“You need to go home, Lynda,” Colleen said. “I can’t have you here.”
“What?” Lynda spat. “No. Not only no, but fuck no!”
“I’m going to keep you up to date on everything.”
Lynda let loose a string of expletives concerning Colleen’s character.
Colleen turned to Steve. “If she’s here when I get back, I’m out.”
Steve looked at Lynda, then Colleen. “Got it.”
“You damn bitch!” Lynda muttered.
“I understand what you’re going through, Lynda,” Colleen said, “but you need to get out of the way.”
Colleen left the two of them there, went outside into the foggy street, walked down the block, got into the Torino, started up the big block V8 with a throaty rumble, turned on the windshield wipers to slap away the night dew, drove home. The dark streets through the Mission were clear and it took no time at all.
She called her answering service. There was a message from Alex.
Don’t forget Thursday—Antonia’s party—xxx, A.
Colleen had forgotten about Antonia’s surprise birthday party. Too preoccupied with Melanie Cook. She fired up Mr. Coffee, putting two scoops of dark roast in the basket for each cup of water.
After a very hot shower she dressed in loose black straight leg jeans and a burgundy turtleneck. She sat on the single chair in her bedroom and laced up her sneakers and sipped rich coffee with brown sugar.
She took her coffee into the living room still reeking of fresh paint. She sat on her new ebony leather sofa, pulled a Virginia Slim out of the pack on the glass coffee table. She lit the long white skinny cigarette, braced herself for making a phone call in the middle of the night to Moran. She prayed that he answered instead of his wife, who disliked Colleen at the best of times. Since Moran had retired, and quit drinking, Daphne was a pit bull when it came to intrusions.
The phone rang somewhere in Santa Cruz, down the coast. After six rings, Daphne’s nasal voice bit across the wires.
“Yes? Who is it?”
Colleen apologized profusely for calling so late but told Daphne how important it was and how she needed to speak to her husband, very briefly.
“It’s four in the morning!”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Moran, but a client’s daughter is in serious trouble, and I really need your husband’s advice.”
“Just a minute!” The phone was smacked down on a hard surface, jarring Colleen’s ear. But she was thankful Daphne didn’t hang up.
Lieutenant Dennis Moran was a retired homicide detective Colleen knew from her first, traumatic year in California, when she had come out from Colorado looking for her daughter. After a rocky start, they became unlikely allies.
“I hope you’re not calling about my garden, Hayes,” Moran said in his low, soothing voice. It was a running joke between them. Moran hadn’t adjusted to retirement and hated gardening, but Daphne had other ideas. Colleen pictured the quiet man of sixty-five, with his medium build and unassuming demeanor, pushing his heavy-framed glasses up his ample nose, a gesture he repeated many times a day. “I usually wait until sunrise before I start pulling weeds. Sometimes I wait much longer. Days, in fact.”
“That’s too bad,” Colleen said. “I hear it builds character.”
“How’s the security business? I assume that’s what this call is about?”
“Still waiting for my license to be approved,” she said. Ex-cons didn’t go to the front of the line for investigator licenses. “But that’s not exactly stopping me. In fact, I’ve got a doozy.”
“Shoot.”
She told him everything she knew about Melanie Cook’s abduction.
There was a pause while the wind howled through the gaps in the old windows behind her.
“My client is to take the money to a phone booth at Transbay Terminal at nine a.m.,” she said.
“Less than five hours from now. What’s your plan, Hayes?”
“I make the drop in my client’s place, take the call, refuse to hand over the money until I get proof that Melanie is alive. Take it from there.”
“You don’t have much to work with but, under the circumstances, it’s what I’d do.”
Colleen breathed a sigh of relief. Moran had validated her plan, such as it was.
“You run the risk that the girl’s already dead, Hayes. You know that, don’t you?”
She swallowed. “I do.”
“You also risk riling up the kidnappers. They kill the girl since it’s not easy pickings.”
“I know that, too.”
“But they want the money. They don’t have any yet. They’ll play ball for a while. You can figure out how much ball once you make a demand to talk to the girl. You’ll also set the tone for future interactions. Start on the offensive.”
“That’s what I thought. But I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. My client is conflicted.”
“Especially if his ex is what you say she is.”
“She is. And more.”
“Be prepared to get the runaround from the kidnappers. They might run you all over town.”
“I’ve got my sneakers on.”
“Don’t take a gun. You’ll probably get patted down at some point.”
“That crossed my mind, too.”
She took a puff of her Slim, hoping Moran was thinking what she was thinking. Listening to the message she was telepathically sending him across the phone wires.
Colleen took a breath. “I hate to ask …”
“Of course, I’ll help,” Moran said quietly.
A huge surge of relief came.
“I could really use it,” she said with an exhalation of air. “This has all happened so fast. I don’t want to ruin your marriage.”
“The weeds will still be here when I get back. And the thought of some poor girl being held somewhere means I’m not going back to sleep.”
“Daphne’s going to hate me.”
“Going to?”
She laughed. “I wish I had time to recruit more people. But there’s only a few hours left. Thank God you’re willing to help.”
“Agreed, we’re short on time. Where is your client?”
“I’d like to keep him out of it.”
“Yes,” Moran said. “He’s too emotionally involved to be much help. And you don’t want him to get hurt.”
“I’ll keep him nearby in the event we get to see his daughter.”
“That’ll work, Hayes.”
“I think I’m going to call my friend—Alex. Just to park near the terminal and observe and report. Take photos. Call the police if needed. We can use another pair of eyes to keep watch outside the station.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be there by seven thirty.”
“I owe you.” Colleen let out another sigh of relief as she hung up the phone, smashed out her cigarette.
Then she called Alex’s house—mansion—in Half Moon Bay. She wondered how long Alex would continue to live in the big rambling estate her father had left her. It wasn’t very Alex. But living large was.
Harold, the butler, answered, sounding just a tad groggy.
“Copeland residence,” he said in his British accent.
“I am really sorry to be calling so late, Harold. Or is it so early?”
“It’s no trouble, Ms. Hayes.”
“You’re sweet to say so.”
“I’ll get Ms. Copeland.”
A few moments later, Alex got on the phone.
“Checking up on me?” she said.
“You’re the type who needs it.”
“Good, because I’m in the middle of the biggest orgy you’ve ever seen. The floors are covered with plastic sheets and the Wesson Oil is flying. Some poor man pulled his back out. Everyone is exhausted. But if you hurry, you can catch the tail end.”
“Ooh la la.”
“How’s the new client?”
“His daughter was kidnapped.”
There was a pause.
“Jesus H, Co
ll,” Alex said. “That’s about as lousy as it gets.”
“Tell me.”
“You going to the police?”
“Kind of,” she said. “I called Moran.”
“Can I ask why you called me? Since you woke me up at four in the a.m.”
“Because my client intends to pay the ransom. And I could really use your help, Alex.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“This is Moran,” Colleen said. “He’s a retired homicide cop. He’s going to help us get your daughter back.”
Lieutenant Daniel Moran shook hands with Steve Cook in Steve’s construction zone living room, then pushed his thick glasses up his nose and stood back, feet slightly apart. Moran was a medium-size man in his sixties, with a dark mustache streaked with gray and a thick head of hair to match. Fine wrinkles etched his narrow face. But he looked good to Colleen. He’d been off the bottle for some time.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of a black jacket. Colleen saw the telltale heel of a pistol in a shoulder holster. He’d come prepared. Steve, for his part, was looking both weary and anxious, but coping, considering his daughter had been kidnapped. His heavy denim workpants and gray sweatshirt were powdered with white dust. Tools were scattered around the shell of a house. He’d been hammering wallboard when Colleen and Moran arrived. Couldn’t sleep, he said, so he might as well get something done. He was smoking a cigarette in rapid puffs, a hard grimace on his face.
Lynda was nowhere in sight. That fact provided Colleen with some relief.
It was eight a.m. Friday morning. At nine Steve was to take a call from the kidnappers at a pay phone by the snack bar at the Transbay Terminal.
Colleen, however, would go in his place.
“What’s the plan, Coll?” Steve asked, smoking.
Colleen handed Steve a paper grocery bag rolled up at the top. It contained ten bundles of cut-up newspaper banded with rubber bands to resemble the bulk of $20,000. “You take this, head down to Mission Street. Take a cab, or BART, or a bus. Get out at the Transbay Terminal. Quarter to nine, head to El Faro’s restaurant, wait for one of us to contact you. I’ll also have one more person nearby.” She would have liked more people, but this was the best she could do with the time pressure. “I’ll make my own way down to the Transbay Terminal with the cash, take the nine o’clock phone call by the snack bar inside the terminal. Moran will be nearby, keeping watch.” If anyone could be sly, it was Moran. “After that, a lot depends on the call. With any luck, they’ll let us talk to Melanie. We’ll take it from there. If one of us can’t make contact with you, I’ll leave a message on my answering service. I’ve authorized the service to give you an update.” Colleen eyed a gray gym bag sitting on the floor by the phone. “Is that the cash?”
“Yeah.” Steve blew a blast of smoke as he looked inside the paper sack. “And this is the decoy cash, I take it?”
“In case someone follows you.” Someone like Lynda, who Colleen didn’t quite trust. “It’ll look like you’re on your way to make the drop.”
“Are you sure about this, Coll? The kidnapper did say I was to make the call.”
“You’re too emotionally involved to deal with them. As a third party, I can be tougher, get away with more.”
“Sure about that?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I heard the threat they made. But the kidnappers didn’t go through all this so they could walk away from the money. They’ll play along, up to a point.”
Moran spoke: “They’re not going to like it, Steve, but they’ll cooperate. For a while anyway.”
“By ‘cooperate’ you mean not kill my daughter, right?” Steve said.
“We have to assume they’re somewhat rational,” Colleen said.
“Somewhat.”
“And if they’re not,” she said, “it’s another ball of wax. One we’ll deal with, if it comes to that.”
Steve took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. He shut his eyes for a moment. “Something that’s gone through my mind about a thousand times,” he said, tapping ash into the air, “is that Melanie is … ah … Christ, I can’t even bloody say it.”
Colleen knew what was going through Steve’s mind. She’d been in a similar spot once, with her own daughter. She went through a lesser nightmare now, every week or so, when she wondered how Pamela was holding up, living up at Moon Ranch with those religious lunatics.
“Melanie’s alive, Steve,” she said.
“You really believe that, Coll?”
Did she? She had to, for Steve’s sake. “I do. But we need to take control of the situation. And this is how. You can’t be in the middle of it. I can. We’ll have you nearby, in the event that meeting with the kidnappers and getting Melanie moves ahead.”
Steve looked at her, uncertain. “I hope you’re right.”
Moran interrupted. “The people who took your daughter will understand you have to have proof that Melanie’s alive before you pay them, Steve. They’re probably half expecting it. They’re anxious, too. Listen to Colleen. She’s got a handle on this.”
“All I want is my daughter back, safe and sound,” Steve said.
“And that’s what we’re going to make happen,” Colleen said. “And then we’re going to get those bastards.”
Colleen was going to get them, or him, or her, regardless.
She checked her watch. “Time to go.”
Steve reached down, picked up the gym bag, handed it to Colleen. Unzipping it, she peered inside. Ten bundles of rumpled twenties, various colors of rubber bands around them. Mob money, money Steve had borrowed. Another problem she’d worry about later. She zipped the bag back up. “It’s important to stay calm.”
“Easier said than done.”
“You’re handling it like a trooper.”
Then they heard a car pull in the driveway with a squeal. Neither Colleen nor Moran had parked in front of the house, for anonymity’s sake. They’d both arrived separately.
“Christ,” Steve said, sucking on the last of his cigarette. “That’s Lynda’s car. I told her to stay away.”
“If Lynda asks,” Colleen said to Steve, “tell her you’re going to take the phone call at Transbay Terminal. We don’t need her flying off the handle. If she asks about Moran, tell her he’s here to lend you the ransom money.”
“Right,” Steve said.
An engine shut off, a car door was flung open, and then slammed. And then the same angry heels that had stepped up the stairs last night repeated their journey to the front door. The key went into the lock and opened it.
There stood Lynda, wearing a gold Afghan coat. Her blond hair was swept over in a dramatic swoop and her face was armored with heavy makeup. Well put together considering her daughter had been kidnapped, Colleen thought. None of it managed to hide Lynda’s fury, though.
“I can see that I’m going to need my key back,” Steve said to her.
Lynda looked at Steve, Moran, Colleen. “What’s going on?”
Steve went over, shut the front door. “Nothing.”
“Don’t you nothing me.” She eyed the paper bag in Steve’s hand. “You going to make the drop?”
Steve’s eyes met briefly with Colleen’s.
“I am,” Steve said to Lynda.
Lynda squinted at Moran. “So who is this? Another dick scooping up a fee?”
“He’s lending me the cash,” Steve said, holding up the paper sack.
“Which you will pay back in seven days,” Moran said to Steve, playing along. “Plus interest.”
Lynda gave Moran a wary look and actually took a step back. Being connected to mob money scared most people, even her.
“Then what is she doing here?” Lynda shot Colleen a prison-yard stare.
“Helping me,” Steve said.
“Doing nothing. What a fucking vulture.”
Colleen ignored her.
“I’m paying her, Lynda,” Steve said. “I’m paying the ranso
m. It’s my decision, yeah? Now you best leave.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, asshole.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Colleen said. “Steve needs to be at the drop by nine.”
Lynda spun on Colleen, jabbed a finger into her shoulder as she spoke. “Anything happens to my daughter, bitch, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Colleen grabbed Lynda’s hand, moved it slowly to one side. “I know you’re going through hell, but don’t ever do that again. Now leave.”
Lynda glared, turned, stormed out, leaving the front door open, her heels smacking the stairs. Tires squealed as she pulled out of the driveway and took off.
Moran, Colleen, and Steve reconvened.
“Let’s do it,” Colleen said.
Moran left.
Steve and Colleen stood across from each other, holding their respective bags.
“This is the longest bloody morning of my life,” Steve said.
She squeezed his arm. “We’re going to get Melanie back.”
There was a pause.
“Good luck, Coll.”
“I never plan on luck,” she said, checking her watch. “You better get going.”
Steve nodded, rubbed his face, left his apartment, carrying the bag of fake newspaper money.
Colleen left through the back of the house with the gym bag of cash, by the long narrow kitchen that had not been torn down. Through an overgrown yard and wooden garage to an alley behind the house she exited on Capp Street, checked both directions. She headed down to 21st. On 21st, a white Jaguar XJ6 drove up, stopped in the middle of the street, and Alex, wearing sunglasses, leaned over, gave Colleen a little wave. The electric window rolled down.
“My husband’s out of town.” She raised her eyebrows. “Interested?”
Alex’s attempt to lighten the situation wasn’t lost on Colleen. She smiled, shook her head, got in the car.
She saw that Alex was outfitted for speed: a white tennis skirt and running shoes, along with a black denim jacket with the collar turned up. Diamond studded earrings brought the outfit to another level. Alex’s bare legs were firm and tanned.
“This is my first kidnapping,” Alex said, setting the Jag into gear. “I didn’t know if there might be running involved.”
Tie Die Page 5
