by Lisa Jackson
Logan didn’t trust people with money, especially rich people with political ambitions; at the top of his list of most untrustworthy were Anthony Polidori and Witt Danvers. Polidori was making noise about running for the state senate, and the Catholic and Italian voters were on his side; Witt had his eye on becoming mayor or governor, Logan suspected, and the WASPs in Portland would vote for him. Logan’s stomach turned at the thought. If things worked the way Witt hoped they would, Witt Danvers would end up as Logan’s boss. Hell, what a mess!
He wheeled the Ford through a yellow light on McLoughlin Boulevard and headed south, out of the city, toward Milwaukie, where an entire enclave of Italian truck farmers thrived for the better part of a century. The Polidoris had been vegetable vendors once, but they’d saved their money, invested in cheap land, sold their produce to the finest restaurants in Portland, and quietly amassed a fortune—not as large as the Danvers wealth, but substantial just the same.
Yep, Logan thought, drawing in a lungful of smoke, he’d love to see Anthony Polidori go down for the Danvers kidnapping. It would be fun to see that little creep squirm in the interrogation room. But it wasn’t going to happen. He knew it, Polidori knew it, and Witt Danvers, whether the stubborn old man wanted to admit it or not, knew it, too.
He flipped the ash from his cigarette out the window and stepped on the gas pedal. Ignoring the speed limits, he wheeled through the crooked streets of Milwaukie to the fir-lined drive leading to Waverley Country Club, where mansions and landscaped grounds surrounded the most elite country club in the city. Acres of lush greens and fairways were part of the exclusive club that sprawled along the eastern banks of the Willamette River.
Frowning slightly, Logan turned unerringly into the drive and waited at the gate for a security guard to determine if he should pass. Logan didn’t have time for any bullshit. He flipped open his wallet, showing his badge—which was a waste of time, as the guard knew who he was anyway—then stubbed out his cigarette in the tray.
With a whine of electrical gears, the gate slowly opened. Logan pushed on the throttle and the Galaxy rolled past rose gardens and fountains to the rambling manor.
Anthony Polidori met him at the front door. A short man with a widening girth, thin mustache, dark eyes that flashed when he was angry, and teeth rimmed in gold, he motioned Logan into a vestibule the size of which would hold all of Logan’s little bungalow in Sellwood.
“Don’t bother explaining why you’re here,” Polidori said, ushering him through double doors of polished dark wood. “I know it’s about the Danvers girl again.” With a wave toward a tucked leather chair, he strode to the bar, splashed three fingers of Irish whiskey into each of two cut-crystal glasses, and handed a drink to Logan.
The smoky scent of the whiskey tickled Logan’s nostrils, but he left the glass on the corner of Polidori’s massive desk. He longed for the drink, but managed to hide it. “Your name keeps coming up.”
“So I’ve been told.” Polidori didn’t bother sitting, just stood near the leaded glass windows and stared at the view of the river. “Your men have been here daily. You know I’m a patient man, but even I consider this a waste of my time and the taxpayers’ money. There’s nothing more I can tell them or you. Call them off, Logan. Tell them to go after the real criminals.”
Logan didn’t bother replying. Let the jerk talk. He was on a roll.
“I’m surprised you showed up in person.”
“I wasn’t satisfied with Taylor’s report. It, uh, seemed incomplete.”
Polidori sighed. “Look, Logan, I had nothing to do with that little girl’s disappearance.”
“Cut the crap,” Logan said in a voice so low, he didn’t recognize it as his own.
Polidori’s dark eyes flashed. “You don’t believe me, either.”
“Let’s just get down to it. Two of your goons attacked Zachary Danvers, messed him up bad enough to send him to the hospital, and, at about the same time little London Danvers and her nanny disappeared. Coincidence?”
“Do I need to call my lawyer?”
“You tell me.”
“I had nothing to do with either incident,” Polidori insisted, then strode to the bar and poured himself another drink. “Nothing.”
Logan didn’t believe a word of it. “Maybe you’d like to know why we’re riding you so hard. I’ve got a pretty long memory and I remember you making some pretty rash statements when your old man died.”
“That was years ago.”
Without blinking, Logan stared him down. “You made no bones about the fact that you blamed Julius Danvers, Witt’s father, for that accident at the restaurant.”
Anthony’s face flushed.
“You swore vengeance on the whole Danvers clan.”
The corners of Polidori’s mouth tightened but his eyes shone with a hate so pure it chilled Logan’s leather-tough soul. “That was years ago. Julius Danvers—”
“Is dead.”
“—was a murdering bastard. He killed my father, Logan. You and I and all of Portland know it. He hired one of his thugs to pour some kerosene in the hotel and the whole damned thing went up in flames.” His nostrils flared as he leaned closer to the detective. “That inferno killed seven people. The only reason more didn’t lose their lives is because the hotel was closed that weekend. Someone who knew my father would be there gambled. And won.”
“Or your old man set it himself to collect the insurance.” Logan loved playing devil’s advocate.
Polidori’s jaw clenched. “He was killed, Logan. He was knocked over the head and left in his office in the hotel while kerosene was poured all around and over his body and then someone just struck a match and dropped it. I’ll never know if my father died unconscious or if he was awake, screaming and writhing, feeling the agony of hot flames eating away his flesh. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder.” He sipped his drink and caught Logan’s gaze in the mirror over the bar. “Stephano was a decent man. A faithful husband. A good father. And he was turned into a human torch by Julius Danvers. Witt knew all about it.”
“Conjecture.”
Polidori’s smile turned deadly. “How much is he paying you to keep you in his corner, Jack? Whatever it is, it isn’t enough.”
A muscle ticked in Logan’s jaw. He thought about reaching for his drink, but settled back in the chair, hoping to appear unruffled. “Let’s get back to Witt’s little girl. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. As I said before, there’s nothing I can tell you.”
“You didn’t decide to finally extract your revenge by stealing the kid?”
“Get serious.” Polidori snorted, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped his glass.
“What better way to make Witt twist in the wind than by stealing his daughter? You couldn’t do anything that would hurt him more.”
“Trust me, I didn’t do it. Now, if you’re going to continue to badger me, I’m calling my lawyer.” He walked to his desk and reached for the phone.
“I don’t believe you.” Logan’s voice was flat and he stared at Polidori so hard he noticed the tiny beads of sweat collecting at the old man’s graying sideburns. He was guilty as hell. But of what?
“Doesn’t matter what you believe, Jack. It’s what you can prove. Now, either you’re here for a social visit and if you are, mind your manners and drink the whiskey I so graciously offered you. If you’re here on police business, you’d better charge me with something or get the hell out of my house.”
Jack didn’t budge. Now he was getting somewhere. Polidori had lost his cool. “Joey Siri and Rudy Gianotti worked for you.”
“Not recently.”
“Then they worked for your boy.”
Polidori’s calm face flushed red and he leaned across the desk. “Leave Mario out of this,” he ordered, his lips barely moving beneath his neatly trimmed mustache.
“He could be in it up to his eyeballs,” Logan replied. “Rumor has it he was involved with the Danvers girl—t
he older one—a few years back. She was underage at the time—sixteen, if memory serves—when the romance went sour.”
Polidori’s nostrils flared. “My boy was in Hawaii when the little girl turned up missing.”
“Convenient.”
“He knows nothing about the kidnapping.”
“Everyone in town knows about it, Tony. It’s been in all the papers, even hit national television. I’ll even bet it made it into the news on Waikiki.” He pinned Polidori with one of his hard-ass, bad-cop stares. “The way I see it, someone just wanted to fuck Witt Danvers. So I’ve been checking into things, digging up people who have a grudge against the guy, and guess whose name keeps showing up at the top of the list?”
“I don’t need to listen to this.” Polidori reached for the phone.
“Is Mario around? I’d like to talk to him.” Logan finally felt that he had the upper hand. He reached for his drink. So he was on duty. What the hell.
“You have nothing to say to Mario.”
“I can talk to him here,” Logan said, rimming his glass with his finger. “Or I can cuff him and haul him down to the station.” He frowned thoughtfully, as if considering. “Still a lot of reporters hanging around there. Hungry guys. Looking for a story. But it’s your choice.”
“You’re a pig, Logan.”
“And you’re a liar.” He leveled his gaze at the shorter man in the expensive suit. “So what else is new?’
Polidori dropped the receiver and straightened his jacket. Logan could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. God, it felt good to make the bastard sweat a little.
“If Mario cooperates here, I probably won’t have to run him in. If not—” Logan lifted his huge shoulders and watched Polidori over the rim of his glass. The whiskey was expensive. Smooth and warm, it burned a familiar and welcome path to his stomach. “—Well, it wouldn’t look too good in the society papers if all that old trash about your son was brought up again.” He smiled into his glass. “Scandals have a way of raising their ugly heads time and time again. People in this town have long memories.”
Polidori’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “You’ll keep this quiet?”
“I might be a pig, but I don’t lie.”
With a snort of disbelief, Polidori dropped into an oxblood chair, pressed a buzzer hidden in the drawer of his desk, and a guard appeared. After a rapid-fire exchange of Italian in which Mario’s name was repeated several times, the guard slipped away. Logan sipped his drink. Within minutes, Mario appeared in the doorway.
About twenty-six, he was taller than his father by a full head and his eyes were a lighter shade of brown. Curly dark hair, easy smile—the playboy son of the rich father. When he wasn’t racing cars, or sailing the Caribbean, Mario ran the family restaurant downtown. And he was edgy. A restless energy kept him moving. Drugs? Adrenaline? Or plain old, kick-you-in-the-gut fear?
Anthony motioned toward Logan’s chair. “You know Detective Sergeant Logan.”
“We’ve met,” Mario said, his gaze flicking toward Logan for only a second. Logan didn’t bother to get up.
“He thinks you might know something about the Danvers kidnapping.”
“In your dreams, Jack,” Mario said, resting a jean-encased hip against the edge of the desk. His foot never stopped bouncing nervously. “I was in Hawaii.”
“You know Joey Siri and Rudy Gianotti.”
“They used to work for me.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever I asked,” Mario said with a charming smile of even white teeth. “Mainly odd jobs down at the restaurant. I fired Rudy six months ago—he was into drugs, uppers and downers. Caught him dealing and cut him loose. Joey had a fit, claimed he wouldn’t stick around if I let Rudy go. So I fired him, too.” He shoved away from the desk, moved to the window. Avoided the policeman’s gaze.
“That was it? You’ve never seen them again?” Logan finished his drink.
Mario lifted a shoulder. “I’ve seen them around. Some of the guys who work for me know ’em, but Rudy and Joey stay clear and I like it that way.”
“You know Zach Danvers claimed they attacked him?”
Mario’s shoulders bunched. “Zach Danvers lies.”
“Not this time.” Logan pretended interest in his empty glass. “Rumor had it that you and Trisha Danvers were…well, involved.”
Almost imperceptibly, the corners around the younger Polidori’s mouth tightened. “I know her.”
“The way I heard it, you knocked her up.”
“What’s your point, Logan?” Mario’s eyes snapped with an inner fury as dark as hell. Despite all his wealth, the boy carried one helluva chip on his muscular shoulders.
“Somehow Danvers put a stop to it. Wouldn’t let his daughter be seen with a Polidori. Made sure she never had the kid.” Logan set his empty glass on the desk.
“Is that so?”
“I don’t know all the details, but I’m looking into them. My guess is you’ve got plenty of motive to get back at Witt Danvers.”
“Lots of people in this town would like to see Danvers go down,” Anthony said from his position behind the desk.
Logan lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Some more than others.”
“I was in Hawaii. On business. At the time of the attack on Zach Danvers. I was—”
“I know, sipping Mai Tais on the beach in Waikiki.” Logan set his glass on the desk. “But somehow Joey and Rudy messed up Zach Danvers and at the same time his kid sister and nanny were abducted.”
“My money’s still on Zachary.” Mario’s smile had turned cold. He shifted on the desk. “It’s no secret that Zach hates Witt. If you ask me, he staged the whole thing about the attack against him to get back at his father. If you want to find out what happened to London, talk to Zach.”
“You think Dad would go to this much trouble if anyone else had been abducted?” Trisha demanded, her blue eyes cloudy with anger. “No way. He’s in a state because it’s London!”
Zach didn’t want to hear it. Stretched out on a chaise near the pool, he closed his eyes behind the lenses of his sunglasses and wished Trisha would just go away. No such luck. She set up her easel in the shade from the old-growth fir trees that towered along the brick wall rimming the grounds. Sunlight dappled the grass and reflected off the water as Trisha adjusted a three-legged stool, trying to catch the right light.
The day was sweltering. Heat rose in waves that shimmered off the concrete near the pool house. Zach’s head throbbed and his shoulder ached. He was recovering, but slowly. He grabbed his can of Coke and smiled to himself because he’d had the foresight to pour “the real thing” out of the can and fill it with Colt 45 malt liquor from a bottle he’d taken from the refrigerator. He’d probably get caught, but he really didn’t care. He took a long swallow of the ale and felt it cool against the back of his throat. In a few minutes, he’d relax. In the meantime he’d ignore his sister.
“Dad’s fit to be tied because the police and the FBI can’t find out who’s behind it,” she said, smudging her charcoal drawing with the tip of her finger. “He wants to blame the Polidoris just because those two guys who attacked you worked for them once.”
Why was she bothering him? Zach had only been home from the hospital for four days and this was the first time he’d ventured out of his room. He’d decided to rest by the pool because the four walls were closing in on him and he was going out of his mind staring at posters of Jimi Hendrix and Ali McGraw.
“Mom called the other day to see how you were doing…but you were sleeping or something.”
He didn’t want to think about his mother. Eunice. Some mother she’d turned out to be. A mother shouldn’t admit this, Zach, but you’ve always been my favorite. Her words still echoed in his mind. His chest was suddenly tight and he had trouble saying, “She stopped by the hospital.”
“And you wouldn’t talk to her.”
“Nothin’ to say.”
“Christ, Zach, you can be such a prick,�
� Trisha said, frowning at the image on her easel.
“Family trait.”
“Be serious.”
“I am.” If she only knew. He reached onto the table and flipped on his transistor radio, hoping that music, hard rock, would drive her away. The radio crackled with static before he found a station blasting an old Rolling Stones hit. The throbbing beat of “Satisfaction” echoed over the aquamarine water.
“I can’t get no…no, no, no, no…”
“I can’t hear myself think with that blaring at me!”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t give a damn if she was stone deaf, he just hoped she’d quit yammering at him. He needed to be left alone. And he didn’t want to think about his mother. Or London. Or anything. He took another gulp of the brew. Most of the time he felt that everyone, including Trisha, was pumping him for information about the kidnapping, as if they could make him slip up and admit that he’d taken the kid. But why? And how? And where?
He didn’t trust anyone named Danvers. Maybe there was some truth about Polidori blood running through his veins, he thought with a sarcastic grimace. Wouldn’t that be something—if he really turned out to be Anthony Polidori’s son after all these years? It would explain a helluva lot—why he was Eunice’s favorite, for crying out loud. But he didn’t like the idea. Not a bit. It was true that Witt was a class A-1 bastard, no doubt about it, but Polidori was no better. For years the police had tried to connect him to organized crime.
“Turn that thing off!” Trisha screamed.
Zach ignored her request. “They have any luck trying to track down Ginny Slade’s relatives?” he asked. Jason had told him how they’d torn the nanny’s room apart. She seemed to be the key in the kidnapping. Her references had proved false and her family had all but disappeared.
