Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(54)

They sat across from each other. Up close, his eyes were beautiful and intuitive. In the middle of a fight, on a dark street, those eyes had seen Slaski squint and known why. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him. She guessed he was no more than thirty, but he felt older to her. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the beard. Or the tired lines at the corner of his eyes that no night’s sleep would begin to erase. It was a kind face. Compassionate. But one thing life had taught her the hard way was that a face bore little relationship to the man beneath. He could be a saint or a serial killer: the face would be the same.

He was smiling at her.

“What?” she asked.

“The drive over here, I’ve been thinking of what to say to you. To convince you to trust me.”

“And that’s funny how?”

“About a year ago, I was in your exact position. Sitting at a booth with a man that I didn’t trust. And he knew I didn’t trust him but made his case anyway.”

“Did you? Decide to trust him?”

“Not at first, no.”

“But eventually?”

“Eventually.”

“So how did he convince you?”

“Baited the hook with something I couldn’t walk away from.”

“You got something like that for me?” Lea asked.

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“Tough spot. What to do?”

“Well, my first instinct would be to play you. Manipulate you. It’s what I’m good at.”

“But . . .”

“But it won’t work on you.”

“So maybe stroke my ego? Tell me how smart I am. Come clean about how you were going to run a game on me, but can see I’m just too gosh-darn smart for that? Something like that?”

“Like I said, that won’t work on you.”

“Tough spot.”

“Tough spot,” he agreed.

“What to do . . .” She studied him over the brim of her coffee cup. He wasn’t wrong that she didn’t trust him—the guy was a regular snake charmer with those dancing eyes of his. But the thing was, he also wasn’t wrong that she might need to trust him. She saw now that her decision to move on Slaski had been born of frustration and fear. The fear that with all the recent arrivals in Niobe that Charles Merrick was slipping through her fingers. She’d reacted to the news about Slaski impulsively, trying to regain the upper hand. Instead, tonight had provided unequivocal confirmation of one thing: this wasn’t her world. Everything she had done up until now was predicated on the idea that no one else knew about the money. A head start had been her only edge, and now that was gone. It had taken her a year to cultivate Parker as a source and for him to identify Slaski. While Mr. Dancing Eyes had made Parker and Slaski in one night. One night.

“How did you even know to go after Parker?” She watched him consider how to answer the question.

Finally, he pushed his baseball cap back and said, “Because you’re Chelsea Merrick.”

She hadn’t heard her real name spoken aloud in five years. Her heart thundered in her chest. “My name is Lea Regan.”

He ignored her. “I’ll admit, at first I assumed you were working with your father, but you’re not. Are you?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Look, I appreciate you’re angry. You knew about the money before the interview, didn’t you?”

She gave no answer, but he carried on like she had.

“Slipped into Niobe quietly. What? Two years ago?”

How did he know that?

“Dug in, set up shop. Turned Parker—he was a good call, by the way. Probably had yourself a nice, simple plan for taking down your dad. But judging by all the new arrivals, nice and simple left town. It’s got to hurt.”

“It’s my family’s money.”

“Well, that’s convenient; your family has it.”

“That man is not my family.”

“It’s stolen money, Chelsea.”

“Lea.”

“The thing about stolen money, Lea, is if it gets stolen, no one’s going to the police. It makes your father a very attractive target.”

She nodded grimly. “What are you proposing?”

“What do you think your father will do the day he gets out of prison?”

“Fly to a nonextradition country.”

“So do I. Want to stop him?”

More than anything in the world. Truth was, she didn’t give a damn about the money. She only wanted Charles Merrick to be penniless. The real kind of penniless. Destitute. It was a beautiful word. And she wanted Charles Merrick to know who had done it to him. She wanted him to know it was his own daughter. That she wanted more than anything. So if this guy was her best shot, then so be it.

“What’s my name?” she asked.

“Lea Regan, far as I know.”

“So what’s yours?”

He took out a wallet and handed over a driver’s license. It read “Robert Quine.”

“My name is Gibson Vaughn,” he said.

“Good to know you, Robert.”

They shook hands over the table.

“Glad we got that settled,” he said.

“So if Slaski’s phone’s worthless, how do we find out who Merrick’s been calling?”