White Rabbit: The Rise (The Kingmaker Saga Book 1) Page 5

  Not for the first time that night, Karina wished she could do more. Or at least ease her pain in some way.

  She might not have known what it was like to lose a child, but she did know loss. She knew how quickly it could suffocate you until it was the only thing you could think about.

  She knew what it was like to want to make that pain go away by any means necessary and to want the person responsible to pay for what they did.

  It was for that reason that, no matter how tired she was, or how she longed to take a break and just unwind for a moment, she couldn’t rest just yet.

  There was too much work to be done.

  If he was responsible, I want him to pay, Nicole had said with all the conviction in the world. A mother balancing on the edge of her sanity. Wanting someone, anyone, to help her get justice for her family.

  And as it stood, Karina was the only one willing to challenge the narrative. She was the only one willing to do the dirty work.

  It was only a matter of being willing to accuse a powerful man of something horrendous, while another—one she still wasn’t quite so sure existed or not—waited in the shadows.

  Because there was too much that was missing for someone like Paxton to have done on his own if he was the one involved. And by the end of the day when her article was published, she would know whether he had played any part in this.

  She welcomed the challenge and danger that came with it.

  She didn’t care.

  She had to do this. Not for herself or because it would start a firestorm she wouldn’t be able to put out right away.

  But for Miranda and her mother.

  Because Miranda’s story deserved to be told.

  5

  Complications

  “Outside my goddamn building?” Paxton demanded the moment Uilleam came into view, his already ruddy face taking on a deeper, more alarming shade of red as he slapped down the newspaper he was holding onto his desk. “What the hell was the point in hiring you?”

  “If I thought you would understand the complexities of what I did, I would actually waste my breath and explain.” It took a moment for him to realize Uilleam was insulting him, but before he could go on shouting about that, Uilleam carried on. “But if you’re asking why your building, it was all by design, I assure you.”

  Paxton looked as if he wanted to argue further as though he wasn’t ready to accept that explanation.

  Uilleam was starting to find that he didn’t particularly like Paxton … or his face. The more he saw him, the more annoyed he felt. It wasn’t often that he judged a man by his appearance, but there was something about the man that made him want to duct tape his mouth shut just to see how he would respond

  “What the hell kind of design is it? You’re doing the opposite of what I hired you for!”

  “How could that possibly be true if you’re the last person the police are questioning?” he asked dryly.

  That, at least momentarily, shut him up.

  A blessing.

  Though he had taken great joy at the thought of Paxton’s reaction once he’d learned what he had done—and this hadn’t disappointed—there also had been a method to his madness. The reality he had created had such an open ending, it would be easy to manipulate it however he saw fit.

  “Then what the hell are you going to do about this!” he demanded, tossing the paper he was holding across the table.

  He should be glad that it managed to slide to a stop at the edge of the table instead of hitting the floor because if it had, this meeting would have ended very differently.

  Reluctantly, Uilleam leaned forward just far enough to grab the paper and unfold it, his gaze first taking in the name—The Gazette Post. Not the New York Times by any means, but it had a decent following—then to the article that had clearly aiding in putting Paxton in his mood.

  The Gazette Post

  MYSTERY WOMAN FALLS TO HER DEATH INTO A FIELD OF POPPIES. —KARINA A.

  Early Monday morning, a woman in her early to mid-twenties fell to her death from the roof of the Paxton building onto a field of poppies more than fifty feet below. Police officials are still investigating whether the woman committed suicide, but sources closest to the investigation have not ruled out foul play.

  When asked about the cause of death, Police Commissioner Mason offered no comment at this time.

  Billionaire media mogul, William Paxton, was said not to have been on the premises at the time of the woman’s death, but an inside source at the NYPD has alleged that Paxton’s company ID was used to access the rooftop where the victim allegedly fell to her death.

  More details to come as the case develops.

  An update was printed below it with more details than the common reporter would—should—have had. Unlike the others, her update wasn’t as straightforward. There was a hint of something else there. A mild suggestion that it might have been something more.

  Uilleam was intrigued, to say the least.

  He had been waiting for the inevitable questions.

  Uilleam could feel William’s eyes on him even before he set the paper aside and lifted his gaze from the article that had resulted in a panicked seven a.m. phone call and a meeting here at the Waldorf.

  Had William not paid him seven figures to make his little problem go away, he might have ignored the call and gotten a few more hours of sleep, but he didn’t have the luxury of ignoring phone calls from clients, not with what he was trying to accomplish.

  For now, he had to play his part.

  “I fail to see the problem.”

  “The problem,” Paxton stressed, his eyes narrowed as he paced the spacious room in quick steps, “is that this … this … reporter shouldn’t know any of this. What the hell am I paying you for?”

  Though Uilleam looked calm, he wasn’t nearly as composed on the inside. Not when he didn’t have an answer to explain how the woman had gotten her hands on that information. Not only was it not public knowledge—though she had now made it so—it hadn’t been listed in any official police reports.

  He’d checked.

  So just how had she found the information?

  And why was he only just now learning about it …

  “I believe I specifically asked you if anything would tie you to Miranda’s death. You denied any connection.”

  “Because I didn’t think it would matter,” Paxton replied shortly, throwing his hands up in the air as if it was Uilleam who was being unreasonable. “It was never supposed to get out.”

  That was always the problem with secrets. They always came to light one way or the other, no matter who kept them.

  Uilleam knew that fact very well. He even appreciated it, considering that was at the very core of what he did.

  “Mr. Paxton, I assure you, you needn’t worry yourself about this. This reporter is probably one of those overzealous women who look for a story in everything. You’ve entrusted me to take care of this, so I have, and I will. I just need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

  Paxton drained his glass of scotch, seeming to rein in his anger. Now, he just looked apprehensive.

  “Of course,” he said, though his expression contradicted those words.

  Uilleam did his best to actually care though it was a feeble attempt.

  “If we’re finished here,” he said pointedly as he moved to stand, “there’s work to be done.”

  In the span of time it took for Uilleam to get to his feet, Paxton seemed to recall he was the buyer and Uilleam the one agreeing to a service.

  He set his drink aside, his chin going up a fraction as if Uilleam was beneath him. Years of living with a tyrant made him immune to the lofty treatment, but that didn’t mean it made it any easier for him to curb his natural reaction and show the man just who he was fucking with.

  “Don’t forget who’s paying you, Runehart. If you fail, I’ll make sure no one remembers your goddamn name.”

  “Far be it for me to state the obvious, but you can’t kill
your clients.”

  As he donned a pair of opaque sunglasses, Uilleam cast a scowl in his Skorpion’s direction. “Says who?”

  Of all the men who he had come to work with over the past three years, Keanu Hamari—Skorpion, to most—had not only lasted the longest, but he was also far less annoying than the previous men who had held his position.

  Beyond the skills he possessed, Skorpion looked like a threat, all six and a half feet of him plus the solid two hundred pounds of muscle he had to weigh. Uilleam wasn’t a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but Skorpion could make anyone seem tiny in comparison.

  “Perhaps if he wasn’t being a cunt, I wouldn’t be considering it,” Uilleam replied as he slipped into the back of the truck, his mood only darkening further after his meeting with Paxton.

  “Cunt or not, you still have a job to do.”

  Perhaps this was also why he kept Skorpion around, though he’d never admit as much out loud. He tended to be the voice of reason when Uilleam was being unreasonable.

  “The better question is, what are you going to do about that article?”

  The million dollar question.

  Though he had only been in the business of fixing others’ problems and concealing their dirty little secrets for a couple of years now, he had never run into a problem quite like this one before. He’d expected this job to be over and done with by now.

  He’d covered all the bases.

  Ensured the woman’s death looked like a suicide.

  Destroyed evidence to the contrary and made sure nothing could be linked back to his client.

  He’d even gone as far as erasing any digital evidence of Paxton’s involvement with the woman off multiple servers, which hadn’t come cheap.

  Yet this journalist who he had never even heard of had managed to find the one piece of evidence he’d overlooked.

  Uilleam might have been impressed if he hadn’t needed this job to go as smoothly as possible.

  “I need everything there is to know about this Karina,” he said, recalling the woman’s name.

  Starting with her last name.

  Entering the penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, Uilleam shed his suit jacket and tossed it aside as he went in search of the bar cart. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet—he was in desperate need of a drink.

  Something strong that would calm the storm brewing inside him and help him center his thoughts so he could focus on what had caused him to make a mistake.

  Uilleam never made mistakes.

  It was, by far, one of his more admirable traits.

  It had never been trial and error with him—no learning from past digressions. He learned from the mistakes of others.

  He remembered his father’s unforgiving hand—the way his brother had suffered for the slightest of offenses. He learned to do better—be better. He shaped his reality into what others needed it to be.

  And the more years he spent perfecting his trade, the better he got at not committing a single misstep.

  Until now.

  Grabbing a glass, he poured a fifth of whiskey, then sipped it slowly as he forced himself to cross the room to the sitting area where the day’s paper was already waiting for him. The staff who delivered it couldn’t have known he had already seen it and read it nearly cover to cover, but that didn’t make him any less annoyed that it was sitting there.

  Taunting him.

  He couldn’t help himself.

  He snatched the newspaper off the table and unfolded it, his gaze scanning over the front page.

  The Gazette Post didn’t have the same prestige as the New York Times by any stretch of the imagination. Not even close.

  Yet the story they had printed was already gaining so much traction that it had been delivered alongside the others he had actually requested.

  Uilleam had only been sitting for a short time when the elevator chimed and the doors slid open, heavy boots on the floor announcing Skorpion’s presence as he came around the corner.

  Considering this hotel ran for five thousand dollars a night, one would think the man would take pride in his appearance, but the day he convinced his security to wear a suit would be the day he was lowered into the ground.

  For the time being, he was in black jeans, a silver chain looped from front to back, and an AC/DC T-shirt that was probably every bit as old as the band. His dark, wavy hair hung in disarray past his shoulders, and if not for the sheer size of him, no one would ever think the two of them were connected.

  Or that Skorpion was capable of things that would make any one of his enemies sleep with one eye open.

  “What have you found?”

  “Not much to find,” he answered, eyeing the glass in Uilleam’s hand before he collapsed onto a chair and stretched his legs out. “She’s a junior reporter. Fluff pieces, mostly. A few others that were actually noteworthy.”

  “And those were?”

  Skorpion handed over a number of photocopied articles, allowing Uilleam to read for himself. “A doctor facing malpractice. A partner over at Donelley, Smith, & Associates during an ugly custody battle where there was rumored domestic abuse. Oh, and the financial analyst who had a thing for hookers and chat rooms.”

  “Crimes against women,” Uilleam said absently, only marginally focused on what Skorpion was saying.

  The first article on the doctor was very much like the one Karina had written on his client. A simple statement of the facts with a touch of insider information she shouldn’t have had. And he realized, as he read over it for a second time, it wasn’t just an interesting article.

  It also piqued his curiosity, making him want to look into the man more.

  Which was how he found himself sitting there in silence as he read each one, familiarizing himself with the details long before he turned on his laptop and searched for her.

  Not her, rather, but the men she had been looking into. He learned the truth about what they had done, including the doctor whose malpractice involved sexual harassment of his co-workers and a sexual assault that resulted in the loss of not just his job but his freedom as well.

  The defense attorney had tried to use his position and authority to bully his wife into not only a divorce but also a custody agreement of his choosing.

  These articles all involved powerful men who used their authority to take what they wanted without consequence.

  Did she intend to be the voice of the voiceless?

  It would explain her sudden interest in this particular case, considering he had made sure nothing about the woman’s death could be traced back to his client.

  Or, at least, he thought he had.

  Except now she had found something, and it didn’t matter that she was a lowly journalist. It only took the smallest ripple in the water to disrupt the current.

  And most surprising of all was an article that hadn’t gotten as much traction, but one he knew the intimate details of because he’d been the reason for it.

  Several months ago, a new client had come to him asking to make a deal. In her article, she wrote about a woman who had died from ingesting the poison belladonna, but there had been no evidence as to how she had gotten her hands on it.

  By Uilleam’s design.

  And now, she was looking into this ...

  He needed to end this before it could go any further.

  “Go back further,” he said, finally dragging his attention away from the screen to focus on Skorpion again. “I wanted six months, but now give me everything there is on Karina Ashworth from the moment she was born.”

  He nodded once. “Will do.”

  His mobile rang loudly, the obnoxious sound cutting out once Skorpion answered and put the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

  He listened for a moment before passing the phone over, and while the last thing he was in the mood for right now was to speak to anyone, Uilleam took it.

  “How can I be of assistance?”

  “You said no one would find
out!” a voice hissed on the other line.

  Uilleam took a moment to place it before his tone reflected the way he felt at being interrupted. “I can’t say I understand what you mean, Mr Paul.”

  “A woman—a reporter—stopped by and was asking me about the girl.”

  His fingers flexed around the electronic device in his hand that felt all too breakable at the moment. “And?”

  “I didn’t tell her anything,” he rushed to say as if he was only just now realizing who he had called. “But I don’t think she’s done.”

  No, Uilleam suspected she wasn’t.

  6

  Cease & Desist

  “We should go out,” Samantha said with a sigh, dropping down into her chair without spilling any of the steaming coffee in her mug.

  Karina was thankful for the interruption because she had spent the past twenty minutes staring at a computer screen without getting any new information she didn’t already have. Some days, she was sure she was on to something—that her search for the truth wouldn’t be in vain, but then there were other days like today when she just wasn’t sure.

  It didn’t matter that she had already managed to have two articles printed about Miranda. She still didn’t feel as if she had done enough.

  “I haven’t done anything but work since I was given the Landers story,” Samantha continued with a sigh before taking a sip of her coffee. “Which means a day off has been earned.”

  “What do you mean?” Karina asked with a laugh. “We had dinner last week.”

  Samantha rolled her eyes. “Yeah, after work. We haven’t actually done anything, though. Let’s go to a club or something. You know, drinks.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” she answered absently, though even she wasn’t quite so sure that was true.

  Considering what little time she spent outside of work usually involved takeout, her couch, and whatever was playing on TV, Karina didn’t do very much else, but this was what she knew. Her life had always been sheltered.