Red After Dark (Blackwood Security #13) - Elise Noble Page 0,19
father wasn’t able to. Who? Maybe they saw a car? Or something else that could help us?”
For the first time, Alaric glimpsed hope in Harriet’s eyes. “I can ask. We’ve still got two ranch hands, and there would have been a nurse here from the agency. But I still don’t understand—who are you people, and why would you help if it’s not for the money?”
Emmy finished the last of her tea. She’d also managed to hoover up three more cookies in the blink of an eye. “As my friend here said, it’s a long story. And not everybody is motivated by money. He wants to return Emerald in order to right an old wrong.”
“And you? What do you want?” Harriet asked her.
Uh-oh. Alaric knew that smile. He hated that smile. That cold, cunning, malevolent smile.
“Me? I want Kyla Devane back where she belongs. In a spa or on a yacht or gracing some mid-morning chat show, not wandering the halls of the Capitol Building. Help us to bring her down, and when we find Emerald, the reward’s yours.”
“Emmy…” Alaric warned.
“Do we have a deal?”
“I… Well…” Harriet turned goldfish. “Obviously I’ll do anything I can to help with the Kyla situation, but we only have a month and…and nine days before the bank forecloses. I don’t—”
“Great. We’d better get started, then. Don’t you have a TV interview to do?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll have an associate stop by. Her name’s Daniela, and she’ll speak to your ranch hands and the nurse. Any idea where I can find Kyla?”
“You’re going to talk to her?”
“Know thine enemy.”
Ah, shit. Now Emmy was paraphrasing Sun Tzu. The Art of War was Black’s favourite book, and if he was pulling the strings from behind the scenes, then things had the potential to turn ugly. Uglier. Was it too late to go back to Thailand?
“She has an estate near here,” Hegler said, ever the helpful one. “It used to belong to her parents before they died, although I hear she remodelled extensively. But I don’t think she’ll be there right now—all the candidates have a debate this afternoon.”
“Where?”
“The new convention centre in Frankfort.”
Gee, guess where they’d be heading next? Although it could be interesting. Alaric had never seen Kyla Devane in person, and he was curious to see how she acted when the cameras weren’t on her.
“What time?”
“The formalities start at four.”
“Then we’d better head over there.”
“I think it’s ticketed, but I know plenty of people,” Hegler said. “You’d better give me your number, and I’ll find someone who can get you in.”
Access really wouldn’t have been a problem, but it was a nice gesture. Alaric handed over a business card and Emmy followed suit. Sirius Consulting and Blackwood Security. In the intelligence field, the two firms were the equivalent of a minnow and a blue whale respectively.
“Thanks.” Emmy pocketed Hegler’s card in return and turned back to Harriet. “So, what are you planning to say in this interview? Are you going to endorse Biggs?”
“Ugh, no way.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, ashamed of her gut reaction. “I mean, no, I’m going to avoid that.”
“What’s so bad about Biggs?”
“He’s been to a few of Daddy’s gatherings. At the last one, he followed me out to the barn and propositioned me while his wife was inside with the children. My father might have made mistakes, but I’m fairly certain he never tried to take advantage of a friend’s daughter. His only transgression was with Dominique, and my mother drove him to that.”
“She was the neediest woman I’ve ever met,” Hegler muttered.
What a family.
“So you’ll be voting Democrat, then?” Alaric asked, half joking.
“If I vote at all. Aidan O’Shaughnessy’s a centrist, and so am I. Our views aren’t a million miles apart, but I can hardly come out and say that, can I? I’ll come across as bitter if I back the opposition, and besides, I don’t want to upset Daddy.”
“Go with your heart,” Emmy told her. “You’ve never considered running for your father’s seat? It sounds as though you care.”
“Me, run for office? Are you joking? I’ve seen enough politics to last me a lifetime.”
CHAPTER 8 - EMMY
“THERE SHE IS,” Alaric murmured. “Kyla Devane.”
To give Stéphane his credit, he’d got us decent seats. We were three rows from the front, at eye level with Devane’s stilettos as she strode to her podium with a tablet computer. She was wearing a pair of Giuseppe Zanottis if I wasn’t mistaken—Bradley had educated me well. Those were thousand-dollar shoes, perhaps not the