Truth is in the Darkness (Paynes Creek Thriller Book 2) Page 29

  He patted my hand that was gripping his forearm. “You should have told me you were coming.”

  “Well… I wasn’t planning to. It’s not really my kind of thing anymore. But then I heard you were ignoring the threat on your life.”

  He stopped walking. “Not you, too.”

  “Your lieutenant governor is dead, Truman. From an attack that was meant for you, according to the media.”

  The muscles in his arm tightened under my grip. “I know. I’ve helped plan the funeral.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. But…” I looked back. Mike was gone. “You need to keep a low profile while the FBI and state police do their jobs. Whoever attacked Ms. Centers must be taken seriously.”

  “I take the attack very seriously. But I refuse to go into hiding.”

  A woman dressed in a royal blue suit approached Truman. “Governor, it’s almost time for the toast.”

  “Make sure Declan is ready,” he answered, “then come get me. I need ten minutes.” Truman looked at me. “Follow me.”

  He led me away from the party and into a library. Dark wood shelves lined the walls. After he closed the door, he pulled me into his arms and hugged me tightly. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  I squirmed and pulled back. “Truman, I just wasn’t ready.” I still wasn’t.

  “Not ready for what? I just wanted to know how you were doing. To make sure you were all right. My parents ask about you all the time.”

  “Everyone has wanted something after…” My voice trailed off.

  “You can’t even say it, can you? After Teddy died.”

  I folded my arms across my chest, then let them fall to my sides. This was why I didn’t return calls; why I declined invitations. I walked farther into the room and studied the library shelves. Anything to keep from looking Truman in the eyes.

  “Why are you here?” he asked behind me. “Why now?”

  I faced him again. Miraculously, my eyes remained dry. “What did Mike tell you about the threat against you?”

  “He said that I was probably the target last night, not the lieutenant governor… which the state police already suspected. But that’s not true.”

  “What do you mean? What made them suspect the poison was meant for you? And why are you so sure it wasn’t?”

  “I was supposed to attend the event, but I had a scheduling conflict that couldn’t be resolved.” Truman pulled his phone from his pocket and began scrolling. “When I returned to my office late that evening, my personal assistant and state police detectives were waiting for me with the news. They assumed that since I was supposed to attend the event, and not Melissa, that I was the target.” He turned his phone toward me. “But then this arrived.”

  He showed me a photograph of a white piece of paper with a typed message:

  Governor Spencer, you will veto the Kentucky Heritage Economic Development Act or face dire consequences. Tonight is just a small taste of what’s to come.

  I gave my head a little shake. “What is the Kentucky Heritage Economic Development Act?”

  “Not what I first envisioned…” Truman trailed off before restarting. “KHEDA is a bill that provides tax incentives to owners of bourbon distilleries and horse racing enterprises, our state’s signature industries. It’s a bill that’s supposed to help those businesses bring even more jobs to Kentucky, as well as to promote tourism.”

  “And what did you ‘first envision’?” I asked.

  “Well, you know how the legislative process works,” Truman chuckled as he spoke. “To pass a bill of this magnitude takes a lot of compromise.”

  “And people are against this bill because…”

  “Some see it as the rich getting richer through big tax breaks, while most of the new jobs created by the measure would be low-wage. Not to mention, to some people this looks like another example of big corporations running politics.”

  “But that’s not how it is?”

  “KHEDA would bring jobs to Kentucky—jobs our state desperately needs. And it would bring people from across the nation to our great state. That’s good economic news for all the people of Kentucky.”

  I smiled at the political sidestep. “That sounded a bit canned.”

  He laughed. “Maybe, but…” He waved a hand. “You didn’t come all this way to talk politics.”

  I was sure Truman could go on and on about why KHEDA would add way more benefit to the state than the bill’s detractors believed, but he was right: we didn’t have time for a policy debate. And even if people were right to be against the bill, it certainly wasn’t a reason to commit an act of terrorism, which was exactly what this was.

  “Is that it?” I asked. “Did Mike tell you anything else about the actual murder?”

  “My security detail is supposed to give me a full report as soon as they know more, but Mike wants me to halt all public appearances.”

  “Yet you refused to cancel this party.”

  “Do you know how many threats I receive each week? If I canceled events every time some deranged person sent me a nasty email or letter, I’d get nothing accomplished. It’s the age we’re in. You know that as well as anyone. If Kentuckians—or Americans, for that matter—hid from every terrorist or political threat against them, we’d never leave our homes. I’m a public servant. People expect me to carry on.”

  Truman had a point. The United States was seeing terrorist attacks on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. Sometimes the attacks were from foreign groups, sometimes domestic. Some involved mass casualties, others only injuries. Things in our country had been bad for a long time, but they had gotten much worse after the big series of attacks eight months ago: one attack per week on seven major cities.

  Portland, San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, Miami, Atlanta, and our nation’s capital, Washington, DC had been the targets. And every attack was different. Different locations, from shopping malls to federal buildings to outdoor concerts. Different ammunition, from suicide bombers to long-range rifles to knives. This made the threats a true bitch to prevent, because law enforcement couldn’t rely on patterns or profiling.

  An international terrorist group claimed responsibility for that series of attacks, and in response, the President of the United States declared an official war on terror—whatever that meant. Many believed his declaration to be nothing more than empty words. In his defense, it was difficult to defend against faceless monsters.

  But the damage was done. American citizens became afraid to leave their homes, especially to attend large public events—concerts, sporting events, anything that might have a political agenda. And more than ever, Americans decided they wanted to carry guns, knives, and other weapons in order to defend themselves.

  It was in response to this climate of fear that attitudes like Truman’s took root. Truman had decided it was imperative to carry on, business as usual, to show the terrorists that our country’s leaders wouldn’t cower in fear. By standing resolute, the hope was that citizens would avoid holing up in their homes, living in isolation.

  “You’re a good person, Truman,” I said. “And a good leader, but—”

  “Sir.” The woman in royal blue from moments ago entered the library and closed the door behind her. I hadn’t noticed it before, but her eyes were bloodshot and her face splotchy. She held a tissue in her right hand. “Declan is ready for the photo op and toast.”

  “Where is he?” Truman asked.

  “He’s just outside.”

  “Bring him in.”

  The woman left.

  “Susan is my chief of staff,” Truman explained. “She’s very good at what she does. But Melissa Centers was her best friend.”

  Susan returned, a man on her heels. It was the man who had saved me from face-planting on the mansion’s front steps.

  “Declan, man, glad you could make it tonight.” Truman stepped forward with his right hand outstretched.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Declan pumped Truman’s hand, and I couldn’
t help but notice—and admire—the way his tux hugged his body perfectly. No rental for this guy. And his shoes screamed wealth. “I’m sorry about Melissa. It’s a great loss for your state.”

  He called the lieutenant governor by her first name. So, he knew her.

  “Thank you. That means a lot.” Truman gestured toward me. “I’d like you to meet Brooke Fairfax. Brooke, this is Declan O’Roark, a friend of mine and a friend to Kentucky.”

  A friend to Kentucky, I thought. Was that code for “huge financial donor to Truman’s political agenda”?

  Declan slid his gaze to mine. He stepped closer, and when I offered my hand, he slid his into mine and shook. His hand was warm and smooth to the touch, though his forefinger was slightly calloused.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Brooke.” His voice was also smooth, his accent worldly, yet I couldn’t place it. Irish, maybe? But with something else mixed in.

  “You too.”

  His lips curved into a smile, and I found I couldn’t turn away from the warmth of his blue eyes, or from his tousled and curly dark hair. It worked for him. Kind of like the custom tuxedo.

  By the way he was looking at me, he knew I was analyzing every inch of him. I tore my eyes away, silently berating myself. “What kind of toast are you giving?” I asked them both, but I kept my eyes on Truman.

  “Declan is the largest supporter of the Bluegrass Derby Foundation, which raises money for various children’s charities around the state. They’re also the primary sponsor of the Derby festival.”

  “How generous,” I said, sliding my eyes back to Declan, but only briefly. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

  Truman touched my arm. “After the toast, I plan to make my exit from the party. Will you stay? I want to catch up with you.”

  “It’s late,” I said. “We can talk tomorrow.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  He angled his head, and I couldn’t ignore the curious look Declan was giving me behind him. I was not about to let anyone know where I was staying. I couldn’t trust that the person who had sent me the video of the lieutenant governor wasn’t lurking in the darkness somewhere close.

  “I’ll let Susan know to put your call right through. Just say the word, and I’ll cancel whatever is on my schedule to meet you.” He turned away from me. “Declan, shall we?”

  Declan nodded, and the two men followed Susan back in the direction of the party. Just as Declan was passing through the door, he looked back at me with a curious expression I couldn’t quite decipher.

  Truman stood before the room of partygoers, who represented the upper crust citizenry of his state, and led them all in a moment of silence and prayer for Melissa Centers.

  I glanced around the room, studying the people. Some of the women were sniffling and dabbing tissues beneath their eyes; some of the men pinched the bridge of their nose. Others rubbed their hands back and forth across their faces and jaws. Still others linked their hands on the backs of their necks. Centers had been well liked; one media outlet had called her “a bright star who showed great promise on the political scene.”

  Mike and Carlos stood vigilant at the main entrance to the ballroom. Like me, they were busy scrutinizing the crowd. Luckily Mike hadn’t spotted me again; he might have come over and accused me of interfering. Which I was. Because in my heart, I had already committed to making sure Truman stayed safe.

  I continued my perusal of the bowed heads, but stopped when I discovered Declan O’Roark staring at me from across the room.

  I angled my head. He lifted a glass in acknowledgement.

  “Amen,” Truman said from the stage.

  I tore my quizzical look from Declan and focused on Truman.

  “We will officially say goodbye to Lieutenant Governor Centers on Monday,” he said. “But tonight, we lift a glass in her honor. We celebrate her life and the way she served the Commonwealth of Kentucky. I’m now going to ask Declan O’Roark to join me on stage. Declan would like to share with you a special announcement.”

  Declan stepped up on the stage beside Truman. He nodded as people applauded, then raised a hand to silence the crowd. He didn’t smile. Instead, he seemed sad as he stood in front of the microphone.

  “Good evening, my fellow Kentuckians,” he started in his non-Kentucky accent. His eyes scanned the room until they found mine again. I shifted on my feet, looked away, then back at him. “Tonight, I mourn with you. It is with a heavy heart that I share with you Lieutenant Governor Centers’s final wishes for the Bluegrass Derby Foundation. We met the day before she passed, and we decided that the majority of the money raised inside the foundation this year—including all proceeds from the Bluegrass Derby festival—would go to Holly’s Angels, a special charity to help young victims of violent crimes here in Kentucky. In addition, I personally will donate one million dollars to the foundation. I will also match, dollar for dollar, up to another million dollars of the money raised here tonight and at the pre-Derby gala at my house on Derby eve. I do this to honor the lieutenant governor and her incredible dedication to the children of this great commonwealth. Thank you.” He nodded and backed away from the podium.

  People around the room erupted in applause and cheers. I clapped as well as I absorbed the reaction to Declan’s announcement. I could see that Melissa Centers wasn’t the only one who was well liked.

  “Thank you, Declan, for your generosity,” Truman said when he returned to the microphone and the applause had died down. “As a special treat, Declan has generously donated enough of his latest small batch bourbon for a toast in the lieutenant governor’s honor. Those of us who knew Melissa knew that she had a sophisticated palate that leaned heavily in favor of Declan’s bourbon—which is why she announced last night that his bourbon is to be the official bourbon of the Bluegrass Derby this year. It is only fitting that we lift a glass of that bourbon in her honor.”

  I heard a few joyful snickers. Servers entered, once again carrying trays of drinks. But this time, the drinks were served in delicate, curved glasses, each holding no more than an ounce of amber liquid. The servers stood around the perimeter of the room, apparently awaiting some signal.

  I let my gaze drift from them to the stage. Truman gave a nod.

  There was a sudden commotion to my right. A metal tray hit the marble floor with a loud clang and the shattering of glass. People screamed, backing away from a server in black pants and a white jacket.

  Mike pushed through a crowd of people toward the man, who was writhing on the floor.

  “It’s the same bourbon,” I whispered to myself. And as the thought took hold, I realized I had to stop the bourbon from being served. As quickly as I could move in four-inch heels, I darted over to Mike. “It’s the same bourbon,” I said louder.

  Mike’s eyes widened. “What’s the same bourbon?”

  “It’s the same bourbon used for the toast that killed Centers.”

  A state policeman was yelling for people to back away. Mike and I stepped closer to the server, who was convulsing on the floor. He barely looked old enough to serve bourbon. White foam leaked from the corners of his lips, and a thin line of blood ran from his nose and down the side of his cheek.

  Mike tilted his head into the microphone attached to his shirt. “Seal the exits. Don’t let anyone leave.” He turned to Carlos. “Inform the valets not to retrieve anyone’s vehicles.”

  Carlos took off in a jog.

  “All of you,” he said to the servers still holding trays of bourbon, “carry the drinks back to the kitchen. No one is to drink or even touch the bourbon.”

  Men and women turned slowly to do as he ordered. They walked in the direction of the kitchen as if they were all carrying ticking time bombs.

  A loud murmur spread through the room, and many turned toward the door, where they were stopped by state police officers.

  I knew the drill. They wouldn’t be allowed to leave until everyone was checked and cleared.


  I turned back to the victim, who now lay lifeless on the floor. A state policeman had been performing chest compressions—but now he touched the young man’s neck, then looked up at another uniform and gave his head a little shake.

  The server was dead.

  I glanced toward Truman, but he was already being whisked out of the room to safety. Declan was left standing behind the podium. A man was beside him, whispering into his ear. Declan must have felt my stare, because his eyes met mine. But then he immediately turned, and he and the man beside him stepped off the platform and out of sight.

  “Red wine, please.” I set my clutch on the bar where a man in a tux sorted bottles, placing them in sectioned boxes on the floor.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but we’ve been instructed not to serve any more drinks.”

  I shot him a hard look.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger. Take it up with the men with badges.”

  He nodded toward the door behind me, where several state police officers were interviewing guests and making notes. Men and women were lined up at the exit, but each person was required to answer a series of questions and provide contact information before they could leave.

  Mike and Carlos stood nearby, talking quietly. Of course, they knew as well as I did that the person or people responsible for this were not inside this room. That wasn’t their style.

  “Can I buy the lady a drink?”

  I hadn’t even noticed Declan approach. His tie was still tied securely around his neck, despite the fact that most men had taken the opportunity to loosen theirs if not lose them completely. He rested an elbow on the bar and slid his other hand in his pocket.

  I grabbed my clutch and eyed this man who reeked of wealth. “And where do you plan on obtaining this beverage?”

  “I’m a resourceful man.” He offered me his elbow.

  I stared at his arm, then his eyes. This man was trouble. “Someone was killed tonight.”

  “All the more reason to have a drink. It will calm your nerves.”

  He thought I was anxious? I was pretty sure I wasn’t showing any outward signs of fear. “What makes you think having a drink with you will calm my nerves?” I was sure a drink with Declan O’Roark would only serve to increase my anxiety.