Conrad (The Minnesota Kingstons #2)

Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

He needed a hot shower, maybe a cold plunge and a massage.

Thanks to criminal lawyer West Winter’s appearance before the judge, all the charges had been dropped. And West had suggested that the entire thing might have been Steve Bouchard’s fault.

The half dozen video clips of the altercation helped. And not a few fan sites that suggested Conrad had been baited into the fight.

Which wasn’t a fight, as West had pointed out to the local judge in the cleared courtroom this morning. Hence the court clerk handing Conrad a manila envelope containing his wallet, belt, sunglasses, cell phone, and keys, courtesy of Penelope.

Who hadn’t shown up yet.

Not that he expected her. After all, he had told her to leave. And with a woman with her history, that could feel like a betrayal.

No, if she listened to her manager and cared at all about social media, Penny would give him a public goodbye, sell his jersey on eBay, and start showing up at Timberwolves games.

Except he sort of thought she didn’t care. Hoped, really.

Now he stood in the hallway outside the courtroom with Jack and West and his father—that had been a nice surprise this morning—listening to West’s instructions.

He liked West in person as much as he’d liked him on Zoom. Smart. Had been Jack’s roomie in law school. Too bad he lived in Iowa. Conrad would have had to find another attorney if this thing had gone to trial.

Thank You, Lord.

“There’s a mob of press outside. You should probably be aware of the statement EmPowerPlay has issued.” West held up his phone. “‘EmPowerPlay is committed to promoting sportsmanship, integrity, and community values. We are aware of the incident involving Conrad Kingston and are deeply concerned by the actions reported. While we believe in the principle of innocent until proven guilty, we must also ensure that all of our coaches uphold our standards. At this time, we have suspended Conrad as a coach and do not condone any behavior that detracts from the respectful culture we strive to uphold.’”

“Nice support,” Jack said. “Sheesh.”

“At least it wasn’t from the Blue Ox,” West said. “Keep your statement simple, Conrad.” West wore a black wool coat, black pants, glasses, and a Gatsby cap, his hair longer around the ears. “Just say that you love your fans and that you hope this misunderstanding will be cleared up in the near future. And that you wish everyone well. Then thank them, wave, and walk away.”

Conrad sighed, glanced at his father, who wore a pinched expression, his eyes saying what Conrad felt—here they went again.

“Or you could say nothing,” Jack said. “Just wave and walk away.”

“The fans will want a statement,” said West.

“They’re going to trade me anyway. Especially if I don’t make it to practice.” Conrad had secured his watch and now glanced at it. “I have two hours.”

“Time enough for breakfast at the house,” his father said, clamping him on the shoulder. Sheesh, the man acted as if this might be akin to car trouble trapping him in town instead of the reliving of his worst nightmare.

At least this time no one had lost a leg.

He blew out a breath. “Okay, let’s go.”

West and Jack moved toward the door, but his father caught his arm. The man wore his canvas-and-flannel work coat, a wool hat. A working man, salt of the earth, the kind of man who earned respect.

“Don’t let Satan use this to lie to you. You’re not the reckless boy of the past, Conrad. You’re a man who got caught up in something.”

“I didn’t think. I just followed my impulses, and someone got hurt, again.”

His father nodded. “So you leave it with God. Humble yourself. The Lord is near to those who call on Him. He hears their cry and saves them. You don’t need to fight this battle.”

Conrad nodded, wanting the words to seep inside, nourish him, but a chill had found his bones, his cells.

He’d felt like he’d walked away from justice last time, really, had gone on to have a glorious career he didn’t deserve. Maybe justice had finally caught up.

The chilly air burned his nose, caught his breath as he stepped outside into the sunshine. A blue-skied day, the sun burning over the treetops, and on the sidewalk below the steps of the court building stood more press than Duck Lake had probably ever seen.

Even after the terrible tornado that had nearly swept them off the map. But it wasn’t every day that a storm like Conrad Kingston swept into town for a second time.

“Conrad, can you tell us what led to the altercation at the ice rink last night?”

He opened his mouth, but another reporter peppered him.

“Were you acting in self-defense, or was there provocation on your part?”

“Um—”

“How do you respond to EmPowerPlay’s statement that they do not condone such behavior? Are you still affiliated with the team?”

“The Blue Ox? Of course I am.”

“Do you believe this incident will impact your career in the long term? How do you plan to address your fans and sponsors?”

He stared out at the crowd, sweat trickling along his spine.

“Has there been any contact or reconciliation with the other party involved in the fight?”

He shook his head, the edges of his vision closing in. Shoot ? —

West held up his hand. “One at a time.”

“What message do you have for young fans who look up to you and might be influenced by these events?”

He looked at the woman who’d thrown out the question. Mid-twenties, blonde hair— wait. He knew her. Ava. She met his eyes. “What is the nature of your relationship with Penelope Pepper, and how was she involved in this altercation?”

He leaned toward her. “She wasn’t.” More of a bark than a statement, and his stomach began to roil.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he glanced over at his father. He wore a tight expression. “You okay?”

No. But Conrad just turned back to the crowd. Opened his mouth.

Nothing emerged.

“Leave the man alone!”

The voice lifted from behind the crowd, more voices with it. “Yeah, leave him alone! Leave King Con alone!”

He searched and spotted— what? The Ice Hawks, or at least a good handful of them, pushing through the crowd to the front.

“Hey, Coach Con!” said one of the players—the winger he’d taught how to shoot—and skinny Jeremy Johnson and even Tyler Bouchard, and coach Simon and then . . .

Joe Johnson . The man walked up on crutches, but wearing an Ice Hawks jersey and a wool hat, looking sturdy, his eyes clear.

And a smile.

He walked right up to Conrad and held out his hand.

What? Conrad reached out, his eyes wide at the gesture.

Joe tightened his grip, stepped up, and pulled Con to himself. “I see you, Conrad. I’ve always seen you. Let it go.”

Conrad leaned back, met his gaze, and Joe smiled at him, kindness in his eyes. “Forgiveness doesn’t have to be earned. It just has to be accepted.” Then he squeezed Conrad’s hand and let go.

Oh. Now Conrad really couldn’t breathe.

Joe turned and held up his hands. “Leave our hometown hero alone. He has a game to get to.”

The Ice Hawks sent their fists into the air with a chant of “King Con, King Con . ” And what. was. happening ?

“My guess is that Steve Bouchard is not as popular as he thinks he is,” Jack said, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Conrad swallowed, then raised his hands, and the kids quieted. He glanced at West.

“Keep your statement simple.”

But the “simple” wasn’t just a quick statement or a soundbite or a reel.

“I learned a long time ago that hockey, and life, is about teamwork. And about not just showing up but showing up with my best. I was not at my best yesterday, but I do know that I can’t change the past. I just have to . . .” He looked at his dad, then back at the crowd. “I just have to keep moving forward. I can’t change what happens to me—just what I do about it. Right, kids?”

More fist pumps.

“So, I am sorry for any hurt I caused the Bouchard family. And I look forward to showing up with my best for our amazing Blue Ox fans. Thank you.”

Cheers, and he couldn’t help but scan the crowd for a certain brunette.

Then his father pulled him away, off the steps, toward the parking lot, where he took Conrad’s keys and got into his truck. They backed out, the press still chasing Conrad.

“Your mom is making pancakes.”

“Breakfast of champions.”

“Yep.” Grover looked at Conrad, winked. And somehow the drive home felt like redemption.

Conrad’s mother met him with buttermilk pancakes, homemade maple syrup, fresh-squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs with cream and gouda, and hickory-smoked bacon, and they ate in the big room because they’d been guest-free last night.

Mom gave him an update on Doyle and Austen, and Stein had left on Saturday with Declan Stone heading somewhere overseas, and then he pushed away from the table and carried his plate into the kitchen.

“I really loved getting to know Penelope better,” his mother said, loading his plate into the dishwasher. “I just wish you two were really together, and not just . . .you know.”

“Just . . . what?” He arched an eyebrow. Reached for his phone.

“That you two were just together for charity purposes?”

“Where did you read that?”

“Oh, on your Instagram account.”

His account? He opened the app. Read his statement. Aw . . . Felicity.

“Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.” He kissed her cheek, then stepped away and dialed Penelope.

Outside, the sun shone on the cleared broomball rink, and he glanced at the thermometer. Above freezing, but just barely.

“Better watch the ice, Mom. There are snowmobile tracks on the ice, but the snowpack can warm it up and turn it weak. And the wind has piled some ice flow on the shoreline, which says that the currents are rising to the surface.”

Ringing.

“And the sun is getting hotter, so it could be melting the ice where we cleared it. C’mon, Penny, answer!”

Voicemail. He hung up.

Shoot.

No texts either, and it occurred to him then that maybe she didn’t have his new phone number. Had he given it to her after she’d shown up at his house?

Jack barreled into the room. “Con, we have a problem.”

Of course they did. “What?”

“I just got off with Harper—Penelope sent her a text. She forwarded it to me.” He held out the phone.

Penelope

Franco killed Edward. Probably SL. He knows I know.

Conrad just stared at it. “SL? Sarah Livingston. And Edward.”

“Who’s Franco?”

“Oh, I know Franco. He’s her supposed bodyguard, but he’s hardly been around.” He thumbed down past Harper’s many unanswered responses. “She’s in trouble.”

Jack nodded.

Conrad swiped up his keys. “Call Harper and get me Oscar Pepper’s cell number. We need a location on Penelope.”

“If Franco did take her, he will have turned off any GPS,” Jack said, reaching for his jacket.

Conrad bit back a word. “Right. Okay, so where then, tracker man?”

Jack ran a hand across his mouth. “He won’t want her found. So that means he won’t dump her body anywhere accessible.”

“Please don’t say body .”

“Okay, so it’s daylight. He’ll have to take her somewhere he knows, somewhere remote, somewhere he can?—”

“If you say dump the body , I’ll hurt you.”

“—deal with her.” Jack had pressed dial on his phone. “Harp, babe. Listen, what have you found out about this Franco guy?” He put her on speaker.

“Nothing. He lives on-site with the Pepper family. His brother was found dead a month ago in a fire . . . a motel fire in Duck Lake?—”

“The body we found.”

“Wow. Okay, so that’s a question for later, but if Franco was in on the previous kidnapping, he took her to the Loon Lake housing project last time—my guess is that he knows this area. But how—wait. His father has a house on Frederick Lake, on a small plot of land near Declan Stone’s estate.”

The world couldn’t be that small.

“We can start there,” Conrad said, heading to the door.

“I’ve been there,” Jack said and pushed out behind him. “Harper, call Jenna Hayes, tell her that Penelope has gone missing again.”

“I feel like the boy who cried wolf.”

“That’s why you have to do it—you’d never call Jenna unless it was real.”

Conrad didn’t hear the rest as he climbed into his truck. Jack took the passenger seat, glanced at him.

“You sure you want to do this? You’ll miss the game.”

He pulled out. “I’m going to miss everything if I don’t find her.”

“Right,” Jack said, and buckled in.

* * *

Why hadn’t she dialed 911? Penny sat in the back seat, the child locks on the doors, trapped, watching the winterscape of barren cornfields and remote farmhouses pass by.

Think.

Her face burned from where he’d grabbed her phone, a move she should have seen coming when he’d abruptly pulled over, turned in his seat, and lunged for the device.

She’d tried to get out then and run, but of course, he’d engaged the locks. And then he’d slapped her—which she most definitely hadn’t seen coming. She’d sat dazed for a whole minute as he’d pulled back out on the highway, her phone sailing out his window.

Why hadn’t she watched more car-hijacking videos? Then she might know how to disable him—but all she saw was herself grabbing the wheel, shooting them off the highway at seventy-five miles an hour, and plummeting through the windshield.

Think.

“I thought Edward was your friend. Why did you kill him?”

Maybe not the best way to calm Franco down, but hopefully she’d get him thinking. Regretting.

The man gripped the wheel with both gloved hands, his jaw tight, frustration radiating off him.

“It was an accident.”

“Setting a fire doesn’t sound like an accident to me?—”

“It was an accident!” He hit the steering wheel. “He lied to me!”

Oh.

Franco took a breath. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like that. I was just trying to get him to change his mind, go back to Quantex instead of taking the MetaGrid deal.”

MetaGrid? “The company that wanted to buy his program?”

He nodded. “He told me he was just using the MetaGrid deal to entice Quantex to sell. I knew that when Quantex acquired Axiom, the stock price would soar, so . . .” His mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “I invested everything I had into Quantex. And then he betrayed me.”

“He didn’t betray you. Quantex couldn’t acquire it?—”

“He was going to cost me everything. And he didn’t care. He didn’t have to care—he was marrying Tia.”

She looked out the window.

“And then they broke up, and he signed with MetaGrid and . . . my stocks were tanking and I was hemorrhaging money—” He turned off the highway onto a county road, the snowdrifts dark and grimy from the dirt that kicked up. “I just wanted to talk.”

“With a 9mm.”

He said nothing.

“So, why the fire?”

“That was . . . that my father’s idea. Burn the place down. And maybe it would have worked, but Holden Walsh got suspicious.”

“How?”

“Sarah betrayed me. She told her new boyfriend that she thought Edward was murdered.”

And it hit Penelope then, all of it. “You killed Sarah. You were the unforced entry, the masked man.”

He said nothing.

“Wait. How did you cover up the murder with the wrong forensic report?”

His mouth tightened.

“Your brother. He was in law enforcement.”

“He quit a few years ago. Went to work at Turbo.” His mouth pinched. “But yes, he knew the right people, and my father did the rest.”

His father . “Vincent knew about this?”

He glanced in the mirror, and a tiny, eerie smile played on his lips.

What—

“How did you know about Holden’s forensic report?” she asked quietly, trying to sort out the smile.

“Sarah told me. Said that she thought Edward had been killed and asked Holden to hire an investigator since he owned the building.”

“And he discovered the bullet holes and knew the autopsy was faked.”

“He would have caused trouble.”

“You killed Holden too.”

“He was leaving for Barbados. I couldn’t let him get away.”

“And you dumped him in my garage.”

“Felt like a good place.”

She shook her head. “And you set fire to my garage.”

“That got tricky, since you were out of town?—”

“Did you try to run me off the road?”

He made a face. “No. I would have gotten it done.”

Her eyes widened. “Then who?—”

He narrowed his eyes. Shook his head. “I told you it was getting messy.”

She fought with her voice, kept it cool, the podcaster in her taking over. “It doesn’t have to be messy. No one else has to die.”

“It’s gone too far. After Marcus was murdered, there was no turning back.”

Marcus. “Your brother was murdered ?”

“Sarah’s friend Kyle killed him.”

She stilled, the pieces forming, connecting. “Your brother was the one who kidnapped me a month ago and tried to kill me.”

“You were digging too deep.”

Her breath left her. “Then why didn’t you kill me after I was found?”

“Everyone was watching. And for a while, you thought Kyle had killed Sarah. I didn’t want to interfere.”

“Until he was run off the road and shot—oh my. You did that too.”

“That was for Marcus.”

“Kyle was innocent .”

“Hardly. He was working for Swindle. Who was trying to cover everything up after his partner, Holden, told him about the real forensic report. He knew Edward was murdered.”

“I knew Swindle was tangled up in this.”

“Swindle was on the board of Quantex. And he knew Declan Stone. He was the one who told Stone to buy Axiom.”

“And my dad?”

“He felt bad for Edward’s mother and voted to invest.”

So he was innocent. A fist released in her chest. She should have trusted him. And then . . . Wait. “You killed Anton Beckett?”

“He contacted Swindle, told him that he’d gotten into Kyle’s cloud, and asked about the video. Swindle called me, told me to grab the drive.”

“And instead you killed him.”

Silence.

“And burned down his house.”

Again, nothing.

She might be ill. But—“Wait—who killed Swindle?”

He sighed.

“You did. Why?”

“Because he was an idiot—just like Edward. He was going to betray me.” His voice lowered. “Fine.” He sighed. “He freaked out—thought he’d be implicated in Beckett’s murder because Beckett had called him. He went to Holden’s place to get his computer, see if he could destroy the video.”

“But you left the computer there.”

“Deleted the entire hard drive.” He shrugged. “Nothing to find.”

She had gone cold. “You used Walsh’s phone to text me. You were the one at Theodore Wirth Park.”

He glanced at her, huffed. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

She looked away.

They’d turned off the county road, headed into a wooded area, a dirt road that led back to—Frederick Lake? “Your father owns a lake home?”

He glanced in the mirror. “You don’t think you’re the only one with money, right?”

Oh.

“He bought it years ago when I was still a child. Spent years renovating it.”

So this was where it would end. “So, you’re going to kill me, bury my body on the land?”

He glanced at her. “Aw, it can’t be that easy. I think you probably need to do one last podcast for your listeners.”

One last —“What, naming you as the killer?”

He laughed, and there it was again, from the recording, driving a frozen sliver through her. “Oh, I don’t think so. I think we make this more fun.” He pulled into a long drive, birch trees shooting through swaths of evergreen, the occasional barren poplar. Through the forest, light ahead suggested lakeshore. “I think you confess.”

She stilled. “Me—why me?”

“I have Ring footage of you breaking into Holden’s house. That was helpful. And of course, you had a reason to hate Edward—crime of passion and all.”

“I didn’t hate Edward?—”

“Of course you did. You were in love with him.”

“My sister was going to marry him!”

“No. She’d broken up with him. Edward wanted to marry you.”

Her breath caught. Yes, Tia had said that, but?—

Well, she hadn’t believed her. Not really.

“He was in love with you from the minute he ‘rescued’ you when you were nine years old.” He’d finger quoted the word rescued .

And that’s when his eerie smile clicked. “I wasn’t kidnapped.”

“Well, technically there was a ransom paid, but not really. Yes, it started that way—with Carmen and Nicolai. But Inga discovered what they were up to and told my father. He got Edward to ‘rescue’ you and hide you in the dumbwaiter and then took over the negotiations. Your father had the money—and the insurance—to cover it. He made sure the transfer went down, killed Carmen and Nicolai, and then my dad and Inga pocketed the cash. Your dad was such a chump—he actually thought Edward had saved your life.”

Her voice cut to a whisper. “Did Edward know?”

“Probably not. He thought he’d saved you. What an idiot.” He slowed, the house appearing.

She gaped.

He glanced back. “What did you think we’d have—a cabin? It’s not the Pepper palace, but my father restored every inch of the eight thousand square feet.”

The colonial revival home sat back from the lake, sprawled along the shoreline, with a columned portico over the front door, and rose three stories, with dormer windows jutting from the roofline. Vines twined up the outside, like an old English estate, and a dry fountain centered the circular driveway.

“It was an old summer estate of some financier. Inga found it in a magazine, and my dad bought it for her. It has a ballroom on the second floor.”

“Inga? Why did she keep working for my family, then?”

“Guilt, maybe. And if she quit, they’d ask questions . . .”

“And that would lead back to the money she’d stolen.”

“Earned.”

“By kidnapping me.”

“You were fine. And Edward turned out to be a hero, so calm down.”

Calm. down?

“Your father kidnapped me. Stole my sense of safety, made me believe that everyone was out to get me, to use me.”

He put the car in Park. “It made you smarter, made you stop living in a fantasy. My dad did you a favor.”

She had nothing for that.

He reached for the door handle, turned. “But you do know that if you hadn’t gone poking around Edward’s death, none of this would have happened. Sarah wouldn’t have gone to Holden and started the mess.” He met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “This is all on you.”

“You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.”

She froze, even as he got out.

But not so much that she didn’t realize he’d unlocked her door. And yes, maybe she was smarter—or at least braver. She opened it, barreled out the other side.

And ran for the house.

“Penelope!”

She ignored his shout, scrambled toward the front door.

Locked. She turned.

He slammed up behind her, trapped her against the door, his face close. “This is fun.”

She kneed him, and he doubled over, shot out a word. Then she slammed the palm of her hand into his face, and his head jerked back.

He stumbled, and she pushed away.

Took off. This time along the length of the house, toward a sunroom-slash-greenhouse. If this house was anything like her father’s, the sunroom door would be rusty, vulnerable.

“Penelope! You?—”

She ignored his word, hit the sunroom door. Again, locked.

She backed up and kicked it, hard.

It shuddered open, and she shoved in.

Eight thousand square feet. Eight thousand square feet of nooks and crannies and closets and stairwells and maybe even an apple cellar.

More, she’d gotten off a text to Harper, her podcast investigator.

Who’d had the brains to find her last time.

Time to hide.