Overkill(70)

And Clarke was wreaking all that havoc with impunity.

He broke the kiss suddenly, his breaths coming as hard and fast as when he crested the mountain after his workouts. “What if your boss hadn’t called off the case?”

Kate blinked the amorous cloudiness from her eyes. “What?”

“What would you be doing right now if the AG hadn’t deep-sixed the case against Eban Clarke?”

“But he did.”

“But if he hadn’t,” he said, giving a stubborn shake of his head. “Last night on the plane, just before we landed, you told me you had only one play left. Remember?”

“Yes, but I can’t play it. I’m hamstrung.”

He grinned. “I’m not.”





Chapter 30





Sid walked into the kitchen where Frida was sectioning an avocado for a lunch he would never eat. He interrupted her tuneless humming. “Frida, please go upstairs and wake Eban. Tell him to get up and join me out on the terrace. It’s not optional. I want to see him in ten minutes. Max.”

“Is something wrong, Mr. Clarke?”

“Yes, very.”

He could tell that his brusque tone and manner took her aback, but before she could question him, he left through the door that accessed the covered outdoor living area. It had a fireplace and was expensively furnished with tables and chairs that he now realized he utilized only a handful of times during the year.

He sat down and stared out across the expanse of his two-acre property. It looked as it always did: stately trees, seasonal color in every flower bed, borders trimmed to the nth degree, everything immaculately maintained. All this he took for granted, never crediting the laborers who kept it this pristine, never allotting himself time to enjoy it, or even pausing to appreciate how beautiful it was. How odd that he would do so today.

But nothing was the same today, nor would life ever be the same.

Up was dead.

His death had hit Sid much harder than had that of his wife. He’d known Up longer, better, more intimately than the woman who’d shared his name and bed. If he added up the hours, those spent with Up would outnumber a thousand times over those he’d spent with her. Her passing had been respectfully observed, but he’d hardly noticed her absence from his daily life, whereas the loss of his longstanding friendship with Up would leave a vacancy he could never fill.

Up was dead.

No sooner had he processed that Up was terminally ill than he’d resolved to convince him to undergo treatments. He’d made a vow to himself that he would be there at Up’s side every step of the way until together, the invincible team they’d always been, they beat the odious cancer.

While he’d been strategizing an assault, Up had planned his retreat.

Just like that, he was gone. It was inconceivable.

Eban intruded on his thoughts. “Frida wants to know if you want her to serve lunch out here.”

“No. Sit down.”

Eban looked back toward the kitchen and sliced his finger across his throat, signaling to Frida that lunch on the terrace was out. He sat in a chair across from Sid’s, took one look at him, and said, “What’s the matter?”

“Up is dead. Sometime last night, he shot himself in the head.”

Eban didn’t immediately register a reaction, then he leaned back in his chair, saying softly, “Whoa. That’s heavy.”

Sid wanted to reach across and slap him. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What am I supposed to say? That I’m sorry? That goes without saying, doesn’t it? Was it because of the cancer?”

“I’m certain that contributed.”

“He’d been melancholy,” Eban said, giving a sage nod. “Not his old self at all. I could tell that during the so-called happy hour the day I got home.”

When the elder of Up’s daughters had called Sid to notify him of the suicide, she’d barely been able to speak the words. But once she’d gotten her emotions under control, she’d told him about the note. “You should hear it,” she’d said. “He mentions Eban.”

As she’d read it to him, it had become clear that Up’s standpoint on Eban’s early release went beyond the misgivings he had diplomatically conveyed. He hadn’t confessed all his transgressions, but Sid knew that covering for Eban had figured largely in many of them. Before signing off on the note, he had issued a warning to Kathryn Lennon.

A man minutes away from blowing his brains out wouldn’t have written such a ponderous message without having a solid basis for it.

Eban said now, “You know how much Uncle Up meant to me, so I can only imagine how bad you must feel. Resigning was one thing, but who could’ve seen this coming? I mean, Jesus. I’m really sorry, Dad.” He stood. “I’ll leave you to reminisce on all the good times y’all had together. I’m gonna grab some grub.”

“Eban, was it you who blew the whistle on Kathryn Lennon and Zach Bridger?”

In all innocence, he said, “Come again?”

“There’s a scandal brewing about the two of them.”

“Huh. What do you know? A sex scandal?”

“Did you start the rumor?”

“Me? Why would I go to the trouble of doing that? I don’t care if they fuck each other blind.”