Chardy Walker Lieb Read online

  >Chardy Walker Lieb

  THE SAINT AND THE SINNER By Chardy Walker Lieb

  >Triskelion Publishing

  www.triskelionpublishing.com

  Published by Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.com 15508 W. Bell Rd. #101, PMB #502, Surprise, AZ 85374 U.S.A.

  First e-published by Triskelion Publishing First e-publishing April 2005

  ISBN 1-932866-28-0 Copyright © Chardy Walker Lieb 2004 All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Triskelion Publishing

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  >Chicago in July was a bitch>. And tonight was no exception. She was hot and ready and waiting… With his .357 drawn, Sergeant Richard St. Claire inched his way along the stifling, poorly lit

  hallway. He could feel the sweat trickle down one temple. Itch between his shoulder blades. Stain the underarms of the crisp, cotton shirt his wife had ironed before she kissed him goodbye.

  As always, right before a take down, three mental snapshots flashed through Richard’s head. Cathleen, the love of his life, who was even sexier after fourteen years of marriage than the law allowed. His twelve-year-old son Michael who had acquired his old man’s knack of taking on bullies twice his size. And Courtney. His tenacious, independent little princess who, at the tender age of eight, had rescued every stray animal in the neighborhood.

  Instinct shoved sentiment aside. Richard took a breath. His fleeting smile faded. Fifteen years on the Force, and he had never taken the fear for granted. In fact, after having climbed

  three flights of stairs, he relished the merciless hammering of his heart and his partner, Brian O’Shea’s, adrenaline-pumped breathing. He replayed the tip Bobby Keegan had given O’Shea. Freemont Hotel. Room 316. 11:30 p.m.

  Like countless drug busts before, St. Claire felt rather than heard O’Shea slip past him, positioning himself on the opposite side of the door. There, in the dim light, Richard backed against the graffiti-stained wall and clasped his gun in both hands. Barrel pointed toward the paint-peeled ceiling, he momentarily rested both wrists over his heart. He whispered, “Me first,” referencing the self-imposed, who’s-going-through-the-door-first game that cops play.

  Having assumed the same stance, O’Shea adamantly shook his head. “My informant,” he hissed.

  St. Claire mouthed, “My turn,” then quickly stepped around to face the door squarely. Without hesitation, he took a deep breath, but before he could exhale, shots blasted from inside the apartment, splintering the wood and dropping O’Shea.

  And the boyishly handsome, up-yours grin Richard St. Claire had just given Brian O’Shea – his partner, his best friend, godfather of his two children faded…forever.

  CHAPTER 1

  >Spring, twenty-three years later

  Candlelight and shimmering crystal. Caviar and sparkling champagne. Conversation and a string quartet. The party was in full swing by the time Courtney St. Claire-Montgomery handed her coat to the butler…

  And spotted her father's murderer.

  During that heart-stopping moment of recognition, Courtney decided against pulling the stainless steel Beretta from her purse and blowing a hole in Dirk Templeton to match the one in her heart. Instead, she allowed herself to be ushered from the marble-floored foyer into the crowded living room by Templeton's computer expert, Leonard Wallis.

  "Too bad you didn't get here sooner," Wallis explained, maneuvering his way through the crowd of upper echelon guests. "The Mayor just left."

  Vaguely aware of Leonard's small talk, Courtney managed a distracted, "Sounds like I missed all the fun."

  Leonard's balding head bobbed up and down enthusiastically as he walked. "Well that, and watching several people take exception with the Mayor's security precautions."

  Courtney's heart froze the same time her feet did. "What kind of precautions?" The Beretta she had tucked in her purse suddenly felt like a full-blown Uzi.

  Leonard stopped, filling her in. “The entire time the Mayor was here his people scanned everyone at the door with a metal detector."

  Good Lord, she had been this close to being caught carrying a concealed weapon. Her mind flashed to her daughter Janey. Granted, she was only five-years-old, but even kindergarten kids could repeat cruelties overheard by their parents. Not to mention explaining this to her over protective, over achieving, big brother Michael. Her knees nearly buckled at the stupidity of her own actions. Especially when she considered what Uncle Brian would do when he found out.

  Regardless, Courtney believed fate alone had brought her here tonight. Granted, the computer bug that she had cracked was wide spread. That was a fact. And her staff was more than equipped to handle the resulting flood of corporate phone calls. But when she recognized this potential client’s name as the man Uncle Brian suspected of murdering her father – well, that had to be Karma plain and simple. Yes, she planned to handle Dirk Templeton’s account personally. After all, some things in life come around full circle. And apparently, this was one of them.

  But if Courtney had arrived five minutes earlier, she could have blown her plan straight to hell. At the slightest suspicion Templeton might have changed computer systems rather than hire her to de-bug his old one. She shuddered. If the man who had murdered her father twenty years ago had walked away again, she would have never forgiven herself. Never.

  Her spine stiffened. Her resolve hardened like freshly poured concrete. Her attention focused bringing down Dirk Templeton.

  Trying to smile away Leonard's momentary confusion at her abrupt stop in the middle of the room. "Scanned, huh? Sounds interesting." At his obtuse expression, she took a deep breath. "We probably shouldn't keep Mr. Templeton waiting."

  Leonard nodded and led her the rest of the way in silence.

  "Mrs. Montgomery, this is Dirk Templeton," Wallis began, then anxiously turned to his boss. "Mr. Templeton, this is Courtney Montgomery, the computer expert that I told you about. She’s the one who cracked the Boomerang Virus."

  "He means told me and told me and told me." Templeton smirked, extending his hand in her direction.

  Unsettled by the extent of her hatred, not to mention the weight of the gun she nervously clutched in her evening bag, Courtney steadied, then offered her other hand.

  “Mr. Templeton." Her flesh crawled at his touch, but both her voice and her smile remained controlled until the purse’s slim strap slipped off her shoulder…and her heart bottomed out.

  Right before the satiny, beaded clutch hit the floor, she snagged it. Composed on the outside, on the inside she was one breath away from hyperventilating. Not to mention the relentless I-told-you-so voices screaming inside Courtney’s head.

  Are you nuts, Woman? Totally out of your mind? Carrying that gun has to be the most reckless, irresponsible thing you’ve ever done. Well that, and coming here alone. You’ll be lucky to survive tonight. And if you don’t, what about Janey?

  Courtney swallowed hard.

  She could just hear Michael. If her brother had the slightest inkling she was working her own unofficial version of undercover, the man would go ballistic. Much less if he knew that she was tracking down their father's killer. Or carrying a gun. Cop or no cop, Michael would lose it–big time. Regardless, as she faced Templeton, Courtney knew backing out was out of the question.

  "Call me Dirk," he corrected. As Courtney stared into the eyes of the bastard who had robbed her of so much, she willed the hatred from her tone long enough to repeat the loathsome name. "Dirk."

/>   Frightened by how little stood between her and homicide, Courtney knew her assessment of Templeton had to be swift. The tall, dark man in his late forties was notably older than the mug shot she’d sweet-talked one of O’Shea’s rookies into showing her. Regardless, Templeton was definitely still handsome, damned near charismatic.

  No horns. No tail. No cloven hooves. His double-breasted suit appeared tailor-made, and he brandished a 24K gold cigarette lighter, not a

  pitchfork. Rather than fire and brimstone, his home reeked of genteel elegance and antique lace. It was magnificent. Obscene.

  Courtney faced him, barely able to hold her act together. And quite an act it was. Had it only been days since she and Uncle Brian had gone to lunch? His mood had been so uncharacteristically black, so obviously angry that Courtney had been worried sick. After dropping him off, she had done what any loving, caring daughter-figure would do. She had taken matters into her own hands and cornered one of O’Shea’s rookies. According to the grapevine, the Lieutenant had just received a tip, naming the man who had murdered his partner. For twenty years, there had been…

  No suspects. No arrests. No conviction. Grateful the Rookie knew her by Montgomery, her married name, she held her breath as he

  continued. When the patrolman revealed the suspect’s name, he had no idea O’Shea’s murdered partner, Sergeant Richard St. Claire, had been Courtney’s father. Like the rookie cop, tonight it was Dirk Templeton who – ironically – had no idea he had been chatting face-to-face with Sergeant Richard St. Claire’s daughter.

  "I'm grateful Lenny, here, read about you in the “Trib.” Dirk looked Courtney over, slowly, and gave her fingers an approving squeeze.

  "Believe me, you’re not half as grateful as I am.” Courtney cringed inwardly but did her best to appear flattered.

  "I expected a computer genius would look a little more bookish." He winked.

  “I'll take that as a compliment–of sorts." Releasing Dirk's hand, the warmth seeped back into her own, and it took every ounce of discipline not to wipe her palm down the front of her thigh right in front of him.

  Instead, she fondled the gun through the soft, satiny material of her evening bag. "Don't forget that judging a book by its cover can be a huge mistake, Dirk." Especially in my case, you bastard.

  "Not if you don't intend to read them, Mrs. Montgomery." His voice was as smooth as warm cocoa.

  "Call me Courtney." Composure, she silently reminded herself. Thank God she had spent the past week in front of a mirror, practicing a natural, believable smile. If she hadn't, her little act would be dead in the water by now, because Dirk Templeton hadn't survived by being stupid. Or easily out maneuvered.

  On the contrary, this man had built his successful empire and, regardless of anyone's suspicion, had managed to maintain a legitimate front for over twenty years. For all intents and purposes, Dirk Templeton's reputation was flawless. All of which, Courtney decided, was about to change.

  Snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, Templeton handed one to Courtney. "I don't like to mix business with pleasure, so let's cut to the chase. Lenny said my computers have this Boomerang Virus, and you can fix them. Is that right?"

  "If Mr. Wallis has correctly identified the virus–" Courtney stopped mid-sentence when Templeton glared at Wallis, causing him to choke, coughing and sputtering until his face turned red. She offered Leonard her champagne, adding quickly, "And judging from everything he and I discussed over the phone, I'm confident his diagnosis is accurate."

  Templeton set his drink on the coffee table to pull out a cigarette. He flicked on his solid gold lighter and slowly blew out a stream of smoke. "Lenny says you're the only one with the cure."

  "That’s correct." Courtney nodded, grateful Leonard's face had finally returned to its normal, albeit anemic, pallor. She automatically hitched the slipping purse strap higher on her shoulder before explaining. “Although it took a lot of time away from my consulting work, the challenge of this virus intrigued me. So,

  I developed the program which includes exclusive rights."

  Templeton picked up his champagne flute and tossed back a swallow. "Can you start tomorrow?"

  This time Courtney's smile was oh-so-genuine. "No problem." Yesss, she was in! She may have come to Templeton's house on her own, but somehow, despite her inexperience, she had managed to pull tonight off without a hitch. Maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to save her butt. "Where do I go and what time?"

  "My office. Ten o'clock sharp." Dirk's cigarette hissed as he arrogantly stubbed out the butt in the delicately etched glass.

  One the inside, Courtney was jumping up and down. At least, the first phase of her success. On the outside, she merely nodded, hoping to hell her luck would hold out long enough to get her out the door. "I'll be there."

  As she started to walk away, Dirk grabbed her arm, inadvertently snagging her purse strap. "Not so fast."

  Courtney's breath ceased. Literally. Her first reaction was to jerk the satiny band away from Templeton, but remembering the Beretta, she stopped herself just in time. She plastered on a practiced, innocent look before turning to face him.

  "What is it?" she asked, desperate to sneak a peek and make sure the flap hadn’t come unsnapped.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized the soothing string quartet had finally stopped…or had it been her heart?

  "You can't leave–"

  His fingers tightened slightly, and without thinking she arched her brow.

  –"not until you eat." He released her tether and pointed toward the lavish dining room. "I didn't put out a spread like that for the help."

  Knowing she couldn't slip up again, Courtney took her purse in hand, letting the strap fall. "Thanks, Dirk." The name rolled off her tongue like well-rehearsed dialogue. "Now that you mention it, I did skip lunch."

  Spine tingling relief rushed through Courtney's veins like a gust of icy wind through a deserted tunnel. In lieu of some unforeseen catastrophe, she might make it home in one piece after all. Grateful to the bone, Courtney fought the urge to run and, instead, maintained caution as she made her way through the enormous archway that separated the two rooms. She caught the faint lemon scent of polished wood– normally a pleasant fragrance. Unfortunately there was nothing normal about tonight, and the smell, oddly familiar as it was, nearly turned her empty stomach.

  Trying to blend in as she hurried, Courtney forced herself to slow down. Leaving on a dead run would definitely arouse suspicion. And she didn't need eyes in the back of her head, or to turn around for that matter, to feel Dirk's penetrating gaze on her back. Instead, she focused her attention on the rest of the room. Polished silver and gleaming crystal lined long tables elegantly draped in pristine white linen. Lustrous trays–some steaming, others chilled–had been artistically arranged with food and accented by delicate ice sculptures.

  Making her way through the milling crowd, Courtney was more than shocked by Templeton's classy guest list. There she stood, armed to the teeth, in the midst of several Chicago politicians, a legendary talk show personality and at least two sports figures that even she recognized. Clutching her evening bag’s strap as if it were a life line, she couldn’t help but wonder how many of these people had any idea their magnanimous host was also a murderer?

  Disillusioned, she stifled her personal anger and went through the motions at the buffet table. As anxious as she was to leave, she couldn't help but notice the delicate china plate she had picked up was paper-thin. She would bet her next month's rent that the sparkling stemware was Waterford, and, if flicked with her fingertip, would ring as clearly as a church bell on a frosty winter morning.

  Suddenly, the plastic glasses her family had used while she was growing up came to mind. But even more vivid than that image was the sadness her mother tried to hide every time she set three places at their table instead of four. Courtney's jaw clenched at the memory of that empty chair. Scarred and wooden, just like her heart.
/>
  Before last week, she had been helpless to rectify the past.

  Before tonight, she had not thought it possible.

  Before she was through, she would make Dirk Templeton pay…one way or the other.

  Knowing she was way too close to blow it now, Courtney took a moment to blend in. This room, she decided, must have been a caterer's dream. Strategically recessed lighting illuminated fabulous artwork on every wall. Unfortunately, coming face-to-face with an exquisite reproduction of Paul Delaroche's, Execution of Lady Jane Grey, weakened her resolve.

  A blindfolded young woman poised over the chopping block…Me?

  An ax wielding man flanking her left…Templeton?

  Two swooning women on her right…One could be Leonard, she thought, stifling a smirk.

  Fascinated, she could not resist one final look. Having accounted for everyone else in the painting, Courtney could not help but wonder who the other man represented? The darkly cloaked figure gently guided the condemned young girl. His hands touched the bare skin of her arms. His right arm draped around her shoulder and his mouth was slightly more than a breath away from her left ear. Shivering, she tore her gaze from the beautifully carved wooden frame.

  Unlike the unfortunate girl in the painting, Courtney realized that because she had taken off on her own tonight, no one had been sent to intervene on her behalf. Not to help her. Not to guide her. And definitely not to rescue her.

  As Courtney carefully maneuvered around the elaborate buffet, the delicate, normally soothing, music from the string quartet that had started playing again grated on her already frayed nerves. Trying to make a discreet exit, she kept her eyes glued to Dirk, causing her to inadvertently back into someone. Anxious to issue a quick apology, then sneak out while Templeton wasn't looking, Courtney turned. "Excuse me."

  When his head snapped around, Courtney froze.

  "You." Her voice was barely audible.

  She had the immediate but clear impression that if he'd had a gun, he would have drawn down on her. In that split second, his body had responded, sprung to attention with a speed and an edgy violence that made her palms damp and her mouth dry. Not unlike the last time she had seen Jake Ciora.