Exposed in Darkness Page 4

  “Both the Lexington and the Louisville rags are on the desk in the foyer. If you don’t find them there, let me know, and I’ll hunt one down for you.”

  “Thanks, Marti.”

  I found the “rags,” as Marti called them, just where she said they’d be, then grabbed a seat at a table in the corner so I could have a view of the entire dining room and its exit points. Old habits never die.

  After offering me eggs and bacon, which I declined, Marti set me up with coffee and an assortment of pastries and some fruit. I dumped a generous amount of creamer and a couple packets of raw sugar into my coffee, then while stirring, examined the front page of the Lexington paper.

  There, front and center, was a photograph of the server from last night, dead from a lethal dose of poison, according to the caption. The headline: Terrorists Strike Again; When Will It Stop?

  How had media come to the conclusion that the attack was the work of terrorists? I took a sip of coffee; the soothing heat slid easily down the back of my throat. I set the Lexington paper aside and peered at Louisville’s version of the story.

  Louisville’s front page photo was much more sedate: a picture of the governor shaking hands with “local and international entrepreneur” Declan O’Roark. But the headline was just as frightening: Governor’s Life In Peril.

  The full-color photograph of Declan and Truman took up three quarters of the section above the fold. I stared into the blue eyes of the businessman, remembering his foreign accent, and wondered aloud: “Who are you, Declan O’Roark?”

  “You say something, honey?” The woman who had checked me in yesterday sat down in the chair across from me. Carrie Anne.

  I set my cup back on the saucer. “No, ma’am. Just mumbling to myself. I do that when I’m thinking hard.”

  She waved a hand at me and smiled sweetly while she tucked her short, stylish blond hair behind her ears. “Now stop it with this ma’am stuff. I’m not old enough to deserve that.” Though she had a twenty-something-year-old child, she couldn’t be more than forty. “Marti says you wanted to talk to me.” She drew back slightly. “Nothing’s wrong with your room, I hope? I changed cleaning services, but if something’s wrong, I’ll make it right.”

  “The room’s perfect. But it looks like I’ll be staying in the area for longer than I had planned. I was wondering if you might recommend a place I could rent.”

  “Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say so?” She smiled. “You can rent that room for as long as you’d like. I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “Well, I was thinking I’d like something a little more…” My voice trailed off. What did I want?

  “You don’t like the room,” she said matter-of-factly.

  I narrowed my eyes. “No. I mean, yes.” I sighed. “The room is perfectly lovely.” I had hurt her feelings. “I was just going to say that I might like a little more privacy. And because I love that room and your home so much, I thought you might be able to recommend a place with a bit more privacy that I could rent on a more… weekly basis?”

  She smiled. “I’ve got just the place.” She reached across the table and patted my hand. “You finish up your breakfast, and I’ll take you over.”

  I watched her walk away, and I couldn’t help but imagine what a fun mother she must have been. Or still was, most likely. Then I thought of my own mother. I missed her. I owed her more than she’d gotten from me lately.

  As quickly as the image of my own mother popped into my head, I squashed it. I concentrated on the newspapers as I finished my coffee and fruit. Then I went to find Carrie Anne and see what kind of place she had in mind.

  “It’s not much,” Carrie Anne said as she threw open curtains over the front windows of a cottage, letting in the morning Kentucky sunlight. “But it’s clean. And it’s equipped with everything you’ll need.”

  The cottage was located right behind the B&B, and could only be accessed by a brick walkway that ran from the street around the side of the big southern house. Being a paranoid former FBI agent and a girl who liked her privacy, I appreciated the security of an extra gate and a fenced-in yard.

  I walked around the living room, furnished with a slipcovered sofa and a club chair and ottoman. A small flat-screen television sat atop an oversized trunk against the front wall. The back wall was old brick with a wide space in the middle opening into the kitchen. The cottage had obviously been added on to, and the original outer brick wall had been saved, adding to the cottage charm.

  I followed Carrie Anne down a narrow hallway. The one bedroom was furnished with a full-size bed and dresser. Across the hall was a bathroom, complete with a claw-foot tub, a pedestal sink, and a narrow free-standing shower.

  “It’s perfect,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

  “I haven’t even told you how much yet.”

  “Oh. Right.” I winced internally. “How much?”

  “How about five hundred a week? Utilities are included, except phone.”

  I pretended to think about it, calculate in my head. Apparently I paused too long.

  “If you decide you’re going to stay more long-term, we can negotiate a better rate at the end of the month.”

  “Five hundred is fine. How about I give you first and last week’s rent up front, and I’ll pay you weekly?”

  “That would be fine. I’ll have Marti bring your things over.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I don’t have much.”

  She eyed me curiously. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  When she left, she left the front door open. A screened outer door let air in. I walked through the house once more, then sat down on the couch and buried my face in my palms. The house reminded me so much of the cottage Teddy and I had rented in upstate New York on our honeymoon. We had gotten away for a long weekend, didn’t tell anyone, got married in a tiny historical chapel, then spent two nights in a lake cottage.

  It was the last time I would experience true joy. In fact, the wallpaper on my phone now showed our view of the lake from that cottage. I’d have put a picture of Teddy on there, but that would have been too painful. The cottage view made me smile.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Brooke,” a voice called. “It’s Marti.”

  I stood from the couch. When she saw me, she pulled open the screechy screen door. I made a mental note to get some WD-40 at the hardware store.

  “Mom said to bring over some towels and things.” She held a stack of white towels and some miniature travel shampoos and bars of soap.

  “That was kind. Thank you.” I took the things from her.

  “Look, I’m just going to come out and say this. You seem to be a private sort of girl, and you’ve got a good dose of the whole wounded puppy thing going on to boot.” She waved her finger up and down at me. “But you look to be about my age, and I know I’m always looking to meet my next best friend.” She paused, emphasizing her discomfort. “You want to get a drink or something later?”

  A drink sounded exactly like something I wanted to get. “I would love to,” I said, then added, “I don’t really know the area.”

  She smiled. “Well, then I’ll give you a mighty fine tour of the town on the way to the local bar. It’ll take all of thirty seconds.”

  I laughed. “That sounds nice. What time?”

  “I’ll swing over here around eight?”

  “Perfect.”

  That would give me time to get my bearings and do some analysis of the information I had on last night’s murder—including a little background check on Declan O’Roark, “local and international businessman.”

  For an hour or so, I pretended to be just a simple girl who had relocated to a quaint town in Kentucky, someone looking for a new beginning. I put away clothing and toiletries—the few items I’d brought with me. I ran to the grocery and brought back just enough food and supplies to last a week. I looked around the picturesque cottage and thought to myself that under normal circumstances, I would have loved to call
this home.

  But I wasn’t relocating. This wasn’t a new beginning for me. And this certainly was not home.

  And there was nothing quaint about the threat to the governor or the deaths of two innocent civilians.

  I settled into the oversized club chair with my new laptop, and I began my internet searches.

  I had tried to do some of this the previous night, but after a couple bourbons at Truman’s party, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Now, refreshed and sober, I was ready to find out just who this Declan O’Roark was and why the FBI was interested in him.

  I began reading aloud the first article I came across. “Declan O’Roark, CEO of O’Roark Industries. Named ‘Most Eligible Bachelor’ by Uptown Downtown Corporation, a civic organization devoted to making Lexington, Kentucky the best city in America.”

  So, not only was he charitable, as evidenced by his announcement last night, the people of Central Kentucky found him to be perfect marriage material. I shook that thought out of my head and continued reading. “O’Roark Industries is the parent company of at least ten subsidiaries with numerous business interests, the largest being a scientific laboratory that develops fertilizers and other organic chemicals that are safe for food production and won’t harm the environment or the people in it.”

  I could get on board with that, I guessed.

  I continued. “O’Roark, though secretive about the many projects his laboratories are involved in, is dedicated to Kentucky, having consolidated and relocated most of his operations here three years ago from Ireland and England. He is an excellent horseman. His horse, On Liam’s Watch, is scheduled to run in the Bluegrass Derby.”

  I read the rest of the article, then examined the accompanying picture. It showed Declan with a man whom the caption identified as “Aidan Gallagher, thoroughbred horse trainer.” They stood beside an impressive-looking bay thoroughbred.

  No one was as perfect as this article claimed, I thought.

  My phone rang. It was Mike. This was his sixth call today. Carlos had called twice. And the director of the FBI once.

  I declined the call, just like I’d declined all the others.

  I scrolled through my contacts until I found the person I needed. Tyler Jamison had worked with me at the Bureau, but had left when he and his boyfriend had decided to get married and start a family.

  He answered on the first ring. “Did you know that dogs actually get anxious when you hug them?” he asked as if we’d been in the middle of a conversation.

  “I must have been canine in a former life,” I said, smiling at my friend even though he couldn’t see it. He’d been there for me like no other person the past year. And he was always informing everyone of the most random factoids.

  “Hi, Bee.”

  “Hi, Ty. You busy? Is James around?”

  “Why are you asking about Ja—? You have a job for me.” He didn’t even try to hide the excitement in his voice.

  “Let’s just call it a project. But I’ll make sure you’re paid.”

  “Want me to come to your house?”

  That’s what I loved about my friend. He didn’t even ask what the project was. “Actually, I’m in Kentucky. I’ll text you the address. Do you mind picking up a few items from my house on your way out of town? I need my riding equipment.”

  “Did you join a motorcycle gang when I wasn’t paying attention?”

  “Not Harleys. Horses.”

  “Ah. I guess I’m the silly one. Text me a list.”

  “Thanks, Ty. Tell James I said Hi.”

  “Be there by morning.”

  That was the other thing I loved about my friend. He didn’t even miss a beat when I asked him to drive eight hours for a project.

  Marti showed up at eight p.m. sharp. She wore jeans with holes in the thighs, knees, and shins—all of them no doubt put there on purpose—a black lace top, and black high-heeled shoes. After last night, just seeing her shoes made my feet ache, but I could always appreciate good style.

  “Love your shoes,” I said.

  “Thanks. You get settled in okay?”

  I nodded. I was dressed in simple flats, skinny jeans, a fitted top, and a jacket that covered the Sig P238 at the small of my back. “I feel slightly underdressed.” Underdressed probably wasn’t the right word.

  “No, you’re perfect. You’ll fit right in.” She smiled. “Come on. I’ll show you the town before the sun sets.”

  I locked the door behind me and dropped the key into my purse. It clanked against my phone and an extra magazine for my handgun. A girl couldn’t be too careful.

  Paranoid, maybe.

  I followed Marti through the gate, then joined her on the sidewalk that led us downtown.

  The city limits of Midland, Kentucky were mostly residential except for one boutique grocery store, Julep Hill Inn and Café, a bakery, and a row of small establishments on Main Street. But as we neared the busier end of Main Street, Marti pointed out a variety of specialized gift shops and clothing stores.

  She pointed to a rustic barn-like building across the street called Miss Patty’s Kitchen. Families were congregated outside, having either just finished dinner or still waiting to eat. “Over there,” Marti said, “you can get the best fried chicken south of the Mason Dixie.”

  I didn’t want to tell her that I was one hundred percent certain she meant “Mason Dixon.”

  “Down on the corner is the best pizza place within fifty miles. And over there,” Marti pointed to a place called Black Tulip, “is our only ‘fine dining’ establishment.” She changed her voice to sound a bit more snooty. “It’s named for the blanket of black tulips that’s draped over the winning horse in the Bluegrass Derby.”

  I was beginning to see just how big the Bluegrass Derby was to the people of this area. “Is the Black Tulip good?” I kinda liked fine dining from time to time, though it had been a while since I’d been to a restaurant like that.

  “Of course. Restaurants don’t stick around Midland if they’re not good. The owners will just close up shop, then reopen with another idea, another sign.”

  “The same owner?”

  “Yeah, and same employees most of the time. We have some of the best food in Kentucky. No, the country. And the citizens of Midland know it. People around here don’t often move away, least not without a good reason.”

  “You grew up here?”

  “Born and raised.”

  “I’ve never met anyone who loved the small town they grew up in enough to stick around and sing its praises. You don’t get tired of everyone interfering in your business?”

  “No. Never. This town is like one huge family. Of course, it’s nice to venture to Lexington or Louisville for some nightlife from time to time. And to meet people. If you know what I mean.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down. When I only stared at her for a couple of beats, she laughed. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”

  She led the way down a set of stairs to a bar located beneath the Black Tulip, called the Cellar. The Cellar was designed with dark, hard woods, mirrors, and modern accent lighting. One entire wall was constructed of old, red brick, no doubt original to the structure. It reminded me of one of the finer bars located in Georgetown, outside the District of Columbia.

  Marti waved at an older couple in the corner, bypassed a table full of ladies, then went straight up to the bar.

  “Marti,” said the bartender with a nod. She was a plump woman with platinum blond hair piled high on her head. “Ben know you’re here?”

  “Ben doesn’t get to know my whereabouts every single second of the day.” Marti winked at me without explanation of who Ben was. “Jenna, this is my new friend Brooke. Brooke, Jenna.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Jenna said. “You the new girl at Carrie Anne’s place?”

  I’d been in Midland just over twenty-four hours, and already, I was the new girl. “Just visiting.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said as if she knew something I didn’t, and my fingers twitched at my side
. “What’ll it be tonight?” She dipped bar glasses into a sink of soapy water, then in another to rinse.

  “I’ll have a vodka martini, extra olives,” Marti said.

  “And you?” Jenna nodded to me, already starting to pour vodka into a shaker.

  “Red wine?” I said in the form of a question. “You have a Malbec?”

  “Coming right up.”

  A little bell rang as the door opened behind us. Marti looked at the man who entered, then at Jenna. “And go ahead and fix José one of those fruity things he drinks. Put all three on my tab.”

  “Oh, no,” I started, “you don’t need—”

  “Relax.” Marti placed a hand on mine. “It’s a welcome drink. Come on, let’s grab a table. I’ll introduce you to José.”

  José was on the shorter side—the top of his shaven head barely reached my eyes—physically fit, and was wearing a tightly fitted knit polo. Marti explained that the two of them worked together at the track—José full time, Marti just when horses were training at Kensington Race Track in Lexington. I silently wondered if they knew Declan or his trainer.

  A waiter in tight black pants and a black mock turtleneck carried a tray of drinks over to our table. He set a vodka martini in front of Marti and some fruity concoction with a pink flamingo sticking out of it in front of José.

  “You do know what that drink says about you, José?” Marti asked.

  “Girl, I know exactly what it says about me.” He slapped a hand at her. “That I’m high-maintenance, and I like my drinks pretty and frilly. And if some guy doesn’t like that, then he shouldn’t even bother.” He removed the bright pink flamingo stirrer and sucked the cherry off the end of the stick. Marti rolled her eyes and chuckled in response.

  I couldn’t help but smile at the two of them as I took the glass of Malbec from the server. I stuck to what I knew, and lovely red wines were exactly what had gotten me through the past year.

  Marti sipped her martini. “The funniest part is that he’ll be the one to leave with some guy’s number before the end of the night.”