Liar's Moon, Page 2

  “And I was trying to pick you up!” Jamie breathed.

  She laughed a little breathlessly. “Yes. Shame on you!”

  Jamie grinned in embarrassment, then he sobered. “Tracy… why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you write? Why did you have to sneak over the balcony like a thief? Or a hooker, which is what I thought you were.” He paused for just a second. “Why didn’t you come to the funeral?”

  She sighed softly, staring idly down at her hands. “I didn’t come to the funeral because it was a public circus.” She looked up at him suddenly, and in her huge blue eyes Jamie saw a sorrow to match his own. He wasn’t surprised. They could say what they wanted about Jesse Kuger, and, sure, some of it would be true. He’d caused a lot of grief in his day, but there’d been magic about him, too. Something unique. Tracy had loved him, just as Jamie had himself. And Tracy had gotten a really raw deal from both of her parents.

  “You loved him, huh, Tracy?”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “I would have resented them both.”

  “Oh, I did. But then I got older. I’ve never changed my opinion about the way they handled things. I just understand a little better that decent people can do rotten things. But that’s beside the point. Jamie—someone murdered him.”

  He stared at her a little blankly, wondering at the tension in her tone, wondering if the trauma that had filled both their lives had taken a toll upon her. “Tracy,” he said softly, feeling the more mature of the two of them for the moment. “Tracy, of course he was murdered. He was mugged, robbed and stabbed in Central Park. The police shot the guy who killed him.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Jamie, I know that. But someone paid that man to kill Dad.”

  He inhaled sharply. “What are you talking about?”

  She stood, and restlessly wandered back to the drapes that rustled so gently in the night air. “Jamie, I checked into the guy who stabbed him. His name was Martin Smith. He had a record—nothing major, which is, of course, what the police discovered. But I went further. Over the last year, Martin Smith had been carefully depositing large sums of cash in a savings account.”

  “How do you know?” Jamie gasped.

  “I hired a private investigator a couple of months ago.” She bit her lower lip and continued introspectively, “You see, I was in such shock at first, so hurt that I accepted the obvious as the truth. That a mugger had simply killed him. But then it occurred to me that we would never know the full truth—because our father’s murderer had been killed before he could say anything to anyone. If there had been a conspiracy, he certainly wouldn’t be around to admit it. I’m not sure what triggered my suspicions, but I was suspicious, and on that hunch I had Martin Smith’s affairs investigated and found out about the money.”

  Jamie swallowed. “Maybe, maybe he, uh—”

  “He—uh—what? Jamie?” she inquired tightly. “Smith was a loser, a petty thief. And a junkie. Jamie, I’m telling you, someone paid that man to kill Dad.”

  So this was his sister, Jamie thought, chilled and swallowing again. He didn’t want to hear the words she was saying. He just stared at her. Small and slim, so elegant and so pretty—and so passionate now, hurt, as he was, and more. Outraged, stricken, and determined. He didn’t doubt her. He just didn’t want to face it. It had been bad enough to think that their father had died, wounded and alone, the victim of random crime.

  It was much more horrifying to believe that someone had coldly and meticulously plotted that crime.

  “Jamie?” She spoke softly now, standing tall for her diminutive size, her chin raised. “We have to find out what really happened.”

  He didn’t feel that he could talk. “Who—who—”

  “I don’t know. The other guys; Leif, Tiger, or Sam. My mother, your mother, or his last wife.”

  “Our mothers—”

  “Mine is innocent, of course. To me. So is yours—to you. Oh, Jamie, I don’t know. But that’s why I had to see you! We have to know!”

  “I didn’t have to know,” he said glumly. “I never suspected anything until you came.”

  “Jamie—”

  “Okay, okay.” He lifted his hands. “So where do we start? What do we do? And you left out your grandfather and your stepfather. Neither of them was fond of Dad. And you still didn’t explain why you crawled over the balcony like Spiderwoman. Or Mata Hari.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry, baby brother. The last time I saw you, you were wearing Pampers. I didn’t want to meet you with anyone else around. I must say you’ve grown—but you’re still my brother.”

  “But I’m not, Tracy,” a harsh male voice suddenly interrupted.

  They both froze; Jamie with surprise, Tracy with— something else.

  Jamie was just startled. He hadn’t heard Leif Johnston come into the suite. But then, Leif was like that. He could walk without the sound of a tread, and stand silently, watching any situation, until he decided to talk. Strange, too, because he was a tall man. And once you noted his presence, that presence dominated the room.

  Jamie started to smile at Leif, then he noticed Tracy, dead still by the window, pale, still staring at Leif, still— frozen.

  He thought to introduce them. He didn’t know if they had ever met or not. He and Leif had never discussed Tracy, and, of course, all he knew about Tracy was what his father had told him.

  “Tracy, Leif—” he began, but then he shut up, because they were both staring at each other, and evidently they did know one another, and evidently they didn’t like a single thing they knew about each other. The hostility and tension was so thick in the room that he felt like he was cast in the middle of a brewing storm.

  But then Leif moved on into the room, casually sitting on the back of the couch, idly lighting a cigarette that he pulled from the pocket of his denim western shirt—and still staring at Tracy.

  “So, Tracy makes an appearance—at last,” he mused dryly. “And a nice appearance at that. Where’d you buy that frothy piece of near nudity? Paris? Rome?”

  Jamie could hear the sizzle as his sister sharply inhaled. Her eyes might have been twin points of flashing blue diamonds.

  “None of your business, Mr. Johnston.”

  Leif shrugged. “I think that it is. Where have you been that you couldn’t make the funeral? Ah, yes! Prying into the past life of the assassin! We’re after a murderer, now, eh? Brilliant, Tracy. And you’ve got a nice list of suspects. Where do I fit in on that list, Tracy?”

  “Right on top,” she replied coolly, having recovered her dignity.

  Leif laughed but the sound was harsh. “Me? Right on top? I don’t think so, Tracy. Why in God’s name would I have wanted one of my best friends dead?”

  “Best friend? Most bitter enemy, I would say.”

  “That was what you wanted, Tracy, wasn’t it? But it didn’t work. It just didn’t work.”

  “What in hell is going on here?” Jamie suddenly exploded.

  Tracy closed her eyes, briefly, painfully, and shook her head. “Nothing, Jamie. I—uh—I’ll see you later, Jamie. When you’re alone.”

  “Tracy, don’t go! You just got here! Tracy, we’ve just—”

  “Jamie—it’s very, very late. I just wanted to reach you without any of the media around. We’ll get together in the morning, huh?”

  “Uh—yeah, okay. If you have to go.”

  “I do. ’Night, Jamie. I’m right next door.”

  “And who else is right next door, Tracy?” Leif asked her coolly. “Your mother, your stepfather? Your grandfather—el dictador? Maybe you should grab her, Jamie. If they’re around, they’ll whisk her away.”

  Tracy stared at him for a moment, smiling coolly, the sizzle of her eyes belying her soft voice and smile.

  “If the two of you will excuse me, please…”

  She turned toward the drapes. Leif was instantly on his feet, clutching her elbow. His smoke-gray eyes were dark and stormy, boring down into her magnificent blue on
es. To Jamie, they looked like a movie poster standing there, he so tall and dark, she so small and feminine against him, the sparks flying between them.

  “What—” Tracy began, teeth grit, tense as she tried to free herself from his touch.

  “You needn’t crawl out the balcony, Tracy. Use the door,” Leif drawled to her softly.

  “Thank you!” She wrenched her arm from his touch.

  She seemed to glide, to float, from the room. All dignity, all elegance. Jamie marveled again that she was so stunning; after all, it was quite nice to meet a sibling and discover that she was beautiful and lovely, delicate—and somehow tough as nails, too. Proud and determined.

  He was still so stunned by all the events of the night that he didn’t even say anything as she left. He just watched her.

  But then he noted Leif again. Denim-clad arms crossed over his chest, watching Tracy, too. Smoke eyes dark as thunder. Troubled, brooding, pensive.

  Jamie was crazy about Leif. When his own dad hadn’t been around, Leif had been there. Through thick and thin—but then Leif had always been the most responsible of the group. The most level-headed, the most determined, and the most dangerous when he had made up his mind about something. Of course, Leif had endured the most hard knocks, too. The only American, he’d been shipped off to Nam during the days of the draft. Then he’d fallen in love with and married Celia, and Celia had died. Then he’d been the first one called when Jesse Kuger had died in the park.

  Tracy had put Leif in with her group of suspects! But that had to be because she didn’t really know him.

  But obviously, they did know one another. Awkwardly, Jamie cleared his throat. “Leif, you and, uh, Tracy have met before, huh?”

  “What?” Leif arched one of his jet brows, drawn from an inner reverie by the question.

  Jamie cleared his throat again. “You and Tracy have already met, huh? You know one another?”

  Leif paused for a second, then chuckled dryly. “Oh, yeah, we know one another all right.”

  Jamie sank back down to the plush sofa. “I just met my half sister. After all these years. She slips over my balcony, then disappears. My God. I’ve got so many questions for her.”

  “You’ll have the time to ask them all,” Leif said with a little sigh. “She isn’t going to disappear again.”

  “How do you know?”

  Leif hesitated again, briefly. “Because I think she’s right, Jamie. I think that the man who stabbed your father was a hired assassin. And in this I don’t blame her one bit. We’ve got to find out who it was behind the murder.”

  “Oh, God,” Jamie whispered. “First Tracy—and then you! What makes you so sure that it was some kind of a conspiracy?”

  Leif answered softly. “It took me a long, long time, Jamie, just to accept the fact that your dad was really gone. That his life could have been snuffed out like a candle flame—so damned carelessly! Since the killer was already dead, 1 couldn’t shake the man, I couldn’t scream at him—I couldn’t even hate him. I couldn’t stop thinking about what a stupid, senseless tragedy it was. Then I suddenly started wondering if it was really senseless at all. And I hired a private detective to check into it.”

  Leif planted a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, okay? I’m going to get some sleep.”

  Leif disappeared into the left bedroom of the suite. Jamie watched him, then glanced at his watch. Three a.m., and he had practice and a concert the next night. He stood, stretched, and went on into the right bedroom.

  He was glad that Leif was with him. Leif wasn’t acting as his manager or anything—nor was he performing with Jamie. He was just along because it was Jamie’s first American tour—and because he was Jamie’s friend. Lending support and experience—and probably keeping a wary eye on the happenings to make sure that Jamie didn’t fall into any of the traps that could wind around the very young who suddenly became the very rich and very famous.

  Jamie lay down and tried to sleep. No good.

  Two hours later, he was still wide awake. Obviously. He’d just met his mysterious sister, and he’d learned that his father’s murder had been a conspiracy. It seemed that Leif had suspected the same thing for some time and had kept his own counsel. Well, that was like Leif, too. He kept his own counsel a lot. How the hell did you sleep when you had all this running around in your mind?

  He frowned against the darkness of his room. Someone was moving around the elegant salon of the suite.

  Jamie leapt out of his bed and rushed to the door, cracking it slightly. Maybe it was Tracy again, coming secretively to try to finish her conversation with him. Obviously, she hadn’t known that Leif was traveling with him. She’d thought to find him alone.

  But when he stared out into the darkened salon, he didn’t see Tracy. Again there was movement in the room. It was Leif. Tall and towering in the night, he was a dark lean shadow. Agile, soundless.

  He went to the drapes, pulled them back, and disappeared onto the balcony.

  A second later, Jamie heard a soft thud, and he knew that Leif had hopped from their balcony to Tracy’s.

  They were both crazy, he thought first. Insane. Hopping from balcony to balcony when their suites were on the fortieth floor!

  Then he began to chew his lower lip in concern. Leif had just gone after Tracy. Leif and Tracy didn’t seem to be any too crazy about one another. Tracy had even put Leif on her murder suspect list…

  Oh, God! What if it was true? What if Leif thought that Tracy had some kind of proof, and what if Leif was hopping over the balcony to go and kill his sister in the night.

  “Oh, God!” Jamie groaned aloud.

  He couldn’t believe that. He’d known Leif all his life. Leif could be stern and demanding and blunt and sometimes autocratic; he could also be gentle and understanding when no one else in the world was. Leif could not possibly be a cold-blooded killer.

  Okay, that was a fact that Jamie knew.

  But then, what was Leif doing crawling over the balcony to accost Tracy in the dead of the night?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Once in the hallway, Tracy dashed for her own suite. Once inside, she leaned against the door, gasped for breath—and longed to kick herself.

  What a fool! Trying to return via the balcony! But then, Leif had that kind of effect on her. Oh, God! She coveted her face with her hands, furious with herself. Leif should have had no effect on her—none whatsoever! It had been seven years since she had seen him. Seven long, long years.

  She pushed herself away from the door, then, on second thought, turned back and twisted the top dead bolt. She gazed at her hands, and they trembled, and once again she was angry with herself.

  Exhaling a long sigh, she walked through the posh, nearly identical salon of her own suite to her nearly identical balcony. The breeze touched her cheeks, cooling, reviving. Far below her, horns tooted and brakes squealed. The night never died here. Little tiny play people seemed to move about despite the hour. There was a very nice sense of normalcy about it all.

  Tracy inhaled and exhaled again and leaned against the building, trying to still her shivers. Nothing about her life had ever been normal, but in the last few years she thought that she had achieved a pleasant stage of acceptance—maturity and stability. Just seeing Leif Johnston had torn that all to shreds. If she hadn’t been taken so completely by surprise…

  Idiot! she accused herself with disgust. She’d been so meticulous and careful when delving into the life of her father’s assassin! How could she not have known that Leif Johnston was traveling on this concert tour with her brother!

  But she hadn’t. Leif had become a very private person —not even the tabloids ever seemed able to get anything on him. Still, the information should have been somewhere! And it had been common knowledge that he had been close to Jamie Kuger—closer than his own father. It was natural that Jamie would have turned to Leif…

  “Oh, God!” she breathed aloud, and all the hurt came back; all
her feelings of shame and humiliation.

  She spoke out loud again—maybe it was because the words seemed more assuring that way.

  “You weren’t that terrible, Tracy! You were very young, and what they did to you wasn’t in the least bit fair!”

  No, of course, it hadn’t been fair in the least. She had been—in the eyes of her grandfather and mother—a most ungodly mistake. Arthur Kingsley was a rich, rich man. Tracy didn’t even know his total worth—it was in the billions. When his daughter had become involved with a long-haired seventeen-year-old pop singer, Arthur had quickly seen that the affair ended. Tracy was born under very discreet circumstances in a clinic in Switzerland; a year later her eighteen-year-old mother had married Ted Blare, a young man with the impeccable type of family background that old Arthur could stomach. Yale all the way.

  Tracy thought then how she loved Ted; he was a dear, dear man, far more of a caring parent than either of the two who had biologically bred her!

  She hadn’t known anything about her real father, though, until she was eight years old. She was playing on her most beloved object—a grand piano—that Ted had bought especially for her despite her mother’s protests. Protests she hadn’t understood at the time but had come to comprehend fully on that fateful day.

  She’d been supposed to pick up her toys, but had become entranced with a melody on the piano. She hadn’t heard her mother yelling at her at all. Then suddenly beautiful Audrey had been standing before her like the wrath of God, screaming and swearing and telling her that she was just like her father—all she cared about was the bloody-awful music.

  Ted explained the truth to her—more or less—saying that her real father had loved music and that he, Ted, had adopted her because she was the loveliest little girl that he had ever seen. He did it all so gently that she loved him all the more. But the seeds of curiosity had been sown in her young soul, and she could never forget that in her fury her mother had called her a “little bastard.”