Chapter 6 - The Engagement Neither of Them Expected
The photograph appeared online within twelve minutes.
DESMOND HAYES SECRETLY ENGAGED TO LONGTIME AIDE
Another headline followed.
CHICAGO'S MOST ELIGIBLE POWER BROKER FINALLY CHOOSES A BRIDE
Then:
WHO IS BEATRICE GALLAGHER?
By midnight, half the city seemed determined to answer that question.
Beatrice hated every second.
“You look happy,” Desmond said.
“I’m considering jumping from the balcony.”
“We’re on the second floor.”
“Then I’ll survive and have to explain myself.”
“Exactly.”
She gave him a look.
They stood inside a private reception room adjacent to the ballroom.
Outside, hundreds of guests continued drinking, speculating, and congratulating people who were not actually engaged.
Inside, Beatrice pulled the diamond ring from her finger.
Desmond stopped her.
“Keep it on.”
“There are no cameras.”
“There are always cameras.”
She glanced toward the ceiling.
“You've made me paranoid.”
“No. Thomas Rourke did that.”
A knock sounded.
Adrian entered.
“Congratulations.”
The word carried no warmth.
Desmond smiled.
“Thank you.”
Adrian looked at Beatrice.
“I didn’t realize the two of you were involved.”
“We kept it private,” she said.
“For how long?”
Desmond answered.
“Long enough.”
Adrian's eyes dropped toward the ring.
“Beautiful.”
“My grandmother’s.”
Beatrice almost turned toward him.
That had not been part of the plan.
Adrian looked surprised too.
“I thought Margaret’s ring was emerald.”
“She had more than one.”
Lie.
Smooth.
Effortless.
Beatrice wondered how often Desmond lied like this.
Probably more often than she wanted to know.
Adrian approached the bar.
“This complicates things.”
“What things?” Desmond asked.
“Corporate governance.”
“My personal life has nothing to do with Hayes Capital.”
“Your future wife controls access to almost every confidential document you possess.”
Beatrice answered calmly.
“I controlled that access yesterday too.”
“Yes, but yesterday you were an employee.”
“And today?”
Adrian looked directly at her.
“Today you're a liability.”
Desmond’s expression cooled.
“Careful.”
Adrian lifted both hands.
“I meant legally.”
“I know what you meant.”
The tension became unmistakable.
After Adrian left, Beatrice whispered, “Subtle.”
“I was being subtle.”
“You looked ready to bury him beneath the ballroom.”
“I don't bury people beneath buildings.”
“You have an oddly specific list of things you don't do.”
Desmond checked the hallway.
“Did you see Michael?”
“East entrance earlier.”
“He’s gone.”
Beatrice frowned.
“That quickly?”
“Exactly.”
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
Her father.
Patrick Gallagher.
Taken years earlier.
Standing beside Walter Hayes.
On the back of the photograph, somebody had written:
ASK YOUR FIANCÉ WHO ORDERED THE CAR TO BE FOLLOWED.
Beatrice’s stomach tightened.
“What?” Desmond asked.
She handed him the phone.
His expression changed.
“I never saw this.”
“It doesn't say you did.”
“It implies my family was involved.”
“My father worked for your family. That's not exactly shocking.”
“Beatrice.”
“I know.”
She remained composed.
But Desmond saw through it.
He had become very good at seeing through her.
She turned away.
“My father left home at 10:40 that night. Police said he lost control on Lake Shore Drive.”
“How many vehicles were involved?”
“One.”
“Witnesses?”
“Two.”
“Names?”
“One died years ago. The other disappeared.”
Desmond stared at the photo again.
“Why didn't you investigate?”
“I was seventeen.”
“Later.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“The police file vanished.”
That was not coincidence.
Desmond pocketed the phone.
“We're leaving.”
“The gala—”
“Can survive without us.”
They exited through a service corridor.
Two security men accompanied them.
Not Michael’s people.
Desmond had quietly replaced his immediate detail that afternoon.
Inside the car, Beatrice remained silent.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Finally she asked, “Was the ring really your grandmother's?”
Desmond glanced at her.
“No.”
“I knew it.”
“It was bought this afternoon.”
“How romantic.”
“I had ninety minutes.”
“Did you pick it?”
“Yes.”
That surprised her.
“You personally chose it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if we're lying to Chicago, I prefer convincing lies.”
Beatrice looked down at the ring.
The diamond was elegant rather than enormous.
Art Deco setting.
Simple.
Exactly the sort of jewelry she would have chosen.
That bothered her more than if it had been ridiculous.
“You know my taste.”
“I notice things.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “You do.”
The car stopped.
Not at the townhouse.
At Desmond’s private residence outside the city.
A limestone mansion surrounded by old trees.
Beatrice turned.
“You said Lincoln Park.”
“Compromised.”
“How?”
“Someone accessed the alley camera thirty minutes after I returned to the office.”
“Michael?”
“Unknown.”
They entered through a side entrance.
The house was quiet.
Not cold.
Beatrice had expected something severe.
Instead there were books.
Family photographs.
Old paintings.
A piano that looked used rather than decorative.
“This doesn't look like you.”
Desmond removed his jacket.
“What does my house look like in your imagination?”
“Darker.”
“Charming.”
“More marble.”
“There is marble upstairs.”
“Of course.”
A woman in her sixties appeared from the hallway.
“Elena,” Desmond said, “this is Beatrice.”
The housekeeper smiled.
“I know who Miss Gallagher is.”
Apparently everyone did.
Then Elena noticed the ring.
Her mouth opened.
Desmond quickly said, “It's complicated.”
Elena laughed.
“With you, everything is.”
She disappeared toward the kitchen.
Beatrice stared.
“Your housekeeper isn't afraid of you.”
“No.”
“She laughed at you.”
“She’s known me since I was six.”
“I like her.”
“I assumed you would.”
They moved toward the library.
On the central table sat another envelope.
Cream paper.
Burned at one edge.
Desmond stopped.
Nobody outside his inner circle should have known they were coming here.
He opened it carefully.
Inside was one line.
Congratulations on the engagement.
Then:
Midnight tomorrow. Bring Beatrice to the old Union Station tunnel.
And below it:
Come without her, and the entire Gallagher ledger goes public.
Beatrice stared.
“How did that get inside your house?”
Desmond looked around the library.
His expression hardened.
“That,” he said, “is what I intend to find out.”
Because whoever had delivered the letter had access not only to Hayes Capital.
They had access to Desmond’s private home.
May you like
And that meant the traitor was even closer than either of them had feared.
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