"Hello."
"Did I wake you?"
It took Oliver half a second to realize his caller wasn't Fortier. "You shouldn't be calling me. There mustn't be any record of contact between the two of us."
"I'm at a pay phone near a gas station off Interstate 10. Believe me, I don't want anyone to know that there's a connection between the two of us. Now or in the past."
"Is there a problem?"
"Well, Ollie, now that you ask…" Self-satisfied chuckles hummed through the phone line. "Yeah, there's a problem. A big problem."
"Concerning?"
"What the hell do you think it's concerning-it's about Grace Beaumont."
"Any problems you're having with Ms. Beaumont are yours-not mine."
"Oh, they're your problems all right. Aren't all of Booth Fortier's troubles your troubles, too?"
"And just how is Ms. Beaumont Booth's problem?"
"Tell Fortier he'd better start looking for a traitor in his midst. Somebody in his organization or in the Miller camp sent Grace a very informative letter."
Ollie's stomach knotted painfully. "Just how informative?"
"The message stated plainly that Dean Beaumont and Byram Sheffield's accident had been murder, ordered by Fortier because Beaumont had discovered Fortier's connection to our esteemed governor."
"God damn!"
"Grace has hired a private investigator to look into the matter. She's determined to unearth the truth-the whole truth."
"We've got ourselves a mess… a holy mess. Booth will have conniptions. He'll be fit to be tied when I tell him." Oliver knew exactly what Booth would do after he exploded-he'd give Grace Beaumont a couple of warnings, then he'd eliminate her, just as he had gotten rid of her husband and father nearly four years ago. "By the way, who's the P.I.? Is he local?"
"Not local. He's out of Atlanta. From the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency. His name is Jed Tyree and he's originally from Louisiana."
"Tyree." Jed Tyree. Oliver turned the name over in his mind several times. It sounded familiar. He knew he'd heard it before… somewhere, sometime. He couldn't recall right this minute, but it would come to him. Sooner or later. "So far, what's he done in the way of investigating?"
"I'm not sure. He took a look at the accident report and he's set up an office at Sheffield Media. And he has the entire Dundee Agency network at his disposal. I figure you can find out more. Make a few phone calls. Hell, call the governor."
Oliver heard more smug chuckles, the kind that said I'm amused with myself. Damn infuriating bastard. Dealing with self-serving amateurs was always a pain in the butt.
"Don't call again unless you have invaluable information," Oliver said. "It's safer for both of us."
"I understand. The ball is definitely in your court. And I don't envy you the task of reporting this news to Fortier."
"Good night." Oliver placed the receiver in its cradle, then walked across the den to the bar set up on a rolling cart in the corner. He undid the lid on the Crown Royal, lifted the bottle and poured the whiskey into a glass.
He wondered if Grace Beaumont realized that by her actions she had probably signed her own death warrant. Hell, no probably about it. He'd heard she was a smart lady, that to everyone's surprise she'd turned out to be as shrewd in business as her father had been. So did her life mean so little to her that she'd risk death to seek revenge on Booth Fortier?
Damn! He didn't want to make that call to Booth. And he wouldn't. Not tonight. Booth was in New Orleans at an exclusive brothel, his sickest, most vile pleasures being catered to around the clock. Tonight he was probably drunk or drugged and sated from hours of S &M titillation.
Oliver knew it was best to wait for morning to call Booth. Wait until he'd had a good night's sleep, eaten breakfast and was thinking clearly. Even at his best, Booth was a real son-of-a-bitch.
The earth glistened with morning dew, and puddles of rainwater, only partially evaporated from last night's thundershower, rippled ever so slightly in the morning breeze. As Jed paced himself to Grace's fast walk, he observed everything around them: the tall, ancient trees that lined the long, winding driveway to Belle Foret; the thick, verdant springtime grass, not yet dried out by summer's relentless heat; the quiet approach of daylight as the sun began its daily climb over the eastern horizon. At six o'clock there was no more than a hint of the day's upcoming humidity and high temperature.
But what he paid closest attention to was Grace herself. Fresh out of bed, not a hint of makeup, her long blond hair tied in a ponytail and bobbing up and down as she walked, the woman was beautiful. Born beautiful. And would no doubt be beautiful till the day she died. Her type of beauty didn't fade with age; it simply matured.
Jed hadn't slept well last night and he suspected Grace hadn't either. There was a slight darkness under her eyes and when he'd joined her downstairs just as she started out the door for her morning walk, she'd been a bit testy.
"What are you doing up?" She'd practically snapped his head off. She'd taken one look at his seen-better-days shorts, T-shirt and running shoes and said, "I don't need for you to go with me. I don't-"
"I'd like to go with you," he'd told her. "It will give us a chance to talk while we get some exercise."
She'd snorted, opened the door and made no further protest when he'd followed her.
They had walked to the end of the half-mile drive at a quick, steady pace, but they hadn't talked. He'd been waiting for Grace to acknowledge his presence, which she finally did when she came to a halt at the high, wrought-iron gates separating her estate from the road leading into St. Camille.
Staring pointedly at him, she placed her hands on her hips. "What do we need to talk about?"
He inspected her from head to toe, taking particular note of her long, slim legs, shown off to perfection in her jogging shorts, and the swell of her breasts beneath the matching cotton cropped top.
While she tapped her foot on the driveway, she narrowed her gaze and gave him a warning glare. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."
Jed laughed. "Sorry, but it's your own fault for looking so damn good first thing in the morning."
Grace crossed her arms over her chest and cocked one hip higher than the other. "You don't know when to give up, do you?"
Jed shrugged. "Look, Blondie, I apologize. I promise I'll behave myself from now on." He held up two fingers in a salute. "Boy Scouts honor."
"You were never a boy scout. A juvenile delinquent, maybe, but not a boy scout." She looked away from him and began walking back up the driveway.
He fell into step beside her. She'd been right on the money when she'd said he'd never been a boy scout; and she hadn't been far wrong when she'd suggested he'd been a delinquent. He'd been a damn rowdy teenager, and had known that any trouble he got into, his uncle Booth would get him out of at a snap of his fingers. There had been a time when he'd looked up to his uncle, had even admired him. But that had been before he'd found out exactly how ruthless Booth Fortier really was. If he hadn't learned about Booth's part in Lance Tyree's death, he might now be his uncle's right-hand man, in training to take over as head of the crime syndicate. The very thought that he might have chosen to follow his uncle's path in life sickened him.
"By the way," Grace said, "do you call all the blond women you know Blondie?"
She didn't look at him or slow her pace, so he followed her lead and kept walking and looking straight ahead. "Funny you should ask. I'm not sure why the term popped into my head. I've never called anyone else Blondie. Why, what difference does it make?"