Everything to Lose Read online

  Everything To Lose

  A Lucas Holt Novel

  Book One

  By JP Ratto

  Everything To Lose

  Copyright © 2015 by JP Ratto.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: December 2015

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-420-2

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-420-0

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Andy and Katie.

  Our most successful collaboration.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 1

  The woman in the sunburst yellow dress settled behind a small boy who stood between his parents in the front row. In her carefully chosen spot, she would have no problem seeing the senator. More important, he would be able to see her.

  Following the presidential candidate’s schedule occupied most of her time. She knew him, and his routines. He was a clever politician, a clever man. At one time, she admired that about him. In spite of his womanizing history, she’d held him in high esteem. She hadn’t cared about the rumors of his less-than-ethical political acumen. He was bright and confident. Like her, he knew what he wanted and achieved it. The one thing he lacked was loyalty. That was his one unforgivable flaw.

  A momentary stab of rejection cut through her as crushing memories of betrayal clamored to the forefront of her mind. Another staunch memory held them at bay, protecting her as always from thoughts that could leave her filled with rage or shattered from distress. I did what I had to. He gave me no choice.

  ***

  Rows of supporters without access to the ticket-only event stood shoulder to shoulder, necks stretched and ready for a coveted glimpse of the man who could be the next president of the United States. Young and old mingled together, most dressed in patriotic colors and wearing ‘Grayson for President’ buttons. Tabloid reporters and photographers took strategic positions at the iron-gated entrance to the prestigious institution.

  The mainstream press had already set up their sound and video equipment on Columbia University’s south lawn. Amsterdam Avenue was closed for two blocks north and south of 116th Street. With the absence of through traffic, the cacophony of city activity hummed in the distance. Escalating murmurs obscured the honking horns, worn, grinding transmissions, and truck trailers loaded with goods booming as they slammed into the streets’ deep potholes. Area residents, intent on going elsewhere, glanced at the restless group and at the clouded sky. Briefcases and umbrellas in hand, they hurried to subway stations or Columbus Ave to hail a cab.

  ***

  She’d been waiting for the event to begin since spectators and press had started to arrive. Turning toward the reporters at the campus entrance, she caught a brief glance from one of them. She almost shook her head in reproof when he gave her a slight nod. Instead, she ignored his acknowledgement and vowed not to look his way again.

  She checked her phone for the time. It was still early, but she could be patient. Another half hour was nothing compared to the years she’d waited for what she deserved, or rather, what he deserved.

  ***

  As if on cue, stubborn puffs overhead gave way to a glorious blue sky on the warm August afternoon. Mounting shouts and whistles alerted all to the arrival of a line of black vehicles crawling at the curb north of the entrance. Men and women clothed in dark suits, more apt for a funeral than a summer outdoor event, exited onto the street. With serious faces, they scrambled to organize their positions before the guest of honor emerged. By all the staff and security Senator Grayson utilized, one would think he’d already won the election. Some criticized his self-importance. Those who knew him well commended his prudence.

  All who gathered cheered as presidential candidate Senator Todd Grayson exited one of the limousines. Skilled at working a crowd to his full advantage, Grayson took his time. Straightening to his full height, he smoothed the jacket of his lightweight, ivory linen suit. He looked like a white knight among his entourage of black-clad minions. He faced the street audience, threw up his hands, and waved.

  A mass of hand-held banners and American flags flapped like a flock of gulls vying for a prized clam. Classically tall, dark, and handsome, he had as many men fawning over him as he had women. Not since JFK had a presidential candidate charmed a constituency as Grayson had.

  Grayson’s staff paved the way for him to enter the campus, shielding him from direct contact with those crammed behind the barricades. In a move that was either spontaneous or a well-contrived plan, the senator turned and walked in the opposite direction and began to shake peoples’ hands. The crowd went wild with whoops and shouts for attention. Surrounded by his campaign staff, his personal counsel Douglas Cain, and his bodyguards, he navigated among potential voters like a rock star.

  Grayson stretched over the wooden barriers grasping as many hands as he could. Men removed their caps in respect, nodded, and returned strong, steady shakes. Women squealed and clapped, some patting their beating hearts as if they might swoon. His broad smile bared perfect white teeth that contrasted with his golden skin. Grayson’s careful choice of attire, including the pale blue shirt and tie, conveyed the tranquility of sand and sea. You could hear sighs of contentment at Grayson’s touch.

  As president, Todd Grayson would take care of you.

  He moved to the end of the narrow walk and back again toward the campus, scanning the adoring crowd. Grayson slowed when he noticed a woman who appeared oblivious to the lively throng surrounding her. She stood still but for a subtle bob and sway, like a buoy when bumped by gentle ocean swells. Tall, with shoulder-length blonde hair, her bright yellow, sleeveless dress set her apart from all the red, white, and blue. Her white design
er handbag hung on her shoulder and she clasped her hands low in front of her. Grayson watched her lift her hand to adjust her dark sunglasses. Sharp and adept at reading people, her stance unnerved him. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he sensed her stare. He would have thought she was blind except her head turned to follow his movement.

  Douglas Cain nudged the senator’s arm, breaking the connection with the woman. “We need to move along, Senator, if we want to keep to the schedule.”

  “I know, Douglas, but this is as important as a stump speech,” Grayson said, his practiced smile never leaving his face.

  Cain had been with Todd Grayson from the start of the senator’s venture into politics. With Grayson’s reputation and past, his lawyer’s presence at all functions was paramount. About to enter the campus, where another group awaited the senator’s appearance, one of the tabloid reporters caught Grayson’s attention.

  “Senator, you look well rested from your vacation in the Hamptons. What is your response to some of the negative pushback by your opponent regarding your position on defense spending?”

  Grayson glanced at the reporter’s nametag. “Tom, it’s not my policy to waste time on the defensive—at least not until the debates. I’ll continue to do what I’ve always done, and that’s to present my ideas directly to the people. It’s the folks’ opinions that count.”

  Those standing nearby nodded and applauded their approval. Before Grayson could turn away, the reporter asked another question. “Senator, is it true that you were involved with call girl Sheila Rand and were a prime suspect in her murder?”

  Grayson did not move. The rapid blinking of his eyes as he processed the question was the only indication he had not turned to stone. Sheila Rand.

  He had not thought of the woman for sixteen years. It was true they’d had a brief affair, but he’d had an alibi for when she was murdered. Cain had taken care of it. He’d taken care of that and another matter.

  A moment of recognition flashed through the senator’s mind. He whipped his head toward the woman in the yellow dress. A stream of perspiration dripped down his face as he desperately searched the crowd. Where is she? Was it her?

  “Senator?” the reporter prompted Grayson.

  Grayson eyed the reporter. Cain moved in to stand between them, but Grayson refused to be intimidated. He grinned.

  “Tom, you need to check your facts before you ask questions that make you look foolish. I have nothing to hide. Sorry, but I’m on a tight schedule,” he said and allowed Cain to guide him away.

  A grin still pasted to his face, Grayson’s thoughts swam with dredged-up memories of the past. His chest filled with anxiety. He couldn’t breathe. Grayson was drowning in thoughts of all that could go wrong. He looked at Cain, his protector—his life preserver. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The lawyer would deal with any fallout. That was his job.

  Grayson shook off his concern and strode through the university’s gate to where he would give a rousing speech. Excited college students and faculty packed the stands. They applauded as he stepped to the podium. Another stage. Another performance. Everyone quieted and Grayson began the prepared rhetoric he knew would raise spirits and hopes. That was his job.

  As his popularity tide rose, Senator Todd Grayson glided into the hearts and minds of those who would elect him to the most powerful position in the world. It would be smooth sailing, unless the long-ago matter of a murdered call girl surfaced and dragged his political career into a maelstrom of disaster.

  Chapter 2

  Sitting on my usual stool, I scanned the menu scrawled on the chalkboard suspended over the bar.

  “I’ll have the cheeseburger and fries, medium rare—and hold the onions,” I told Kyle, the bartender.

  “Great choice, Mr. H., coming right up.”

  There wasn’t much choice from the limited menu, but I didn’t go there for fancy dining. I was there to meet someone. I had come home from my workout at the gym and noticed a note shoved under my door. It took me by surprise. With all the high-tech ways to connect, passing a note was at the bottom of the list. The message was to the point.

  McAllister’s, Thursday, 2:00 p.m.

  That’s it. I should have thrown the summons in the garbage, but the paper was expensive and the handwriting feminine. I admit I was curious. For one thing, why bother leaving me the note at all. I’m in McAllister’s Ale House at least three times a week. It would’ve been easy enough to join me at the bar on any one of those days. I figured this person didn’t want to wait for a chance meeting and didn’t want to use her phone.

  McAllister’s is a fifteen-minute walk from my Gramercy Park townhouse. The quaint pub boasts a dark, rich environment, loaded with memorabilia dating back to the eighteen hundreds. Parked on a barstool where Teddy Roosevelt or even Abe Lincoln might have sat is humbling and allows me to forget some of my modern-day problems.

  “Here you go, Mr. H., medium-rare, no onions.” Kyle set my lunch on the bar along with a mug of beer. Patrons are encouraged to order any beer they like as long as it’s McAllister’s pale ale or dark porter.

  Before I could bite into my burger, a woman sat on the next stool. I could feel her eyes on me and glanced at my phone. If it was my “date,” she was early.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  The young woman appeared to be in her late twenties, had long black hair, and exotic dark eyes. I smiled.

  “Yes?” I asked. She smiled back. I waited. Since I didn’t know whom I was meeting, I wanted her to introduce herself first.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like the actor who played Two-Face? Can’t think of his name, though.”

  In spite of wondering what I’d gotten myself into if she was the one who left me the note, I couldn’t resist asking, “Which of the two faces do I look like?”

  She laughed. “Oh, before the explosion, for sure. Wait, I remember. Aaron. Aaron Eckhart.”

  “Really?” I mentally compared myself to Mr. Eckhart.

  “Yeah. You have the same sandy-brown hair and that sexy cleft in your chin. You seem tall. How tall are you?”

  “Six three.” It felt like an interview, and I didn’t know why I was answering her questions.

  “You even have blue eyes. I’m pretty sure his eyes are blue. You aren’t him are you?”

  She continued to study my face as my hamburger was getting cold. Clearly, she was not the one who left me the note.

  “No.” I grinned and thanked her for the compliment. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to finish my lunch. I have a business meeting with someone in a half hour.”

  She frowned but took the hint. I supposed comparing men to actors was her way of breaking the ice with those she wanted to get to know. I was flattered, but I wasn’t in the market. At least not that day. She stood, giving me the opportunity to assess some of her fine physical attributes. She gave me a wry smile that seemed to say, “Your loss.”

  “Sorry,” I said, and I meant it. She left the bar.

  At 2:00 p.m. on a weekday, the place was still full with the lunch regulars. When a table opened up, I took my mug and sat down. I didn’t have long to wait before a woman, who looked familiar, entered the pub.

  Blonde and statuesque, she wore a waist-length navy cardigan with pleated cuffs and hem, over a white dress. My ex-wife Susan had a penchant for expensive clothes and often described to me the “perfect little jacket” she’d seen or the “most adorable pair of shoes.” I’d had to learn fashion terms to understand what she was saying.

  The woman’s makeup was natural, not heavily applied as some her age tend to do. I guessed she was in her forties. She was well put together and totally out of place in McAllister’s. If she was here for a clandestine meeting, she’d chosen the wrong venue.

  She scanned the crowd, her eyes widened with recognition, and she strode with purpose to where I sat.

  “Lucas Holt?”

  “That’s me.” I stood and indicat
ed the empty seat across from me.

  She sat down, placed her purse in her lap, and leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. Her body language was all business. I waited for her to start the meeting.

  “Mr. Holt, thank you for coming. My name is Janet Maxwell, and I need your help.”

  I took a few seconds to process her name. Maxwell was the name of a private investment company in the Big Apple, one I’d checked out to handle my personal finances, but went with one of the big-name firms instead. I remembered seeing a recent blurb about the company in Investor’s Business Daily, some trouble with the management. Janet Maxwell’s clothing and manner told me she was educated and had means. I doubted she was there to solicit financial business.

  “Would you like something to eat or drink, Mrs. Maxwell?”

  She hesitated and took a deep fortifying breath. “I could do with a glass of wine. Chardonnay, please.”

  I signaled for a waiter and ordered. We engaged in idle chitchat about the history of McAllister’s until the drink arrived.

  “What made you so sure I wouldn’t throw away the note?” I asked.

  “I hoped you wouldn’t. I’m reluctant to use my phone these days. Conversations are not always private. What I have to discuss must be kept between us.”

  “How do you know me and what I do? I assume you’re here to ask for my particular professional services.”

  “I first heard of you when you were with the NYPD. You worked on a murder case involving an acquaintance of mine. I followed the progress in the papers.”

  I knew the case. It was one I’ve struggled to put behind me but stubbornly remained at the forefront of my mind. I realized how I’d known the woman who sat across from me—from the newspapers. Her husband, president of Maxwell Investments, and their ten-year-old son died in an automobile accident. I wondered why she was asking for my help. Did she think their deaths weren’t an accident? I’m a private investigator, but at the time, my focus was to locate kidnap victims.