Damien (Stark Trilogy 6)

“I’d love that,” she said, “but we have to go to the prison.”

On the sofa, Jackson chuckled. “If I had a dime for every time someone used that excuse with me…”

Nikki rolled her eyes. “Rory—you know, the guy who took Anne—wants to talk to us.”

“Why?”

“That’s the question of the day,” Damien said.

“Why don’t you come?”

“Oh, no,” Frank said. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not,” she assured him. “You’re family.”

“Jackson and Sylvia are coming, too,” Damien added, earning a smile from Nikki after she noted Jackson’s nod in acknowledgement.

“Oh. Well. I don’t know.” Frank shifted on his feet, and Damien recalled Frank’s earlier words—I never figured out how to be a father.

“It would mean a lot if you come,” Nikki urged.

Damien drew in a breath, afraid that Nikki was about to be deeply disappointed.

But then Frank nodded. “Of course, sweetheart. Of course I’ll come.”

* * * *

The interview room was small and shabby, with an odor that recalled to Damien the scent of the showers in some of the more poorly maintained tennis centers he’d visited in his youth. Three walls were solid. The fourth contained a large picture window concealed by a set of dusty venetian blinds. At the moment, the door was open, which reduced some, but not all, of the claustrophobic atmosphere.

“Well, it’s definitely not Stark Tower,” Frank said, earning a smile from everyone, if not a downright laugh.

Jackson and Sylvia sat at the long, scarred conference table, the metal chairs squeaking with every movement. He had his arm around her, and she was snuggled against him, her dark brown hair tousled.

Damien leaned against the wall in the far back corner, his eyes on his wife, who paced the length of the table opposite Jackson and Syl.

“Baby,” he said, holding out his hand for her. She came, gave his hand a squeeze, then started pacing again.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I just can’t stand still.” She looked up at the clock mounted on the wall, then checked the time on her phone’s lock screen. “We’ve been here almost fifteen minutes. What’s going on?” She glanced at Frank. “Something’s wrong. Nobody ever makes Damien wait,” she added, making Jackson burst out laughing.

“Sorry,” he said. “But your wife has a point.”

“It’s true,” Syl added. “I worked his desk for years. I can attest that my husband speaks the truth.”

In the middle of the room, Nikki rolled her eyes. “Sorry. Honestly, I’m sorry. I’m just—I want to know why we’re even here.”

Damien took a step toward her, but paused when Frank hooked an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. His throat tightened, and he had to swallow a knot of melancholy. Because no matter how much Frank had screwed up, he’d earned his way back. Something Damien knew damn well Jeremiah would never do.

With her head on her father’s shoulder, she looked at Damien. “Seriously. Any ideas?”

“They’re probably waiting for Charles. I think prison types like an attorney in the room.”

“Well, where is he?” Sylvia asked.

“I don’t know. He texted that he was parking right as they showed us back here. Haven’t heard a word since. And yes,” he said in response to his wife’s upcoming question, “I’ve been trying to reach him.”

She made a face, but said nothing. Just pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and then led her father to the table. “Might as well sit.”

“We’ll know something soon,” Frank said.

“I think we’ll know it now,” Jackson said. “Listen.”

Sure enough, footsteps sounded in the previously quiet hallway. A moment later, two men in suits and ID badges that marked them as employees of the prison walked in, with Charles Maynard striding along in front of them.

Damien’s attorney since his tennis days, Charles was a brilliant litigator, a shark in negotiations, and he never lost his shit when it counted.

At the moment, he looked decidedly flustered.

Fuck.

“What’s going on?” Nikki asked before Damien got the words out.

“Have a seat.” Charles nodded to a chair. And since Damien was the only one still standing, he knew the comment was for him. He continued to stand.

Charles sighed. “Have it your way.”

“Dammit, Charles,” Nikki said. “What is it? Where’s Rory Claymore?” She was talking to Charles, but she was looking to Damien, clearly wondering why he wasn’t the one who’d taken point on asking the questions.

But Damien had seen the badges. The Custody Investigative Services Unit. And that told him everything he needed to know.

“Claymore’s not coming,” Damien told her gently. “I’m guessing he’s dead.”

Chapter Fifteen

The investigators laid it all out, their words confirming what Damien already suspected—Rory Claymore was dead.

“How?” Nikki asked.

The taller of the two investigators shook his head. “Shivved. Kidneys, throat, heart. The attack took place an hour ago in the exercise yard.”

“Then it was specific to Claymore,” Damien said. “He didn’t get caught up in a prison fight.”

“No, sir. Someone clearly targeted him.”

“You have a suspect?” Charles asked.

“Not at this time,” the shorter man said.

“How can that be?” Nikki asked, taking Damien’s hand in her own. “It’s a prison. These men are watched all the time.”

“They’re locked up all the time,” Sylvia said gently. “Not watched. When my dad—” Her voice broke. “Well, he’s told me that a lot of time it’s anything goes.”

Nikki’s hand tightened in Damien’s, but she said nothing. Just nodded acquiescence.

“I assure you we’re taking the investigation seriously, and when we have a suspect we’ll let you know.”

“But, well—” Nikki met Damien’s eyes, and he stepped in, asking the question for her.

“Did Rory speak to anyone here about why he wanted to meet with us?”

“Not that we’re aware. When the meeting was scheduled, he asked that it be confidential.”

“We think there was a leak,” the second investigator said. “By the time we reached the body, the inmates were buzzing with the news that he was meeting with Damien Stark today. Considering he wanted it confidential, I don’t think Claymore was the one who shared that bit of intel.”

Damien looked at Charles and saw that his attorney was wondering the same thing—what did someone not want Damien to know?

“Maybe nothing,” Charles said later as they stood outside the prison.

“I doubt that,” Jackson said. “Way too coincidental. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Honestly,” Charles said, his voice weary, “neither do I.”

Damien looked between his brother and his lawyer. “We’re going to find out. Who killed him—and why. And I don’t mean who stabbed him,” he clarified. “I’m talking about the person outside the prison pulling the strings. Because the only reason to keep Rory Claymore from talking to us today was to keep him from disclosing information about Anne’s kidnapping.”

Nikki’s hand tightened in his. She looked up at him, fire in her eyes. “And the only person who’d care if he talked would be someone he was working with.”

“Call Ryan,” Damien ordered, his attention on Charles. “Explain the situation. Get him set up at the house with a team.”