Fairmont Olympic Hotel, packed full of Seattle’s wealthiest and most influential citizens, where they were wrapping up the “informal” five-thousand-a-plate fund-raiser for his mother, Margaret Grayson-Maxwell, who was making a run for the state senate seat.
The luncheon had gone long. Margaret looked a little weary as she and her husband, David Maxwell, flashed him a questioning look as he passed their table, though their tablemates would never notice the shift in their attention. He gave his mother a subtle nod, and her pasted-on smile got so stiff he was afraid her cheeks were going to crack.
Carl and David had tried to dissuade her from making her run this election season. There were still too many loose ends to tie up in the wake of Nate’s death, too many land mines still waiting to blow at any time. All it would take was one person to find the thread of connection and to give it a tug and their whole damn world would unravel. This was not the year for her to make a big splash on the political scene.
But Margaret had insisted. This was the point of everything they’d done, wasn’t it? All the money they’d gotten—more important, the influence they had over anyone of any importance in the state? They had their claws sunk in so deep, now was the time to get her branch of the Grayson family back into the realm of legitimate, political stature. No more of this shadow play, controlling from behind the scenes. That might work for her husband, but for Margaret, power was meaningless unless the rest of the world bowed to it. No way in hell was she going to wait another four years.
Carl was in his stepfather’s camp. You could get a lot more done flying under the radar and leveraging the right people, gaining advantage before anyone even realized that you held the key to their success—or failure—in your hands.
Now everything they’d built was at stake. The situation with Nate had left them vulnerable, and while Carl wasn’t afraid of any of the clients talking—people in their positions had too far to fall—they hadn’t had time to do as clean a cover-up as they would have liked. Nevertheless, Margaret had insisted that this was the year, and damned if she’d wait another four before she made her run.
Up until a couple days ago, Carl had been feeling better about the situation than he had been immediately after Nate’s death. Then it had been all triage, trying to keep the truth from bleeding out as they scrambled to keep their tracks covered. Waiting with bated breath to see if any other players came forward to reveal the rotting foundation holding up one of Seattle’s most prominent families.
Then they’d all breathed a sigh of relief when everyone seemed content to believe that everything—the murders, the framing of Sean Flynn, the high-end prostitution ring—started and ended with Nate Brewster.
Carl knew it was too good to be true, knew there were too many questions and sooner or later someone was going to want answers. It was up to him to make sure no one ever found them.
This phone call should provide another dose of reassurance. He waited until he was out of the dining room to answer his phone, a disposable pay-by-the-minute model that he would ditch after this call. “Is it taken care of?”
“Not yet,” the voice rumbled in answer. “She left town earlier today and it took me few hours to pick up the trail.”
“So what’s the issue? Take care of it.”
“She went to visit Sean Flynn.”
Carl absently ran his finger down the scar bisecting his right cheek and sighed. “You’ll have to do both of them then.” He’d known it might eventually come to this, but he’d hoped not to take care of Sean Flynn so soon after Jimmy Caparulo. The connections between the two of them and Nate were too well known. All three of them dying violently in quick succession would raise too many red flags.
But Krista Slater had forced his hand, and now he had to make the best of it.
There
The luncheon had gone long. Margaret looked a little weary as she and her husband, David Maxwell, flashed him a questioning look as he passed their table, though their tablemates would never notice the shift in their attention. He gave his mother a subtle nod, and her pasted-on smile got so stiff he was afraid her cheeks were going to crack.
Carl and David had tried to dissuade her from making her run this election season. There were still too many loose ends to tie up in the wake of Nate’s death, too many land mines still waiting to blow at any time. All it would take was one person to find the thread of connection and to give it a tug and their whole damn world would unravel. This was not the year for her to make a big splash on the political scene.
But Margaret had insisted. This was the point of everything they’d done, wasn’t it? All the money they’d gotten—more important, the influence they had over anyone of any importance in the state? They had their claws sunk in so deep, now was the time to get her branch of the Grayson family back into the realm of legitimate, political stature. No more of this shadow play, controlling from behind the scenes. That might work for her husband, but for Margaret, power was meaningless unless the rest of the world bowed to it. No way in hell was she going to wait another four years.
Carl was in his stepfather’s camp. You could get a lot more done flying under the radar and leveraging the right people, gaining advantage before anyone even realized that you held the key to their success—or failure—in your hands.
Now everything they’d built was at stake. The situation with Nate had left them vulnerable, and while Carl wasn’t afraid of any of the clients talking—people in their positions had too far to fall—they hadn’t had time to do as clean a cover-up as they would have liked. Nevertheless, Margaret had insisted that this was the year, and damned if she’d wait another four before she made her run.
Up until a couple days ago, Carl had been feeling better about the situation than he had been immediately after Nate’s death. Then it had been all triage, trying to keep the truth from bleeding out as they scrambled to keep their tracks covered. Waiting with bated breath to see if any other players came forward to reveal the rotting foundation holding up one of Seattle’s most prominent families.
Then they’d all breathed a sigh of relief when everyone seemed content to believe that everything—the murders, the framing of Sean Flynn, the high-end prostitution ring—started and ended with Nate Brewster.
Carl knew it was too good to be true, knew there were too many questions and sooner or later someone was going to want answers. It was up to him to make sure no one ever found them.
This phone call should provide another dose of reassurance. He waited until he was out of the dining room to answer his phone, a disposable pay-by-the-minute model that he would ditch after this call. “Is it taken care of?”
“Not yet,” the voice rumbled in answer. “She left town earlier today and it took me few hours to pick up the trail.”
“So what’s the issue? Take care of it.”
“She went to visit Sean Flynn.”
Carl absently ran his finger down the scar bisecting his right cheek and sighed. “You’ll have to do both of them then.” He’d known it might eventually come to this, but he’d hoped not to take care of Sean Flynn so soon after Jimmy Caparulo. The connections between the two of them and Nate were too well known. All three of them dying violently in quick succession would raise too many red flags.
But Krista Slater had forced his hand, and now he had to make the best of it.
There
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