“I believe a few cleaning people, why? Is something wrong? Do you need me? I can be right there.”
Leaning against the railing, she sucked in a deep breath and willed her heart to slow to a reasonable pace. “Cleaning crew. Of course. Between you and Savvy, I’m jumpier than a grasshopper on a pile of sugarcane.” She swiveled and started her slow descent.
Cole cleared his throat.
Her mind must be working on freak out overdrive. She thought she heard it echo. “Cole? Where are you?”
The long pause on the other end of the phone left nothing but the sound of her shoes against the metal grate. She sped her steps. Her heart rapped against her ribs. “Cole?” The clatter of footsteps behind her sent a tremor racing through her spine. A few more steps to the street. She would be OK. Just hustle. At the second-floor landing, she began to run. “Cole, where are you?”
“Why do you ask, Georgie? You know where I am.”
She could see the red exit sign flickering just ten steps below her. Tightening her bag to her side, she quickened her pace. The sound of her steps ricocheted against the walls and mingled with heavier footsteps behind her.
Jumping the final five steps to the ground floor, her four-inch heel broke with snap. Pain shot through her ankle, but she limped forward to the door. The threatening thuds closed in behind her. Slamming the metal door open, she shuffled to the side alley that linked the building with the outdoor parking lot Watershed employees were using until the parking garage could be deemed structurally sound.
With each step, pain shot through her leg, but she pressed forward. Her car was only one hundred feet away. She clicked the button to start the engine and her car exploded like a bonfire fueled by gasoline. Stumbling backward, she stared at the orange ball of fury that had once been her vehicle. Shock stunned her in place and Georgie was unable to rip her gaze from the burning embers.
The heavy door rattled open behind her, shaking her from her stupor. She tried to run, but her ankle collapsed under her. She glanced up to the face of her pursuer and calm relief washed over her. “I’m so glad to see you. We need to call 91…”
Smack!
Warmth oozed against her cheek as the last digit of the emergency number stuck in her throat. Her vision blurred over the familiar face as the world went black.
29
The linen napkin rippled across Charlotte’s lap. Crossing her ankles, she straightened the flatware, aligning the fork and knife – like warriors protecting her dinner plate. The din of the restaurant seeped into her consciousness pressing against the screaming fear threatening to swallow her whole.
When her mother suggested a meal rather than their traditional tea, childhood lessons over the dinner table flashed through her body like memory grenades. Did Mama know of Charlotte’s plan with the FBI? Could she be setting up her own daughter? Would this be the last dinner Charlotte ever ate? She couldn’t worry about how her mother might react. She needed answers and she needed justice.
The pages of missing women connected to Mama’s friends Murphy and O’Neal shared with her had eradicated the ability for any true rest in the past weeks. As awful as the gambling, drugs, and money laundering were, the idea her mother could willingly trade human beings as easily as children traded baseball cards terrified Charlotte. Could her own mother be so cruel? And what about Baba? Was Murphy correct? Was her sweet, elderly grandmother aware? Or worse, a co-conspirator? A leader of the corruption? As hard as it was for her to reconcile her mother with the awful deeds…Baba? No, she couldn’t imagine.
After leaving her grandmother’s earlier in the day, she visited her gallery for the first time in nearly three months. Three new employees and a horrific display by an artist her mother discovered greeted her. The damage of leaving Mama in charge of her passion was evident in each invoice she reviewed and the portfolios of artists stacked in the corner of her office.
She closed the gallery for the balance of the afternoon and sent the new gum-smacking twenty-somethings her mother hired in Charlotte’s absence home indefinitely. With a few hours of manual labor and several phone calls to artists she trusted, the gallery was situated. All she could do was pray her mother wouldn’t destroy the fixes.
Huh? Had she been praying? Maybe Georgie’s love of Jesus was beginning to rub off. What would happen if she started praying for her mother? As if by thinking of her, Mama floated into the room wrapped in a cloud of perfume and chiffon.
She leaned to kiss each of Charlotte’s cheeks as she slithered onto the seat just to her daughter’s left. “Malyshka! My little one, I was so surprised when you called to say you were in the city. Mustn’t you stay in South Carolina to adhere to the terms of the will? You don’t want that woman’s daughter to receive all of the money.”
“It’s lovely to see you as well, Mama.” Charlotte twisted the napkin in her lap. “That woman’s name was Delia. Her daughter’s name is Georgie. And don’t worry about the will. There are other, more pressing things we need to discuss.”
“Yes, but first the wine.” She raised a single hand to the hovering waiter who scurried at the flick of her wrist.
“Mama, you know I don’t drink.”
“Yes, malyshka, but you know I do.”
Charlotte rested her slim fingers on her mother’s hand. “Tonight, I need you clear headed.”
Mama raised her gaze, nearly black as night, and looked at her.
Ice trickled through Charlotte’s frame.
“Of course,” Mama lifted the glass of water to her lips and swallowed deeply. With a dab of her napkin, her lips twisted to a smile. “What is it you would like to discuss?”
A bead of sweat streaked down Charlotte’s back, chased by an artic chill wrapping her in fear. “Mama, I need to know everything.”
“What is everything? I have no secrets from my daughter.”
“Mama, the gallery...”
“No. We settled that weeks ago over tea,” she said with a shake of her head.
“No, we didn’t.” Charlotte pulled in a deep breath and lifted a prayer, hoping Georgie’s God was real. “You know Remy found irregularities in the books. Books you were tending.”
“You accuse me?” Mama relaxed into her chair. “Your poor mother? I only worked at your art shop to help you. What do I know of accounting?”
“Mama don’t lie to me. Remy found the inconsistencies. Either you are stealing money from the gallery or you are doing something much worse.”
Mama lifted a single arched brow. “What could be worse than being accused of stealing from my only child?”
“I don’t know, Mama. Why don’t you ask those greasy men who seem to flank you everywhere you go these days?” Charlotte said, tilting her head toward the table crowded by the men who’d accompanied her mother to Colin’s Fancy.
“They are my protection. You know how dangerous the city can be. Anton ensures I am always protected.”
“Mama, Anton Dorokhov is not someone you should be entrusting with your security.”
“What do you know of such things? Anton has been a constant support to me. Since I was young, I could count on Anton. He’s much like your Remy.” She narrowed her gaze and sipped from the glass of wine the waiter had discreetly slid onto the table. “I was sorry to hear of his accident. Such tragedy.”
“Don’t you dare…” Charlotte whispered.
“Don’t I dare what? Console my daughter over the injuries of her dear friend? What kind of mother would I be if I did not comfort you in this dire time? So much loss. First your father, then your house, now your dear friend lies in a coma. Who knows? Perhaps your sister or your aunt might be next.”
Charlotte’s breath locked in her chest. “If you hurt Georgie…Savvy…”
“Hurt that girl? Pfft. You forget. I am the wounded party.” Slamming her open palm against the table, the glasses rattled, threatening to topple. “I’ve been treated horribly. Locked out of accounts. Accused of stealing from my daughter, when all I’ve tried
to do is be a supportive mother. You should be down on your knees apologizing to me.”
“Apologize? Apologize! You’ve been laundering money through my art gallery to help drug dealers and human traffickers.” Charlotte spoke through a clenched jaw. She ignored her vibrating phone in her lap. She’d gone off script. Murphy was likely calling her to put a halt to the ‘mission’ but she couldn’t stop now. The questions swirled with accusations in her chest and she needed to expel them. She needed them in her mother’s universe. Charlotte needed to know her mother heard the words from her own lips. She needed to see her face. Her face would reflect a lie or the truth.
“My whole life I’ve done everything for you.” Charlotte sucked back tears. “For a chance to have a taste of your love. I’ve given up a life with my father. With a woman who truly loved me. All because I wanted your love. Yours, Mama. I wanted you to look at me and not see your mistake, but to see your daughter. But, no, that was too much to ask. Wasn’t it? You see me as a pawn. A piece to be used and twisted on a game board. Pulled out when necessary to make a strategic move. Ignored when I get in the way.
“Not anymore, Mama. There’s nothing I can do to protect you. The evidence is clear. You’ve gambled. You’ve stolen. You’re in the worst kind of debt. You’ve funded people who are doing horrible things to other people’s daughters and sons. But why would you care? You never cared about your own daughter.” Tears she couldn’t stop streaked down her face, but she ignored her wet cheeks and her phone buzzing against her thigh. “I want to know why. Why did you hate me so much that you would sacrifice me in this way?”
Mama’s face drained of color and her hand shook as she lifted the glass of wine to her lips. With a glance over her shoulder, she leaned toward Charlotte. “Malyshka,” she started with a whisper, her voice a shaky breath of its normal arrogance. “I don’t know what to say to these accusations, but I’m disgusted with the thoughts stuffed into your brain. Who have you been talking to? Have you not learned your lessons? Each lie you hear must be countered. You must learn, malyshka. Please don’t force them to keep teaching.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, unable to look at her mother, disgust pouring through her at the sight of the woman who gave her life.
“Ms. Dixon.”
The sound of Murphy’s voice snatched Charlotte from tumbling into the pit where she teetered.
Fear slashed his face.
“Georgie,” her sister’s name slipped through her lips with a whisper.
“We don’t know. She’s missing.” His hands were shoved in his pockets, but the unadulterated anger he felt for her mother and her mother’s comrades radiated from him like a heater in the middle of Siberia.
Charlotte twisted to her mother. “If anything happens to my sister, I will make it my mission that you never see the light of day again. We are done.” Without a backward glance, Charlotte hustled behind Murphy, praying her sister was still alive. She couldn’t lose Georgie. Not Georgie.
30
“What happened? Where is she?” The words toppled out of Charlotte’s mouth as Cade struggled to keep pace with her long strides.
“I don’t know,” he said, opening the door to the black sedan he and O’Neal had opted for to observe the mother-daughter dinner.
The dinner? Why had he thought sending Charlotte to confront her mother was a good idea? Cavanaugh was right. He was stubborn and arrogant. And, his arrogance would get someone hurt. Hopefully, that someone wasn’t Georgie Dixon.
Charlotte slid in the backseat behind his partner. “Dylan, do you know anything?”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. Mac called us panicked asking if we’d heard from Georgie.”
“How do they know she’s missing? Did they try all her friends? Did they call the church? Or that finance kid at the office…what’s his name? Cole something? She’s with him often.”
Cade felt helpless. The call from Taylor shocked both he and Dylan. The stalwart attorney sounded haggard through the spotty cell reception.
Georgie’s car imploded nearly an hour ago. The first responders didn’t find a body just a charred vehicle leaving few remnants. Surveillance footage from the Watershed building offered minimal clues, but one shimmer of hope. A limping Georgie exited the building moments before the car ignited, but then the footage blacked out. Nothing pointed to whether she was abducted or if she ran.
Based on the last few weeks, Cade knew in the marrow of his bones Georgie was a hostage, but his brain couldn’t wrap around the idea of the sweet and funny woman being anything but pampered and beloved. He wasn’t sure what he felt for Georgiana Dixon, but the thought of harm coming to her churned his stomach. Stopping his toxic thoughts, he focused on his investigative abilities. Facts, hard work, and sweat solved cases. He hoped this case didn’t lead down the path of bad events paving every winding avenue connected to Stasi Bickford. Facts were the only place to start. He shook his head and focused on Charlotte. “There was another explosion. It was Georgie’s car.”
“What! How are bombs going off in the sleepiest town in the South and no one knows anything?” The steam from Charlotte’s rage nearly burnt his neck.
“We know as much as you,” his voice sounded broken even to his own ears.
With a flip of the turn signal, his partner glanced at Cade for the go ahead to share. He nodded, unable to deliver any additional bad news. Dylan filled in the details as he drove. “Beyond the video and the investigator’s preliminary findings, we are at square one.”
“She did this,” Charlotte’s voice was a murmur above the chaos crowding their car as they traversed the grid of the Manhattan city streets. “My beloved mother is trying to teach me another ‘lesson’.”
Glancing in his visor mirror Cade caught the defeated slope of her shoulders as she stared into the streaking city scape.
She’s innocent.
With a slight shake of his head, he focused on the road. In the last two years, he never once doubted the multigenerational criminal link of the Bickford women. Every analysis, every bit of evidence, and every hour of surveillance reconfirmed his theory. Despite bratva meaning brotherhood, the brains behind this band had to be the beautiful mother, daughter, and grandmother trio. Slam dunk. But in the last few weeks, his theory was reduced to Swiss cheese as he watched Charlotte steel herself against outwardly caring too much for her sister. He no longer believed Charlotte was a co-conspirator. Rather she was as much a victim as the hundreds of missing and dead. Between the evidence she willingly shared and the honest anger she’d expressed toward her mother only moments ago, her innocence was as real as Georgie’s belief in her sister.
Fear seeped into the space vacated by his righteous indignation. If he had been so blinded by his need to successfully close the high-profile case, what else had he missed? Did he overlook clear danger in Georgie’s world leaving her vulnerable? How much blame would he need to shoulder when they found Georgie? And they would find her. He couldn’t fathom any other outcome.
~*~
Charlotte pressed her long fingers against the cool glass of the backseat window.
Georgie was missing.
How had she allowed her sister to be put in danger? For months, years, she’d distanced herself from her father and by extension, her sister, in an effort to keep them safe from her mother’s deranged venom. But her sacrifice hadn’t mattered.
Remy was barely alive.
Georgie was missing.
What could she do? Who could help her? A single lifeline filtered into her mind.
With a tap of the driver’s seat, she asked Dylan to veer from his course to the airport. She needed to make one stop. She could think of only one person who could offer her hope to solve the impossible situation.
31
“Baba, I need your help.” Charlotte wasted no time on greeting the housekeeper or being introduced. Her grandmother slowly lifted her gaze from the open Orthodox Bible in her lap to face her granddaughter. The measured twist of Baba’s head
rooted Charlotte’s hasty steps. “I’m sorry to interrupt your solitude, but something terrible has happened and I believe you’re the only one who can help me.” The shock of seeing her grandmother reading the Bible was eclipsed by her desperate fear for Georgie.
“And the FBI cannot help with your tragedy?” Baba asked with a tilt of her chin toward Special Agents Murphy and O’Neal, hovering outside the entry to the private reading room.
Kneeling beside Baba’s chair, Charlotte swallowed against the tears fighting for release. “Baba, its Georgie. Someone’s taken her.”
“And you should think to come to me for help? Who you think I am, Charlotte? A criminal? How I know of such a crime against the little girl?”
“Of course not!” Charlotte clutched Babushka’s frail hand. “But I think Mama…”
“Nyet! Stop.” Twisting, she looked at the two federal agents. “I will speak alone with my granddaughter. Marta?”
“Yes, madame?” Marta arrived with such expedience; Charlotte wondered if all of her grandmother’s conversations were heard in duplicate.
“Marta, please takes officers to kitchens. Give tea and cakes.”
Marta nodded.
Visible rejection rippled through Murphy’s body, but his partner laid a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to follow the housekeeper to the back of the apartment.
“Baba,” Charlotte started, but her grandmother raised her hand and nodded to the open door. With the instruction of dozens of years, Charlotte stood and clicked the heavy door into its frame.
Family conversations, regardless of the nature, were always private. No one, unless of blood, was to hear family business. Charlotte’s grandfather was often excluded from the conversations and lessons Babushka had with her. The bonds of blood were greater than the bonds of marriage. Marriage could be dissolved. Blood was forever.
Charlotte padded to the seat angled to the right of Babushka’s high-backed, brocade covered chair. With decades of manners hammering through her frame, she sat and waited for Babushka to speak. Silence hovered around the edges of the room, scraping Charlotte’s exposed nerves and increasing her question laden anxiety.
Girls of Summer Page 17
