Silent Masquerade. Molly Rice
Silent Masquerade
Molly Rice
This book is dedicated to the Schuck family who have been my own and only family for so many years: Charles, Velma, James, Patricia, Faye Simpson, Edward, Juanita and Stan Harris, Dorothy and Ted McDonald, and Elizabeth.
To Elizabeth Harri, who waits for my books with flattering impatience.
And most special thanks to Virginia Beasley Jackson, my friend and sister forever.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Bill Spencer/Hamlin—Was he destined to be on the run for the rest of his life?
Cara Dunlap/Davis—She’s running from demons of her own. Should she be running from Bill Hamlin?
Beth Dunlap—The loneliness of widowhood made her easy prey for a handsome young suitor.
Douglas Harvard—Marriage is his business, romance is his calling card and lonely widows are his clientele.
Gordon Lefebre—How effectively could he do his job if his feelings got in the way?
Harry Wilder—Was he tailing Bill and Cara for his own purposes, or was he a hired gun?
Franco Alvaretti—Mob boss recently imprisoned; revenge was a way of life for him.
Deacon Avery—Alvaretti’s attorney; desperate to reclaim his own life.
Contents
Chapter One
Bill Spencer had known for some time that he wasn’t going to trust his life to the protection of any government agency. He was too familiar with the mechanics of the bureaucratic system to put his faith—his life—in their hands. He knew there were moles in high places, leaks in the system’s plumbing.
But he needed to use the agency to front his escape.
He needed the Organization to think he’d gone into the Witness Protection Program, so they’d be off sniffing in that direction while he made his getaway to parts unknown, covering his tracks with the expertise he’d acquired while working both sides of the fence.
For that reason, there were two sets of papers in his pocket, one given to him by the WPP, the other a set he’d spent many nights crafting himself, not even trusting one of the specialists whose markers he held.
If he’d learned nothing else during the two years he worked with a foot in both camps, he’d learned that there was always the possibility of betrayal when you were dealing with other human beings.
He made another sweep of the room. The least little clue could be magnified by the right intelligence team and used to begin the tracking that would lead them to him.
He was just running his hand between the mattress and the box spring when the knock came at the door.
“We’re ready to go, Spencer,” a male voice said softly.
He looked around the room and nodded, satisfied that it was clean, then picked up his bag and his briefcase. He was ready.
They led him out of the hotel, a man on either side of him, two in the rear, one scouting a few feet in front.
He got into the rear of the limo, again flanked by two of the agents, and did his own survey of the street as the chauffeur looked right and left before pulling out of the drive. There was no sign of anyone from the Organization
No sighting didn’t mean that nobody was out there, it just meant they couldn’t be seen. Keeping his paranoia in place had saved his behind more than once, and he wasn’t about to give it up now. But the fact was, it worked in his favor if they had a man watching him now, someone who’d report back that he’d gone off with the WPP agents. The red herring.
At the airport, he picked up the ticket the agency had reserved in the name Stanley Springer, checked his bag through to Madison and moved purposefully toward the blue concourse. The five men circled him, keeping a watchful distance, but staying close enough to move in if he was targeted.
He nodded distantly at the agent near the water fountain and went into the men’s room. The cubicles were all empty. He chose the one farthest from the door, locked himself inside and opened the briefcase.
When he left the men’s room, he nodded again, but this time there was no recognition in the agent’s eyes. The agent was merely responding politely to a stranger’s passing nod.
He went to the Western Airline counter, picked up a ticket in the name of Sam Spalding, checked the briefcase through to San Francisco, and then left the terminal through the sliding glass doors.
The car, stashed in long-term parking, was covered with dust. He drove to a self-serve car wash and hosed it down. Then, making sure there was nobody lurking around to observe his actions, he got a tool kit out of the trunk and removed the plates, replacing them with another set he’d lifted from a junkyard and kept for just such a purpose.
There was a suitcase in the trunk, as well. He slipped out of the coveralls he’d donned in the men’s room at the airport, took off his suit coat and tie and put on a cardigan sweater from the bag. Last he threw the blond wig, fake mustache, baseball hat and horn-rimmed glasses he’d been wearing into the trunk and slammed it shut.
He was back on the highway seven minutes after he’d pulled into the car wash.
It took him five days to get to his destination, five days in which he barely slept, ate only fast food picked up at drive-through windows and made countless out-of-the-way detours to obscure his route. Outside a small town called Widow’s Peak, located at the top of a hill that looked out over the Atlantic Ocean, he put the car in drive and gave it a shove, watching as it rolled down the hill facing away from the town. The car careened into the gorge below and then, after only a moment, exploded. He waited until he was