much time before the meeting. My apologies, Cordell."

  Within a few minutes Cord had told him all they knew, including the possibility that they were on the trail of the wrong man entirely.

  "Tascoe's still the most likely suspect, but as soon as I knew Donner was out of prison and had a connection, however tenuous, to the case, I got a real bad feeling. I know that's not hard evidence, but—"

  "Hard evidence can be concocted," Willard Stewart said in his cool, dry voice. "Gut feelings have saved me from investing in many a company whose balance sheets are sterling, and those decisions usually prove to be wise ones."

  "But this isn't a business deal, Father," Julia interrupted. "This man is dangerous. I'd feel better if you went along with my original plan—we'll tell Marshall and Donner that you were called away at the last minute and you'd like them to deal through me. I don't see why you have to get involved in this."

  Pale gray eyes surveyed her with some surprise. After setting his coffee cup unhurriedly down, Willard Stewart flicked an invisible speck of lint from a spotless cuff.

  "Because you're my daughter, of course, Julia."

  She stared at him, but before she could come up with an adequate reply the phone on the desk rang once.

  "They've arrived." Willard Stewart rose to his feet, but waved at them to remain seated. "No, I'll escort them in personally—Tom Marshall always did like having his ego stroked, as I remember."

  "I wondered how you knew we'd arrived before your receptionist called," Julia said, trying to dispel the nervousness that suddenly assailed her. "I might have known you had a secret signal set up to alert you."

  Her father strolled to the door, his posture as ramrod straight as it had always been. "Actually, I have a small video monitor by my desk so I can see who walks in even before Miss Yerby calls. The camera's mounted on the frame of the elevator, so all I really get is a back view of new arrivals." He glanced at the folded handkerchief in his breast pocket, straightened it infinitesimally and gave her a wintry smile. "Still, it provides me with some idea of what's going on."

  "Was that his way of telling us he saw his daughter groping my butt?" Cord said into the silence that followed the other man's exit. "Remind me never to play poker with your daddy, honey."

  "He's cool, all right," Julia muttered, her cheeks scarlet. "And stubborn, too—did you notice how he dodged my question about why he's insisting on sitting in on this meeting?"

  "Is that how you heard it?" He gave her a curious glance. "I think he gave you a straight answer. You're his daughter, and to him that's reason enough. I would have preferred to keep this gathering as small as possible, too, but maybe having him here will help," he added. "Donner wants those four friendship centers so bad he can taste them. If he thinks they're within his grasp he'll be less cautious."

  "Two down, two to go," Julia said. She caught his puzzled glance. "Donner said that at the memorial service. He's got his first two centers, and now he wants the last two. What does he intend to do with a bunch of street kids out in the middle of nowhere?"

  A quick phone call to the county clerk had told them that the property Marshall had procured for the Friendship Center was a hundred acres of hilly bushland, well away from any main highways. A tiny hamlet twenty miles away was as near as civilization came to it.

  "God knows, but—" Cord looked up as the door to the conference room swung open, and Julia followed his gaze to see her father courteously ushering in his old business partner and the director of the Friendship Center.

  Cord was right, she thought as Gary Donner, again attired in casual pants and a shirt, crossed the threshold, smiling at some remark that Marshall had just made. The atmosphere of the room had thickened, as if his presence had added some toxic element to the air around them. But although Cord, slowly pushing back his chair and rising as the other men entered, had switched all his senses onto full alert, Tom Marshall and her father seemed unaware of the miasma that she found almost overpowering. Her father had obviously just put the same question to Gary Donner that she'd asked Cord only seconds ago.

  "It is isolated, I agree." It was hard to reconcile that light, pleasant voice with everything she'd learned about the man, Julia thought, her chest tightening as she watched him pause and turn to her father at the doorway. "But the isolation is necessary to completely break the destructive ties that bind these young people to their former ways of life."

  "I thought the way you summed it up before was very descriptive," Marshall said ponderously, his brow furrowing. "How did you put it? You saw this as building a new support system for these kids?"

  Donner smiled and finally seemed to realize that Cord and Julia were only a few feet away. He spread his hands in a gently encompassing gesture, including them in his answer.<
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  "It's more than that. I like to think of what I'm doing as creating a whole new family."

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  «^»

  "I must admit, Tom, the cause seems worthwhile." Willard Stewart steepled his fingers thoughtfully and ran a practiced eye over the sheaf of papers in front of him. "Testimonials from civic leaders, letters of thanks from parents. Impressive."

  Beside her father, Julia pretended an equal interest in the documentation that Donner had provided. The meeting had been going on for an hour, and still Cord hadn't steered the conversation around to Donner himself. Even as the thought crossed her mind he leaned forward, his arms on the polished surface of the table in front of him.

  "Very praiseworthy. But all of us here know that there are certain questions to be asked of Mr. Dormer before Mr. Stewart would feel comfortable making even the smallest contribution toward this cause."

  Tom Marshall had been smiling. Now his face darkened. "My God, must this man forever be hounded over some trumped-up accusations that already have cost him years of his life?" The heavy jowls shook in outrage. "Willard, I expected to be dealing with you, not some agent of the very police force that wrongfully robbed Mr. Donner of his liberty—"

  "Detective Hunter's concern is understandable," Donner interrupted quietly. "His dealings with me in the past have been under horrific circumstances, and it's only natural he would want to bring this out in the open. I imagine that every tune he looks at me he finds himself back in the Bradley farmhouse—am I right, Detective?"

  Directly across the table from Cord, Julia saw the darkness that shadowed his gaze, as if something had momentarily extinguished his soul. Then the dark eyes blinked and the firm mouth thinned.

  "The Bradley farmhouse. The Wilkins apartment. The kitchen at the White Rose diner. Yes, Donner, you take me back."

  "You're forgetting the parking garage where it all ended, Detective—the parking garage where the perpetrators of all those murders were killed themselves. I wasn't among them."

  "No, you were safely tucked away in prison, for the one crime you didn't commit. That was a stroke of good luck—or was it good planning?" Cord asked.

  He was keeping his voice even with an effort, Julia realized. Donner's reference to the Bradley farmhouse had been deliberate, and she suddenly wanted to shake his composure with the same tactics.

  "At the end of the day we have to accept that there was never any evidence linking Mr. Donner to the outrages his former acquaintances committed," she said softly.

  Donner looked at her, swiftly hiding his surprise, but before he could speak Marshall's hearty tones boomed out.

  "Finally—the voice of reason. Of course there was never any evidence. The only crime Gary may have committed was in his choice of friends, but how was he to know they—"

  "And they were your friends, weren't they, Donner?" Julia mused. "Despite everything you finally learned about them, you must have been devastated when you heard of their deaths."

  "I was shocked, yes." He pulled a sheet of paper toward him needlessly, and then, as though realizing what he was doing, his hands stilled. "But I know that the authorities had no choice in the matter."

  "Your own son was present, wasn't he? He would have been just a toddler then, and Diane Travis was looking after him for you."

  She felt as if she was feeling her way in the dark, Julia thought. Something about this conversation rattled Donner, but she wasn't sure which of her barbs were finding their mark.

  "Again, reckless disregard on the part of the authorities." Marshall pursed his lips. "Young Steven came close to being killed when Travis tried to escape."

  "But we didn't know there was a child in that car." Cord's voice was harsh. "His mother had custody of Steven after your divorce, and if Travis hadn't kidnapped him a few days earlier he would never have been in the crash that killed her. Was that kidnapping on your instructions, too?"

  "My son had been stolen from me!" Donner retorted, his self-possession finally cracking. "I got to see him every second Saturday—my son, and I wasn't allowed to raise him!"

  "But he didn't die, Mr. Donner." Willard Stewart's uninflected tones cut through the charged atmosphere. "You should be grateful for that."

  "No, he didn't die."

  The brief spasm of emotion that had marred the bland ordinary features smoothed into composure again. His eyes weren't blue, as she'd thought, Julia noticed with a start. They were a clear brilliant green, and—

  She gave herself a mental shake. She was more agitated than she was admitting to herself, she thought in confusion. Donner's eyes were as nondescript as the rest of him—an ordinary and slightly muddy gray.

  And right now they were focused on her father.

  "He didn't die, thank God. But I'm still fighting to regain visiting rights with him." Donner sighed. "Of course, your loss was much more tragic and final. The death of a child can tear a family apart with feelings of guilt and pain, I'm sure."

  She felt the blood drain from her face. How had he known? Tom Marshall wouldn't have told him that the man they were meeting had once had a son who had drowned, because Marshall didn't know about Davey. Her father's reserve was unassailable on personal matters.

  Which meant that Gary Donner had deliberately set out to uncover everything he could about her and her family.

  "You are referring to my son, I imagine." If Willard Stewart's voice had been chilly before, now it was pack ice. His spare, stiff-backed figure seemed to freeze into motionlessness, and even his gaze was unblinking as he stared across his conference table at Gary Donner. "Please refrain from doing so ever again."

  He slid back his chair and gave a slight nod. "I would like some time to consider my decision, Mr. Donner. I'm not one to rush into things, as Mr. Marshall can tell you. Tom, you'll be hearing from me one way or another within the week."

  He rose, and unwillingly his two guests got to their feet also. Cord remained seated, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes watching Donner's every move. Julia didn't dare to attempt to stand. It was all she could do to fight back the nausea that assailed her, and her legs felt like they weren't attached to the rest of her body.

  The first time she'd met Donner she'd had the unsettling feeling that he knew everything about her. He did, she thought with bright fear. He knew everything—how Davey had died, how her family had been torn apart. He even knew about the terrible, crippling guilt that had—

  "I'll save you the phone call, Willard." Marshall's plump features were so tight that his mouth looked like a rosebud. His tone was caustic. "You don't intend to support the center." He clapped a meaty hand on Donner's shoulder, his voice rising. "You've been taken in by the smears and innuendos that have dogged this innocent man for—"

  He broke off, his words ending in a strange, whistling breath, and Julia looked up. She was the only one in a position to see what had caused Marshall's sudden gasp, she realized immediately. The man's normally ruddy face was the color of chalk, his eyes were unfocused with pain, and the thumb of the hand that had been resting heavily on Donner's shoulder was bent back to his wrist. Donner smiled and removed Marshall's hand from his shoulder, patting it almost affectionately as he did so.

  "Now, Tom, I don't need a champion," he remonstrated pleasantly. "Mr. Stewart, I'll respect your decision, whatever it is. All I ask is that you judge me on my actions, not on rumor."

  "That's all any of us can ask," Willard Stewart said remotely. "During our lifetime, Mr. Donner—and beyond it. I'll see you out, gentlemen."

  As the teak door closed behind the trio Cord's confused gaze turned to Julia. "What the hell happened at the end there?" he rasped. "One moment that pompous fool was telling us what a saint his poor, misunderstood protégé was and the next—"

  "And the next moment he realized he was holding hands with the devil," Julia finished for him. "I think Donner broke Marshall's thumb right in front of three witnesses, and what we saw was the balance of power
taking a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn in that little partnership." Her legs still felt shaky, but with Donner's departure the nausea had subsided. "Cord, he played us all during that meeting—even my father. We didn't even ask him where he was the night of Paul and Sheila's murders."

  "We didn't have to." He shoved a stiff square of parchment, one of the documents that Donner had left for her father's perusal, across the table at her. "It's an outstanding citizen commendation from the Chamber of Commerce, presented to Donner personally at their annual awards dinner. Check the date."

  She knew what she was going to find even before she looked at the document. She raised her eyes to his.

  "We'll have to confirm this, Cord. He may not have actually been there to receive—"

  "He was there." His tone was bleak. "Everything else about the man is all wrong, but Donner's alibis always check out."

  * * *

  The cramped, utilitarian room was beginning to seem like home, Julia thought drearily as she tossed her shoulder bag on the motel dresser and massaged her temples wearily. Behind her Cord's expression bore the same evidence of exhausted futility, but as their eyes met in the mirror he attempted a smile, and his strong fingers lightly massaged the tight muscles at the back of her neck.

  "Good thing I handed in my badge before they took it away from me," he said wryly. "I've obviously lost it where Donner's concerned."

  "Because you're not convinced he didn't kill Paul and Sheila?"

  Closing her eyes, she felt the sure touch of his fingers seeking and relieving knots in muscles she hadn't even known she had. She let herself lean back against him, filled with a sudden fierce thankfulness that, whatever the outcome, their interview with Donner was over and done with.

  On the way from her father's office they'd stopped at the local television station, and an obliging technician had rooted out the video footage of the Chamber of Commerce awards banquet. He'd fast-forwarded it until Cord had told him to stop, and the two of them had watched in silence as Gary Donner, for once attired in a neat suit and conservative tie, had shaken hands with a beaming businessman, collected his commendation with graceful thanks and had said a few brief words about the Friendship Center before leaving the stage.