Engaging Bodyguard Page 5

  “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  “I thought so until a moment ago.” Now that she was committed, she wanted to get the job done and get Cain out of her hair. “It started with Bobby Cambridge’s murder. More accurately, it started on the day of the kidnapping. Bobby was on his way to a private summer day camp with the usual security detail of Secret Service agents.”

  Celeste replayed the scene in her mind as her hands kept busy rearranging white roses in a fluted vase. Long-stem roses were the one extravagance she indulged in. “Except one had turned greedy.”

  “Frank Bremer,” Cain responded. “Weapons specialist turned agent after a stint in the military and FBI. A loner. No close friendships, no letters from home. A man who decided to take care of his own retirement.”

  Celeste’s eyes narrowed with suspicion before she continued. “After pulling over for feigned car trouble on a deserted part of the highway, Bremer killed several agents in cold blood, then took off with Bobby.”

  “Risky,” Cain acknowledged. “But Bremer had the element of surprise on his side.”

  “Exactly. And who else would know Secret Service procedures better?” she asked rhetorically, her hands stopping as she got lost in relating the facts. “He ditched the car for another hidden nearby. By the time back up arrived a few minutes later, he was long gone.”

  The warmth of the store did nothing to diffuse the cold pit in her stomach. She’d gone over this a hundred times. Still, it never got easier. “It was simple at that point,” she said. “Bremer had cut out the tracking chip implanted behind Bobby’s ear and left it crushed on the pavement. A few hours later, he made his demands, short and to the point. Then ditched his phone.

  “Our guys weren’t so smart.” Celeste frowned. “After agreeing to the drop-off, the FBI, Secret Service and everyone else involved tried to pull a fast one.”

  Cain nodded. “Bremer found out—presumably through a phone call from you—went back and killed the kid, then himself. Unusual, but understandable considering we would’ve hunted him down.”

  The memory of her grabbing Jonathon, trying to convince him Bremer hadn’t worked alone, flashed through her. It was her persistence that had turned their suspicions to her. That and the record of Bremer’s number on her cell phone. “It was the official version, yes.” Annoyance chewed at her throat, forcing her to clear it. “But not the correct one.”

  “Okay,” Cain said, and then leaned a hip against a nearby sideboard. “Why don’t you tell me your version.”

  “The correct version, you mean.”

  He folded his arms. “Your version.”

  The attitude angered her more than the words. “Frank Bremer was smart. He wanted untraceable cash, old bills in small denominations. If they’d even thought about using the standard tricks like dye explosives or tracking devices in the payoff bag, he would’ve killed Bobby. A helicopter was to drop the money into the Potomac at his specified location with no surveillance. Most figured he would show up in underwater gear and snag the money. But the Feds screwed up. Broke their deal.”

  Cain’s mouth flat-lined. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists, even when the president’s kid is involved.”

  “I know, I took National Security 101,” Celeste re sponded derisively. “The FBI kept a twenty-four-hour watch on the drop point. Bremer supposedly found out about it and never showed.”

  “He’d been updated on all the latest surveillance equipment.” Cain crossed his ankles, seemingly relaxed. Celeste knew better. The lines of his body might have eased, but underneath, the muscles remained tense, alert. “Other than the record of his cell number on your phone, there was no evidence of a breach from the inside.”

  “But it’s there. Somewhere.” It wasn’t easy under Cain’s penetrating gaze, but she held her ground. “The point is, by the time the good guys realized Bremer had outmaneuvered them, Bobby was already dead and someone had left Bremer’s phone number on my cell. And that someone contracted the hit on Bobby.”

  “Okay, so Bremer never showed at the drop,” Cain continued, obviously aware of the details. “Instead, he went back to the cabin where he’d stashed Bobby and killed the boy with an injection of sodium pentobarbital, then shot himself in the head. End of story, tragic but not unusual in kidnapping cases. Most victims die within the first forty-eight hours—Bobby lived twice that long. And from all accounts, Bremer had treated him well. Some say the boy never saw the end coming.”

  “My argument exactly and one that ended up biting me in the butt later.” Celeste struggled to keep any emotion from underlining her words. “I was on the case from the moment Bobby was kidnapped. I’d insisted on it.” If she’d just been less confident, and quicker at putting the pieces together…

  “I’m surprised Jon approved the assignment, considering the fact that Grace and Olivia Cambridge were friends.”

  “He had no choice once President Cambridge requested my help,” she said, waving the comment off with her hand.

  “So how did Bobby’s treatment help your theory?”

  “Frank Bremer would never have treated Bobby kindly.” She ran her fingers impatiently through her hair. “During his assignment to Bobby, he wasn’t friendly or unfriendly, just indifferent. He never complained about the detail, but his associates said that a few weeks before the kidnapping there was always a thinly veiled undertone when he talked about the kid—which wasn’t often. Deep down, I’m sure, Bremer considered anything other than protecting the president a step back in his career.” Celeste paused, knowing the next portion would burn like salt in wounds yet to heal.

  “Don’t stop now, Gypsy,” he prompted softly. “You’re on a roll. After Bremer was assigned to Bobby…”

  She nodded, using the few seconds to gather her nerve. “From here it gets a little complicated. Bobby was a sensitive kid. Shy. Introverted. A problem when you happen to be the president’s youngest child and your family is continually under the microscope. It only got worse when his sister, Anna, went off to college that first year they were in the White House. The fourteen-year age difference between them made her more of a caregiver than a sister. The same year Anna started college, he started kindergarten. Losing her only added to the stress of facing the attention alone. On his first day of school, Bobby freaked out. To calm him, Olivia gave him an angel coin.”

  “What kind of coin?”

  “A good-luck coin. A Frenchman by the name of Dupré designed the coin in the late 1700s and carried it in his pocket—always,” she explained, suddenly aware of the floorboards squeaking. She stopped pacing. “One day, having fallen out of favor with the king, Dupré was arrested. Legend has it that he prayed to his guardian angel—which he’d imprinted on one side of the coin—to save him. Or he could have used it to bribe the guard. Either way, the next day he was set free and the coin became a symbol of good luck.”

  “A talisman of sorts.”

  Celeste nodded. “For years, Bobby never went anywhere without that coin in his pocket. It became his security blanket. He’d almost rubbed the image off by using it as a worry stone.”

  Celeste jammed her fists into her stomach. She’d seen Bobby when they’d found him—had insisted on it. He been sleeping, his body—gangly, with pointed shoulders—tucked endearingly under a NASCAR comforter, similar to those that a thousand boys his age owned. His blond hair was mussed, like that of most ten-year-olds when they are sleeping. The soft spikes of hair were damp against the flushed cheeks—still warm even in death, from dreams of racing, flying jets and space ships.

  “Cain, they found the coin in his hand. When Bobby died, I’m positive he wasn’t holding the coin. Someone placed it in his right hand later. Deliberately. Bobby was left-handed.”

  “It only supports the theory that you had profiled Bremer and instructed him exactly how to leave the boy.”

  “An assassin, not a kidnapper, targeted Bobby. No one could have saved Bobby. By the time I realized it, I’d been set up and Bobby was a
lready dead.”

  “Only you believed that.”

  “Cain, Bobby wasn’t abused during his captivity. He wasn’t restrained, he was well-fed and clean.”

  Even gripping her fingers together couldn’t hide the fact that her hands shook. Cain shifted, fighting the urge to hold her, knowing if he did, she’d fall apart before she could purge the memory. So he did what was necessary, what he seemed to be good at lately. He pushed her temper.

  “The FBI experts said only a woman would be that sensitive to the kid…which was one of the things that indicated your involvement.”

  Chapter Six

  “Circumstantial.”

  He shrugged, satisfied when her eyes fired with anger. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” She started pacing again, but this time the tempo had picked up with determination, her eyes shooting cobalt sparks. Having been raised in a family with Scottish tempers himself, he couldn’t miss the flash of fury or the reluctant admiration he felt because of it.

  “You’re right, Cain. There was no evidence of struggle during those last four days of his life. That showed Bobby trusted his caretaker. At least enough not to fight him. Bobby was the kind of kid who’d have needed constant reassurance from someone he believed in. And since I was with Mercer and a half dozen other guys pretty much during the whole episode, it couldn’t have been me.”

  “Another possibility is that Bremer could’ve fed Bobby some story—that they were in hiding from some danger, maybe.” Cain reasoned. “Gained the kid’s trust.”

  “That scenario doesn’t work. Remember Bobby was an introvert and Bremer had been with him for several months prior to the kidnapping. During that time, there was no friendship, no closeness—only mutual toleration. Top that with the fact Bremer cut up Bobby’s ear to get the chip, he wouldn’t have trusted Bremer, even if he’d tried to become friends.”

  “So you’re saying it had to be someone new. A Ted Bundy type who was able to gain Bobby’s trust almost immediately?”

  “Exactly. Almost like a good cop–bad cop ploy.”

  “With Bremer playing the bad cop,” Cain responded grimly.

  “Unknowingly, of course. The autopsy showed no outward injuries aside from his ear, not even marks on Bobby’s wrists to suggest he was bound. It also indicated that his last meal was a fast-food hamburger and fries. Bremer wouldn’t have jeopardized his plans by buying Bobby his favorite meal.”

  “He could’ve changed his appearance. Shaved his head, worn a fake goatee.”

  “All the possible variations of disguises had been sent out over the media and Bobby’s disappearance launched the biggest manhunt in two centuries, twentieth and twenty-first. Yet, no one recognized him when he bought the meal? Not likely.” Celeste snorted, raising another eyebrow from Cain. God forbid if Diana had done that, she thought.

  And because of that thought, she almost did it again. “Remember this guy was FBI at one point in his career, so he wasn’t stupid.” When Cain grunted, Celeste ignored the insult to the Bureau guys and continued. “Every fast-food outlet within a hundred square miles turned over their security tapes. Not one man fitting Bremer’s description ever came near one of their buildings that day.

  “The autopsy also showed Bobby had been given a sleeping agent in his food before the barbital injection. Bremer would’ve shot him. Not loaded him with drugs before killing him. He had no reason to. A bullet is fast, simple. Military.” She let her words sink in. “And Bremer wouldn’t have taken the time to make sure Bobby’s lucky coin was in his hand first.”

  “So you’re telling me this other guy either did all of this to set you up—or he had a loving heart and killed Bobby in the least traumatic way possible.”

  “No, our killer doesn’t have a heart or a conscious,” she insisted, recalling that she’d made the exact same statement to Jonathon. “Bobby Cambridge’s death was a foregone conclusion.”

  A knot of tension throbbed at the base of her neck—a nuisance she refused to give in to. “My being set up was a last-minute thought, triggered simply by my working the case—a case where this killer’s client got cold feet and decided to take matters into his own hands. Otherwise, they would’ve have set me up with more than just one phone call on my cell. Either way, it was imperative the operation looked like a kidnapping.”

  That’s what infuriated her the most, the wasted time, the useless words. The endless strategizing by the kidnap experts that had led them nowhere while Bobby’s life slipped through their fingers like sand. “This guy was kind to Bobby just because that’s his style. He me ticulously researches his victims. Then he kills in the manner he decides fits the victim’s profile. It’s his trademark.

  “Gabriel knew which Secret Service agent to seek out.”

  “Gabriel?”

  “A nickname I gave him.” She studied Cain in her peripheral vision and waited. The familiar feeling of inadequacy roiled within, but stubbornly she squelched it. She’d stand by her profile, no matter what Cain MacAlister thought.

  “Okay,” he drawled. “Let’s say there was another player, someone who paid Bremer to kill Bobby. Why wouldn’t this Gabriel turn it into a real kidnapping and take the money before he murdered the boy?” he prodded.

  “Because Gabriel’s a professional. Someone had already paid him for the job, most likely two or three times the ransom amount. He never wanted the president’s money. Probably understood better than Bremer that the chances of seeing the money were infinitesimal. He needed a patsy to pull off the actual kidnapping.”

  Her mind raced through the details again. “He may even have masterminded the whole thing with very little input from Bremer. Just think, if Bremer hadn’t died, right now he’d be the most wanted man alive—the man who murdered the president’s ten-year-old son. There wouldn’t have been a place on this planet he could hide. Gabriel couldn’t afford to let him live. Bremer signed his own death sentence the moment he agreed to the kidnapping, he was just too arrogant to realize it.”

  “And since they believed that you were the accomplice, the FBI had no reason to look farther.”

  “The didn’t have enough evidence against me and they had to let me go.”

  “Which is when, like Bremer, you became a liability once you were released.”

  “So the question is…who paid Gabriel?”

  “And why?”

  “If we find the who, we’ll know the why.”

  Celeste noted Cain’s we but didn’t let it go to her head.

  “So why the nickname Gabriel?”

  “The angel coin.” In her mind, it was a simple correlation. “I connected it to Gabriel the Archangel.”

  “The angel of mercy,” Cain murmured. “If what you say is true, his motivation wasn’t kindness.”

  “Still…” Celeste looked at Cain. “In his own twisted way, Gabriel kept Bobby away from the ugly.”

  “HOW ABOUT some food?” Celeste crossed the hardwood floor, her heels thudding her irritation with short, staccato beats. “My apartment is this way.” Pointedly, she walked to the storeroom. “I have two entries, one from the store and another from a stairway at the side alley.”

  The stock room, a long, flat area that ran the width of the store, held very little merchandise. Mostly assorted lamps, a chest and two chairs, all with bright yellow tags marking them as layaway items.

  “I don’t believe in a lot of surplus.”

  A closet door, or so it seemed, graced the side wall. Beyond it lay a short flight of stairs that led to the second-floor apartment.

  When they reached the top of the stair, she stabbed a series of numbers into the security keypad. Once the alarm beeped, she opened the door.

  Cain had expected an extension of the store. What he got was a surprise. The apartment was designed with a great room and a small hall that led to the two bedrooms and bath.

  Simple. Uncluttered.

  But then again, how cluttered can an apartment get when its furniture consisted of a N
autilus, free weights, sparring bag and treadmill?

  A gymnasium, right down to the dull white walls and scuffed hardwood floor. She’d thrown in a brown corduroy sofa, threadbare on the arms and so mangled any decent flea market would have rejected it.

  On the kitchen counter was a microwave and a portable television. A radio sat on the floor near the weights, filtering a sultry jazz throughout the room.

  As long as Cain had known her, Diana had left music on twenty-four seven—for company, she used to joke.

  But the scent that lingered was flowers and earth. Not roses and talcum. Because he could, he inhaled deeply. “Don’t tell me—you’re going for the featherweight championship this year,” Cain mused.

  “No, downstairs is home. This is my workspace.”

  “Still, I have to admit the right combination of chrome and iron does the heart good.”

  “Because Grams and I died, my inheritance went to several designated charities and everything that was Diana’s stayed behind.” A decision she’d made not realizing at the time the immense relief and freedom that had come with it.

  “What happened to my mother’s engagement ring, Gypsy?” The question slid out of nowhere. During her days of being interrogated, she’d learned those questions were the worst kind.

  “I don’t know,” Celeste answered slowly, cautious of the minefield being laid. “After I left the letter breaking our engagement at your apartment, I forgot to leave it, too,” she explained, feeling the lie as it slithered over her tongue and knowing the self-hatred that would follow. “It was lost when the car exploded. Flung from my hand most likely. It was never recovered.”

  “How did you survive the blast?”

  Celeste closed her eyes, briefly, knowing he deserved an answer, but undecided on how much she deserved to hold back. “I’d been upset. Too upset to drive.”

  “Because of the investigation?”

  “Yes, mostly. I’d only been released a few days before and still hadn’t really recovered.” Restless, Celeste went into the kitchen and turned on the water. “Grams talked me into spending some time with her. Do some shopping, maybe see a play. Just excuses to get away.” After filling the kitchen basin, she slid in the few dirty dishes she’d left from lunch. “We were in your apartment parking garage. I had just dropped off my letter to you. I realized I’d forgotten to leave the ring, so I grabbed it from my purse and was going to run it upstairs. Grams insisted on driving.”