The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  “Pay it? Did you see what they’re demanding, Elizabeth? We’re not talking nickels and dimes here. They want ten million dollars.” His eyes narrowed at the thought. “Wait till I get my hands on these bastards. Who do they think they are?”

  “What does it matter how much it is? When the police catch them, we’ll get the money back, won’t we?”

  He snorted. “I doubt that. The money will be wired from one off-shore bank account to the next. That’s how these people work. We’d never see it again.”

  “Does that matter? We’d have Holly back.” Elizabeth looked down to find she was holding one of Holly’s sweaters. She folded it, feeling the softness, the warmth, while the image of that tiny baby scorched into her mind—the memory of holding her in her arms, of gazing down, searching for her beautiful angel—the child she had prayed for; the child she had lived for, would have died for. But in her place was something damaged, something dreadful. All her maternal instincts told her to hold on to her, to love her, protect her; but something deep down inside was already urging her to run.

  She pushed the memory away along with the sweater. “She’s our daughter, Richard,” she said. “We have to do something. She’s out there all alone. She needs us.”

  “Well, we can’t just hand these people ten million dollars.” He glanced back to find her staring at him. “It’s not that simple. We don’t …” he began, then looked away.

  “What? We don’t what?”

  “We don’t have the money,” he said quickly, and turned with his back to her.

  Elizabeth blinked at him. “Don’t be absurd, of course we have the money. We have plenty of money.”

  “Had plenty of money, Elizabeth. Past tense.” He went to the window and stared out across the pool and the surrounding gardens, avoiding her.

  Elizabeth frowned, as if he’d told a joke she didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?” When he said nothing, she stepped towards him. “Richard?”

  “I’m saying,” he said, turning on her like it was her fault, “that we don’t have ten million dollars. We don’t have one million dollars. If they were asking for a thousand, we probably couldn’t pay it.”

  “You’re telling me we don’t have a thousand dollars in the bank?”

  He turned back to the window. When he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper. “I thought I could turn the situation around. It just kept getting worse.” He pressed his fingers to his face and heaved out a breath through them.

  “So, how much money do we have?”

  “Jesus, Elizabeth, how many times? We have no money. It’s gone. We’ve been living in the red for the past two months. And even if we had the money …” He sucked in a deep breath, straightened and rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck. “We’ll talk about this later. Let’s give the photograph to this detective and get him out of the house.”

  Elizabeth felt as if something cold and dark had wrapped itself around her, squeezing every atom of breath from her. If the depression she’d suffered over the past six years had been bad, this was becoming ten times worse. “What about the stocks? What about the company accounts, the offshore bank—?”

  “Shhh, keep your voice down,” he hissed. “What have I just been telling you? They’re gone. Between the campaign and Ray Townsend with every state official in his back pocket … look, let’s get downstairs before this detective—”

  “But surely—”

  “Listen to me. Do you know where I was when I got your message? I was out at the East Flight construction site over in Painesville telling two hundred and fifty employees—people who believed in me—that as of today, they’re out of work. Right now, two hundred and fifty men are on their way home to tell their families they could be on the street by this time next week.”

  “Then we’ll get loans …”

  “Elizabeth, you’re not listening. We’ve been hemorrhaging cash for the past twelve months. All our accounts are in the red, our line of credit is stretched to the limit and our assets are gone. This election was going to drag us back from the brink; stimulate the economy, stimulate industry. Now this happens.”

  Elizabeth lowered herself onto the bed, fighting to absorb it all. “The house,” she said in a moment of clarity. “We could take out a mortgage on the house. That would at least give us …” She saw the look on his face and stopped mid-sentence. “What?”

  He folded his arms, dropped his chin to his chest, and quietly said, “The house is already mortgaged to the hilt.”

  She got to her feet, eyes wide. “You took a mortgage on our house without telling me?”

  He said nothing. His expression said it all.

  “Then we have to find her,” she said, pointing off toward the windows. “We have to get out there and—”

  “And what?” he interrupted. “Go door-knocking, asking people if they’ve seen our child? Every man, woman and child in this state knows us—knows exactly who we are. How far do you think we’d get before we were swamped with reporters and tabloid newspapers? And then what would happen? The kidnappers would kill her. You want that?”

  His words hit her like a physical blow. She could barely think straight. In a matter of hours, her whole world had changed in ways she could barely comprehend. This morning she had a child, a home, a life of normality—if not one of happiness. Now, a thunderous wave had crashed through their lives, picking up everything she’d known and loved, carrying them away while the heavens rained twelve kinds of hell down on them. “But we have to do something. We can’t just leave the police to find her while we carry on like nothing’s happened.”

  At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Richard crossed to the door, opened it and called out, “We’ve found a photograph, Detective. We’re coming now.”

  There was a pause, then Delaney said, “If you would, Mr. McClaine. We need to move quickly on this.”

  “We’ll be right along.” Richard closed the door again.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Elizabeth whispered. “If we have no money to pay the ransom, how are we going to get her back?”

  “This is what the police are for. They’ll find her,” he said.

  “What about your father?”

  “No,” he snapped, and looked to the door again. “That’s out of the question. My father stays out of it. I don’t want him or my mother involved. Not yet. I’ll think of something,” he added, although he didn’t sound convincing.

  Downstairs, Delaney stood at the picture window with his phone to his ear, looking out over the garden. He ended the call and turned to them as they entered. “I’ll need the name of the driver that picks Holly up from her school.”

  “Of course,” Richard said. He got out his own phone, found the number and waited while Delaney noted it down.

  Elizabeth passed the photograph across. “We found this. I’m afraid I have no idea what she was wearing. Sienna takes care of dressing her,” she added, with a stinging glance at her husband.

  Delaney took a pair of eyeglasses from the breast pocket of his jacket. He slipped them on at an awkward angle and gazed down at the child who stared back up at him from the photograph. A sad smile deepened the creases on his face. “She’s a very pretty little girl.”

  Elizabeth stiffened and folded her arms defensively to her chest. “Yes. Yes, she is. She’s very special,” she said in a chilly tone. She knew exactly what was coming next.

  The detective tucked the photograph into his right-hand breast pocket and took off the eyeglasses, folding them carefully, and slipping them carefully back into his jacket pocket. “And her …?” he said, touching his finger to his upper lip.

  “Oh. The scar,” Elizabeth said, hugging herself a little tighter while a wave of anger flashed through her. Here we go, she thought.

  From the day Holly was born, Elizabeth had endured the morbid curiosity of spiteful people who were supposed to be her friends; perfect women with their perfect children and their perfect lives, all peering
into the crib and saying, Oh, isn’t she beautiful, when it was plain as day she was not. “She was born with a cleft palate and lip,” Elizabeth explained flatly. “The lip was operated on, but she had a reaction to the anesthetic and the palate is still—”

  “—we couldn’t put her through another operation … until she was stronger,” Richard chimed in. He placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “The first one was traumatic enough. We nearly lost her.”

  “Yes. She’s very frail,” Elizabeth said, bending her head to touch her middle finger to her forehead. When she lifted her head again, her words sounded strained. “And she doesn’t communicate well. She talks in … mumbles. Whoever has her won’t have the first clue of what she’s saying. Oh, Richard, where is she?” she said, bunching her fist to her mouth as he pulled her in close.

  Delaney drove his hands into his pockets and dropped his gaze briefly to the floor. “I need to get back. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have some information. And listen,” he said in a tone that made both of them look up. “Stay near the phone. These people haven’t given you a time or place for delivery of the money. But they will. When they do, I’ll have a tap on the line and someone with you day and night. In the meantime don’t talk to anyone, don’t leave the house.” They both nodded. “I’ll have an officer here as soon as one’s available. Trust me, we’re going to get these people,” he said.

  And just like that, he left. For some moments Elizabeth stood watching after him. Somewhere out there was her child. In some dark, despicable corner of the world, someone had her hidden away. Richard was right—they had no other choice but to leave it to the police.

  And pray they’d find her alive.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAY ONE: 5:22 PM—KELSEY

  Kelsey checked the map again. She’d turned the GPS off in case Matt could somehow retrieve the route she’d traveled from the memory and find out where she’d been. That’s the kind of stuff he could do. That’s how smart he was. She wasn’t smart. All she could be was careful. She turned the SUV into Remington Drive and cruised into Belle Vue, slowing for a hundred yards or so, before stopping two doors down from the house at 243.

  The place was huge. It sat like a castle in the middle of vast, manicured gardens full of roses and ivy and perfect hedges. Kelsey had never seen gardens like that outside of a public park. Then again, Kelsey didn’t come to this part of town too often.

  A woman ran right by the car. Designer sweat pants, designer running shoes, Gucci sunglasses; she loped along with her hair flying behind her like she’d just jumped out of a shampoo commercial. Kelsey watched her jog to the end of the street and disappear around the corner. People could run in this kind of neighborhood. You didn’t see people run in Kelsey’s neighborhood unless they had forty cops right behind them.

  She turned her attention back to the house.

  On the driveway just inside the gate sat a sleek black Mercedes convertible with the top down. Kelsey knew cars. She’d spent time boosting a number of them for a chop shop. This was a Mercedes Benz SL550 Roadster—a 32-valve V-8 engine that churned out close to 400-horsepower without breaking a sweat. Stylish, sexy, the thing drove like a bullet and handled like drugs on wheels. She stole one once. She knew how to get into it, how to drive it, how to take it apart. And she was fast. Her fingers were nimble and strong. She could strip a machine like this down to its barest components almost as fast as Matt could.

  But that’s where Matt came into his own. He had the brains. In two seconds flat he could calculate the value of those components down to the last dime, without even using a calculator. Or at least he could until early last year. That’s when the chop shop got busted and it all went to hell.

  But you didn’t chop a car like this. Kelsey’s boss, Jesse Milano, would have had customers lined up around the block and back for the complete unit. One thing Jesse knew was how to make money. Which was just as well because it took plenty of cash and a high-priced lawyer to keep him from doing a significant stretch inside. These days his workshop was strictly legit. Or so he said.

  But the car wasn’t the reason Kelsey was sitting outside 243 Belle Vue Drive on this chilly evening. The house it was sitting in front of was.

  She ducked her head, scanning the front of the house, the upstairs windows, along the roofline, down the side; searching for any convenient point of entry, any weakness. She couldn’t see one. The alarm would be set, and with the owners out, the place would be shut up like a vault. That didn’t mean she couldn’t get in. But she needed the cover of night.

  Kelsey hit the ignition, drove to the end of the street, then headed to more familiar territory and the drugstore on the corner of Chester and East 55th. She pulled into the lot, checking the immediate vicinity for cops before getting out.

  After locking the car, she walked quickly to the door of the drugstore and stepped inside. Three women were standing in line at the counter in back of the store. Two of them glanced across at Kelsey as she approached. That’s when she remembered the wig. She’d been wearing it because it hid the dagger tattoo that ran down the side of her neck. She should have been wearing it now. Without thinking, she put her hand to her neck and hesitated.

  “Yes, can I help you?” the pharmacist called from behind the counter. He was looking straight at her. All three customers also turned to look her over.

  “Yeah, ah,” she said, twiddling with a strand of hair just behind her left ear, shielding the tattoo as she moved forward. She felt conspicuous, like everyone knew who she was and what she’d done. She gestured towards the far end of the counter. Probably assuming she had a delicate matter to consult him on, the pharmacist followed her.

  “I need something for eyes,” Kelsey told him in a whisper.

  “Oh, right,” said the pharmacist, as if he’d guessed what the secrecy was all about. “Eye drops will take away the redness by constricting the blood vessels, so you don’t want to use them for—”

  “No, no. I need something for Pinkeye. Like, for all the yellow shit … I mean, y’know, the itchy, flaky stuff.” When he narrowed his eyes, and leaned in to search hers, she added, “Oh, no, it’s not for me. It’s for my little girl.”

  “Ah, I see,” said the pharmacist. “Well that’s a whole different matter. Have you taken her to a doctor? Because if it’s bad enough, she’ll need a prescription. You let these things get out of control, it could jeopardize her sight.”

  “Well, no. She just got it,” she said. “And you know—doctors, huh? You gotta rob a bank to see one. Plus I don’t have insurance.”

  “Well, the best over-the-counter option I can suggest is Patanol. How old is your daughter?”

  “Ah, ten,” she replied. Then silently cursed herself when she realized she would have been twelve when she’d had her.

  “Well, without seeing her …” he said, then looked up when the doorbell dinged. “Be right with you, Al,” he called genially to the person who’d just entered.

  Kelsey glanced back over her shoulder. The person walking right up behind her was a cop. Her heart thudded so hard against her ribs, she was sure he could hear it.

  The pharmacist had moved in behind the counter where he reached up and plucked a tiny bottle off the shelf. “I’d say you should start her off on the point-one solution. Use it twice a day until it’s cleared up. But if it gets worse, take her to the doctor.” He rang it up, and said, “That’s thirty-three, seventy-six.”

  “What? Oh, jeez,” said Kelsey. She didn’t know if she had that much. All she had was the money Matt had given her for the food, plus a couple of quarters of her own. She hurriedly counted it out but it came up eight dollars short. She was scrambling for more change in the bottom of her pockets, aware that the cop had moved across to stand right next to her. She could feel his eyes on her. Despite the chill in the air, beads of sweat flashed onto her forehead. She turned her back to the cop while she dug deeper into her pockets. “Hold on, I got some change here …”

 
“How’s it going, Al?” the pharmacist asked the cop.

  “Busy. We just pulled in a suspect for that robbery over on East 65th. Guy had just got out last week from his last robbery. You’d think they’d learn,” he said and chuckled.

  Kelsey was about to tell the pharmacist she’d come back so she could get out of there, when she heard him saying, “What’s this I hear about a hit-and?run outside a school for special-needs kids. They said the teacher got knocked down.”

  “News travels fast,” the cop said, tipping his head.

  “In here it does. One of our customers has a child at the same school. She said the police were over there interviewing people.”

  “It’s a bad situation. Teacher’s in the hospital. She’s lucky to be alive.”

  The pharmacist clicked his tongue. “At least they got a witness. Apparently, it was a girl with a wig on and some kind of tattoo on her neck.”

  Kelsey’s hand went straight to the tattoo, fidgeting with the hair behind her ear as she tried to casually turn away from him.

  “A teacher for special-needs kids, if you please,” the pharmacist added bitterly, and shook his head. “A woman like that doesn’t deserve to get run down in the street like a dog.”

  The cop shifted his weight and nodded in agreement. “Don’t worry, we’ll get her. We already got some solid leads.”

  “Well, I hope they string her up,” the pharmacist said. “The things people do these days. Do you want to take that?” he asked Kelsey.

  “Uh, no I don’t have enough money,” she replied. By now she had her back to them, still pretending to search her pockets with one hand, then both hands. “I got some more in the car. I’ll be right back.” She reached back, put the bottle on the counter, and walked straight to the door.

  “Hey, just a minute,” called the pharmacist.

  Kelsey froze.

  All she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. Slowly, she turned around. Both the pharmacist and the cop were staring at her, along with both assistants behind the counter and all three customers.