Familiar Vows
“Is it official?” Frank asked.
“I’m an ordinary citizen.” Lucas had to admit he felt naked without his gun and badge. “It’s going to take some getting used to, but this is the way I had to play it.”
“I know.” Frank fell into step beside him. Once at the pickup, they stood awkwardly.
“You’ll come out to the ranch. Soon. Right?” Lucas asked.
“You bet.” Frank extended his hand. “I’ll miss you, Lucas.”
“Not too much.” The moment was tougher than Lucas had expected. “Be careful, Frank.”
“Will you be there for Antonio’s appeal?”
Lucas felt the knot of anger that had precipitated his need to quit a job he loved. “I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“You take care till then.”
They stood in the Texas sunshine as traffic passed beside them.
“You, too.” Lucas got in the truck and pulled out into the street. It was hard to close the door on this life. Really hard. But the murder of his brother by Antonio Maxim and the near death of the only witness to that murder—Lorry Kennedy, aka Betty Sewell—had pushed Lucas too close to taking the law into his own hands.
He had to leave Antonio Maxim to the legal system while he focused on the future. Or else he’d be swallowed whole by the past.
He aimed the truck north. He had fence to ride. With enough time and enough miles on a horse, maybe he could find peace.
THERE IS NOTHING LIKE a cool summer night in Manhattan. The city is alive all around me. While I love D.C. and the nearness of my most beloved Clotilde, I do enjoy a bit of Big Apple hustle.
Eleanor is preparing her speech for the linguistics conference in the morning, and I took the opportunity to sneak out and head to Marco’s Gallery.
I want a peek at that long-legged siren who had Lucas so “het up” at Lorry’s wedding. He was worked up good, and while 90 percent of it may have been about the photographs, the other 10 percent was that strange chemistry that sometimes happens between a man and a woman. Or a handsome black cat and his feline love.
New York is the easiest city in the nation to get around. A solitary black cat taking a relaxing ride on the subway doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. I can ride beneath the city to any destination. Although, while I love New York, I have to say, if I were picking a destination spot, it would be Egypt. Now that was a trip to remember. The Egyptians understand that cats are gods, and well they should.
Here’s my exit, and it’s up the stairs and into the streets of SoHo. I’m so glad I snooped into Miss Shutterbug’s glove box and found her schedule for the photography exhibit. I can’t wait to see what her pictures look like.
I’m a little early, but the crowds are beginning to gather. Ah, the young, beautiful and sophisticated people of the city are in attendance. There’s the star of the moment getting out of a limo. Wow! Be still my heart. She is a knockout in that little black dress with the crisscross straps. She is gorgeous, no doubt about it. Now let’s see about talent and brains.
A few people are giving me stares, but most people don’t even notice me. In a city of a thousand stories, no one is interested in one lone black cat. I’m almost invisible, which is why I’m such a successful private detective. Tonight, though, I’m off the clock. This is strictly for my pleasure.
Yeah, baby. And this exhibit is fine! The photographs are incredible. Miss Shutterbug has talent, in spades. As to the brains, perhaps that isn’t important. She has enough talent to cover any lack of common sense.
The crowd agrees with me. People are captivated by her images. The one of the horses makes me want to live on a farm, as long as I don’t have to ride. And that looks like the Hudson River—more of a painting than a photograph. Miss Shutterbug is amazing.
And back here is a bride and—
I’m not believing this. That’s Lorry and Charles. This is not good. In fact, this is very bad. I’d better get back to the hotel and let Eleanor know about this. Something has to be done.
INHALING DEEPLY, MICHELLE reminded herself to smile and relax. Everything was going better than she’d dared to hope. A large crowd had gathered even prior to the official opening time, and she’d felt like royalty stepping out of the limo into the flash of several cameras. Marco, the gallery owner, had come through with some press coverage.
The news cameras were being set up, and while she didn’t relish the idea of being filmed, if she wanted to sell her work as an artist, publicity was the name of the game. So far so good.
She allowed herself to be swept into the gallery with a cluster of socialites who’d come with checkbooks in hand. She wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
Photojournalism was as much a part of her as her skin, and she’d never give it up, but to be accepted as a fine artist who worked with a camera instead of paints and brushes was her dream. One she’d been afraid to reach for until Marco had encouraged her.
She walked over to the tall, distinguished gallery owner and linked her arm through his. “You are a magician!”
He kissed her cheek, beaming like her father should have, had he been able to accept her for who she, was instead of always faulting her for who she wasn’t. “I merely hung these wonderful prints, Michelle. Nothing more.”
“Right, fairy godmother. Where’s my pumpkin coach and the white mice you turned into horses?”
His laughter echoed through the gallery. Cameras clicked and flashguns popped. “Thank you, Marco,” she said as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
“Tend to your public, Michelle.” He frowned. “Did that cat come with you?”
Michelle looked in the direction he’d indicated. A beautiful black cat sat on an antique table, staring at her. It almost seemed as if the cat had singled her out. The idea was preposterous.
“No, he didn’t come with me.”
“If he’s a stray, I think I’ll keep him. He lends a certain air of sophistication to the gallery, don’t you agree?”
“Indeed.” Michelle strolled over and stroked the cat’s back. He purred and rubbed against her. There was something very…familiar about him. “Behave, and you may have yourself a good home,” she whispered to him before she went to the rear of the gallery to check on the pictures there.
She picked up a glass of champagne from a waiter and moved through the gallery, listening to the flattering comments of the guests. As she turned a corner, she saw the photograph of the Confederate wedding. She was so shocked, she stopped, forcing the traffic behind her to halt or collide with her. For seconds, she merely stared at the picture, wanting to believe that it wasn’t really there.
“Darling, that’s incredible. I expect that young couple to step out of the canvas and finish the kiss,” a middle-aged woman said to her. “I’d like to buy it.”
Michelle swallowed. She glanced around, wondering what to do. “I’m sorry, but it isn’t for sale.”
“I’m willing to pay a handsome price. There’s something magical about that picture.”
“It isn’t for sale.” She spoke more firmly than she’d intended. The woman huffed and walked away.
Michelle had to do something, but she didn’t know what. First of all, she had to get the picture down. She had no release form signed, which meant she had no permission to exhibit the photo. She could be sued.
She slipped through several people staring at the picture and began to lift it from the hooks.
“Michelle, what are you doing?” Marco was at her side.
“It has to come down.” She spoke through clenched teeth as she wrestled with the wire and hook that held it.
“It’s the best of the show.” Marco grasped her elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“This wasn’t meant to be hung,” she said. Behind Marco she saw both television cameras whirring. The news crews had sensed a moment of drama and were capturing everything on film.
Holding up a hand over each lens, she tried to block them. “Stop filming,” she said.
When they ignored her, she felt her temper ignite. “Stop that now. This picture isn’t meant to be shown.”
The crowd, which had been boisterous with laughter only moments before, grew quiet and gathered round her.
“Michelle, darling, come with me to the office,” Marco said. He tried to hold her elbow, but she pulled free from him.
“Get that picture down,” she said. “Please. I don’t have permission—”
Marco smiled at his guests. “I’ve made a mistake by hanging this photograph,” he said smoothly. “Could we all step to the front of the gallery while I have it replaced with the proper picture?”
As he beckoned the people to follow him, Michelle went back to the picture. She wanted to pull it from the wall, but she knew she’d already shown far too much emotion.
She felt something brush against her legs, and she looked down at the cat. He put one gentle paw on her knee and then gave a soft meow.
As crazy as it sounded, she felt as if he sympathized with her situation.
Two workers appeared at her side and gently removed the photograph. Within moments, they reappeared with a still life to replace it.
Michelle inhaled, trying hard to calm herself. It was over now. That the photo had been hung in the show was grounds for a lawsuit, but she’d moved to correct her error instantly. The news crews would likely never use the footage they’d shot. In a city like New York, there were far bigger stories to cover than a photo exhibit.
The damage was minimal. And now she had to get back up front with Marco. He’d gotten everyone laughing at one of his jokes. She needed to prove that she wasn’t some kind of psycho witch. She lifted her shoulders and walked toward the crowd.
Chapter Three
As good as room service is in this hotel, I have to say the delicacies at the photo exhibit were better. It was with great reluctance that I left that platter of roast beef crusted with fresh garlic. That gallery owner, Marco, is a man with a discriminating palate. His offer to take me in has a lot of merit. I wonder if I could merely visit. Naturally, I’d never abandon Eleanor and Peter. They adore me, and they need me. But a SoHo party address would be a nice coup.
But enough about my limitless possibilities. It’s time for the news, and I want to be sure that Eleanor is watching. Those cameras were certainly whirring, capturing Michelle Sieck’s moment of high drama as she tried to yank her photograph off the wall.
If this is used in a newscast, Eleanor needs to know—because Lorry could be in danger.
Ah, here’s the local segment of WKPT and the gala crowd at the photo exhibit. They’re using the gallery event as the lead local story. I have a feeling this is going to be bad.
Eleanor doesn’t realize the significance yet, but she will. Let me put my claws in her shin just a little to keep her attention from wandering.
Okay, we’re at the part where Michelle creates a commotion. There’re the photographs. And Michelle makes it all worse by putting her hand over the lens for a moment. She should never have done that. That really torques a cameraman off, and she should know that better than anyone else.
Oh, cupid in a diaper, they’re showing the photograph of Lorry. It is so stunning that people are compelled to study it. The scar on Lorry’s neck is visible. Someone who knew what she looked like could easily recognize her, even through the gauze of the veil.
This is bad. Really, really bad. Eleanor is dialing her cell phone. I can tell from the tension in her body that she’s distressed.
“Hello, Lucas. This is Eleanor Curry. I’m afraid we have an emergency situation. I just saw a photograph of Lorry Kennedy on a New York news station. They were covering a gallery opening, and Lorry’s picture was part of a brouhaha where that photographer woman tried to keep them from filming it. It won’t be hard for the Maxims to retrace that photographer’s steps. I’m afraid Lorry’s cover has been blown.”
THE CELL PHONE WAS CHILLY against Lucas’s ear. Camped on one of the isolated sites on his ranch, he’d hoped the peace of the land and the beauty of the stars would finally lull him to sleep. Deep down, though, he’d had a sense that trouble would come a-calling.
His sixth sense had often saved him from a mouthful of knuckles—or worse, a bullet. He’d been teased by the other marshals, who accused him of consulting psychics and having a hotline to the Jamaican television personality who’d made great claims about her abilities to predict the future.
Lucas, like most of his fellow law enforcement officials, was skeptical about psychic abilities, but he had absolute faith in his gut.
When the cell phone rang, Tazer, his little blue heeler, began to growl. The phone and the dog’s reaction to it made the hair on the back of Lucas’s neck prickle.
This was not good news.
When he realized it was Eleanor, he was relieved and surprised. Until he heard her first statement.
“When was this?” he asked. He began to kick dirt over his campfire.
“Earlier this evening.”
“Damn.” He wasn’t a man who cursed, but this was terrible. He’d been a fool. The redheaded photographer at Lorry’s wedding had played him like a fine fiddle. He’d taken her film, and she hadn’t even threatened a lawsuit. And now he knew why. The film and memory card he’d taken and destroyed had, in all probability, been blank.
“I’ve got to find Lorry,” he said. She and Charles had gone on a honeymoon, and then they were moving, beginning that new life she’d risked everything to have. Though he felt as if Lorry were the little sister he’d never had, he’d let her go without any questions, knowing he’d see her at Antonio’s final appeal. The fewer people who knew where she was, the less the danger of the Maxims ever finding her.
“You find that photographer,” Eleanor said. “Find her, get the film or whatever, and put an end to this. If she’s showing that picture anywhere else, we have to stop it.”
“I’ll book a flight to New York and call Bride Magazine in the morning. I’ll make her editor tell me how to get in touch with her.”
“No need. Michelle Sieck’s work is in Marco’s Gallery in SoHo.”
“How did you happen to watch that particular newscast?” Lucas asked. It was lucky Eleanor had seen it, but what were the odds?
“Familiar made sure I saw it. I told you, he’s a detective. And a darn good one.”
Lucas didn’t have time to argue with Eleanor about a cat’s ability to sleuth out pertinent information. He found it odd, though, that a woman of such high intelligence could believe such a load of poppycock.
MICHELLE BURIED HER FACE in her hands as the news story continued to spill across the screen. The whole business with the Confederate picture had been a comedy of errors. And the bottom line was, she should never have printed it.
Surely, though, nothing truly awful could happen because of the mistake at the gallery. If only the media hadn’t covered the event. If only she hadn’t put her hand up to block the cameras. She knew better, but she’d acted on impulse. The wrong impulse. She stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.
Around her the celebration of her highly successful exhibit continued unabated. Kevin—her oldest friend in the city—and Marco were proposing toasts. A dozen friends were at the bar to show their support. This should have been a moment of elation. Instead, she was worried sick.
“Michelle, what are you doing here by yourself?”
Kevin Long was a fashion photographer who worked for the biggest names in the industry. His blond hair, a halo of curls, made him look angelic.
“Too much emotion.” She twirled the stem of her wineglass. “I needed a moment to gather my wits. It’s been hectic.”
“Hectic and successful. You should be dancing on the tables, but instead, you’re acting like you’ve just lost your best friend.” He put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry your parents didn’t show.”
She’d been so absorbed in the picture fiasco that she’d failed to even acknowledge the hurt generated by her parents. They’d wanted her to become a doctor. They felt photography was a hobby, not a career. In their generally disapproving way, they’d simply refused to acknowledge any success she had in her chosen field. Friends like Kevin and Marco were her support system.
“I didn’t expect them to come.” She forced a wry smile. “It’s okay. They love me. They just don’t understand me.”
“You’d think they would be proud.”
“Maybe they are, in their own way. They’re just more stubborn than proud. But your folks came, and they’re like my second parents. That was plenty good enough for me.”
“Mom and Dad view you like a daughter, Michelle. You know that. In fact, if it came to a choice between the two of us…they’d pick you.”
Her laughter wasn’t forced. Kevin was an outrageous liar, and he always made her feel better. “Let’s join the party.” Marco was still proposing toasts, and if she didn’t get in there and break it up, no one would be able to stand long enough to flag a taxi home.
As she turned to go back inside, she noticed a long black car parked at the curb, motor running. No one had gotten in or out of it. It was almost as if someone was in the car waiting…for what? A prickle of goose bumps ran up her neck. She shook her head. She’d watched way too many movies.
THE AUSTIN AIRPORT WAS quiet, and Lucas put his booted feet on his overnight bag, tipped his hat over his face and decided to catch forty winks. He’d gotten a ticket on a late-night flight to Dallas, where he’d take a midnight special to New York. He’d be at Michelle Sieck’s door before the rooster sang in the morning.
As he sought sleep, he tried to steer his thoughts away from Lorry and where she might be—or who might be tracking her right this minute.
The truth was, if the Maxim family connections in New York had seen the story on the photo exhibit, Michelle could be in as much danger as Lorry.
He’d almost drifted off when he had a terrible image of Michelle in the hands of Robert Maxim, Antonio’s younger brother. Word on the street was that Robert was more brutal, more sadistic than Antonio had ever thought to be.
The image was so disturbing that Lucas gave up on resting. He went to the concession stand, where a lone Latino woman was reading a magazine behind the counter. She smiled at his request and made a fresh pot of coffee for him.
When he had his large black coffee, he went back to his seat, pulled a notepad out of his pocket and began to make notes.
Antonio Maxim had been sentenced to life in prison on a charge of first-degree murder. The Maxim family ran an underground white slavery ring, luring young Texas girls to the big city with a promise of modeling and acting careers, only to hook them on drugs and turn them out on the streets.
The life expectancy for such a girl was eight years. If they weren’t rescued, many of them died of diseases borne of the drugs that kept them numbed to life. More than a few ended up as suicides. Some were murdered because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Lucas’s brother, Harry, had been sent undercover from the Dallas Police Department up to New York to get evidence on the Maxim family. He’d done just that, but someone had blown his cover.
Harry had been standing on the corner of a busy intersection in broad daylight when a black Mercedes had pulled up in front of him. In one of the boldest killings in the city in recent years, Antonio had stepped out of the car long enough to shoot Harry point-blank in the heart and head. He’d died within seconds.
Lucas knew the fine details of the murder because of Lorry Kennedy’s courage. Known at that time as Betty Sewell, she’d been in the vicinity by happenstance—a dance audition—and her thoughts had been on many things other than her physical surroundings. At the trial that resulted in Antonio’s conviction for murder, Lorry testified that she’d come around the corner just in time to see Antonio step from the car, shove the gun in Harry’s chest and pull the trigger. Antonio was smiling when he did it.
Survival instincts had kicked in, and Lorry had dropped her bag and run for her life. She’d escaped, but three days later, Antonio and his men had found her. Antonio had given the order to cut her throat, and his men were in the process of doing just that when Lucas had arrived. He’d killed three of Antonio’s men on the spot and gotten Lorry to a hospital.
The doctors hadn’t been certain Lorry would live, but she had. And she was hopping mad. She made certain that Antonio went to prison for the rest of his life.
Now the last hurdle was his appeal. If something happened to Lorry, then the case against Antonio would be extremely weak. Antonio knew that, as did his brother, Robert. And Robert would do whatever it took to get his big brother out of prison.
Whatever it took.
Killing Lorry. Killing Michelle Sieck. Whatever it took.
Lucas swallowed the rest of his coffee and stood. He could see the plane outside the window. Soon he’d board. Then he’d find that photographer. She’d endangered Lorry and herself.
The Maxims wouldn’t care what Michelle knew or didn’t know. If there was even the slimmest chance that she could lead them to Lorry, they’d dig it out of her by any means necessary.
Chapter Four
Michelle awoke the next morning with a pounding headache. She’d had only two glasses of champagne, so the throbbing behind her eyes must be tension-related. The events of yesterday had caught up with her in a physical way.
She rolled over and snatched a pillow to cover her head. It was just after six, a time meant for sleep.
The hard knock at her door didn’t register until it came for the second time, a series of poundings that said someone meant business.
Thinking that it might be something to do with Marco and the gallery, she grabbed her old chenille robe and went to the door.
“Hold your horses. I’m coming!” She was grumpy and she didn’t care. She cracked the door on the chain and felt as if she’d stepped into someone else’s life. The tall man from the Confederate wedding was standing outside her apartment. Except he was wearing jeans, cowboy boots and a Stetson—exactly as she’d imagined him.
“Michelle Sieck,” he said in a voice like someone on Law and Order. “I’m Lucas West. Please open the door. Now.”
“Why are you here?”
“I could tell you a pack of lies and get in the door, but I’m going to give it to you straight because a woman’s life may be on the line. The woman in that wedding picture you took is a federally protected witness. You’ve blown her cover and endangered her life. Now your life may also be in danger. Open the door so we can begin to make this right.”
Michelle slowly undid the latch. She stepped back, moving zombielike to the kitchen. “I need some coffee,” she said.
“There’s no time.” Lucas scanned the room and walked to the windows. After he checked the street, he lowered the blinds and pulled the curtains shut.
“I’m dying from a headache. I need caffeine.”
“We’ll get some at the airport.”
She tried to focus on what he was saying, but things were moving too fast. “The airport?”
He wheeled on her then, the anger she’d seen clearly in his gray eyes and terse expression no longer under control. “Lorry Kennedy’s life could be at stake. Likely Charles’s, too. Because of you. Because you did exactly what you wanted to do with a photograph that never should have been taken.”
Michelle stumbled backward from the onslaught of his harsh words. Once she regained her balance, though, she stepped into his face.
“I didn’t intend to show that photograph. The movers picked it up by mistake. As soon as I saw it, I had it removed.”
“And you think that makes it okay?” Lucas glared at her.
She lifted her chin and looked into his flinty eyes. “It doesn’t make it okay, but it doesn’t make me a worthless liar, either. It was an accident.”
