“No need. I’ll come back later. He knows me.”
“Maybe you better talk to Mort.” She nods in the direction of the junkyard.
A potbellied man wearing coveralls with “Mort” stitched above the pocket emerges from a shed and ambles toward me. Hands in pocket, looking affable, he sizes me up as I approach. He gives me a genial nod and asks, “Looking for Joe?”
“Yes, hi. You’re Mort, too?”
“We’re all Mort. Makes it easier. We get the jumpsuits cheap.”
I offer up an appreciative chuckle. “Look, I’m really early. I’ll come back later. Besides, Joe knows how to reach me.”
Mort looks a little less affable. “We’re not too formal around here, but maybe I could tell him who’s calling. You know, if you’re a bill collector, he kinda likes to know in advance.”
I break out my widest smile. “C’mon, a bill collector? Gimme a break. Joe and I go way back.” I start moving toward the wire-enclosed entrance. “I’ll just head back down to the print shop.”
“It’s up the street, not down,” Mort says.
“Right, depends which way you’re coming,” I laugh. “Nice meeting you, Mort.”
I hurry back out of the yard. The woman in the booth glances up as I pass through the metal turnstile. It’s a quick look, but gives me time enough to see that her left eye is bruised and her lips suck in where teeth are missing. A flicker of acknowledgment flashes in her eyes and I realize she’s seeing a kindred spirit in my battered face. My God, what have I walked into?
Back on the street, I take a deep breath, knowing it’s time to let someone know where I am. Jack is out of town. Donna is my best bet until I see if my hunch pays off. I head back toward my car, checking messages on my phone as I decide what to do next. I’m not even sure where I am.
I return down the street toward the alley, looking for some indication of “number eight.” Then I see that the two-story garage units are marked numerically. I walk down the crumbling cement drive until I reach a sagging wood-frame building with a padlocked double door on the ground floor and a small grimy window up above.
I move closer to the building and start to call Donna, then decide to text instead. I tap out a message, cc’ing Jack: Looking for Corky’s uncle, Joe Shaw . . . I’m in an alley behind Ace Towing . . . I stop, trying to remember the cross street as my eyes fall on the padlock. It’s new. The hasp is old and rusty. The observation barely registers as I hear a sound behind me and turn.
Just as Joe’s gun slams my wrist, I clamp my thumb down on Send. My cellphone crashes to the cement, shattering. For good measure, Joe steps on it, grinding my phone beneath his shoe.
Chapter Nineteen
My eyes lock on Joe’s, but I see the tremor in his hand holding the gun.
My own hand is shaking from the blow to my wrist. I rub it gently, trying to ease the pain. “I’m afraid we got off to a bad start, Joe. After talking with Corky this morning, I wanted to speak with you. I think you may have a misimpression about me.”
“Well, doesn’t that just make all the difference,” he says, the sarcasm delivered in icy tones. His lips spread in a semblance of a smile, but his eyes are hard. “I’m going to give you a key and you are going to unlock the padlock. You’ll open the door and we will enter. Keep in mind that a gun will be aimed at your head the entire time, understand?”
“Of course. I presume it’s the same gun that failed to kill me the first time. Or the second.”
A convulsive tremor jerks his upper body. I flinch in response and see the gun waver in his hand. His eyes are frozen in hatred and he’s breathing through his mouth, almost panting. “Third time lucky.”
I see no resemblance to the courtly man in the suit and fedora who charmed me with his old-world manners. His voice is a hoarse croak, his agitation palpable, signaling just how tightly he’s wound.
He could shoot me now, but he’s too close. His hand trembles with the weight of the gun, the indecision. I can smell his sweat, the fear. He’s fighting for control just as I am.
With that flash of awareness, a chill sweeps over me, freeing my mind. Remaining motionless, I relax my weight against the rough wood of the garage door, weighing my chances. He’s tall, muscular. I’m braced solidly, my weight on one foot. All it would take is a swift kick and a lurch to the side when he hands me the key—
Then his other hand opens and he flips the key onto the cement drive. He steps back, giving himself distance from me. “No stupid moves. Pick it up.”
“Wait, could I have a word with you first?”
He responds by waving the gun. I make a show of rubbing my wrist, wincing, stalling for time. I look across the alley to the back end of the towing lot, hoping to see movement, perhaps one of the Morts. I strain to hear voices, but there’s only the distant sound of traffic on the boulevard.
He waves the gun again. I move to pick up the key, turning my body at an angle and reaching to the side in case he intends to strike my head with the butt of the gun.
My eyes fall on the smashed cellphone, wondering if my message was received. Failing to reach me, would Donna try to call Corky, knowing I’d arranged to meet him? Would she ask about Joe Shaw? Would Jack try to track down Ace Towing? Would either of them even sense the urgency . . . or just wonder if the Olds 98 broke down and I had to have my car towed? What I do know is that once I’m in the garage, I’ve lost any advantage I may have.
What would Jinx do—that is, if she didn’t have a posse of seasoned writers plotting her every move? I could pretend to faint. I could take my chances screaming. I could just hold my ground and not move. What would Joe do then?
“You’re wasting time.” He waves the gun toward the garage. “If you want to see your little friend, I suggest you open the door.”
There’s my reason. Chelsea. I pick up the key, flimsy and almost weightless in my hand, and move toward the padlocked door. If Chelsea is inside, I can’t take any more chances until I see how she is. The key slides in easily, but I have to yank on the rusting hasp to open the door.
Dust motes dance in the light filtering into the cool darkness. The space is almost completely taken up by an old, light-blue Corolla hatchback.
“So you do have a car, after all.”
“Not mine.” He prods my back with the gun. “Keep moving, off to the left.”
It has to be Chelsea’s car. I skirt the Corolla on the driver’s side, almost tripping against a bike leaning against the wall. I reach out to catch myself, my hand brushing against a wheel. I glance down and see the tread, recalling the crosshatched marks in the dirt near where somebody shot at me. Who would think twice about a guy on a bike in a park? A guy on a bike probably killed Elaine, then sped silently across darkened Holmby Park to make his getaway. I figure it was Joe.
“Keep moving. Stop at the stairs in the back.”
I hear the garage door pulled closed behind me. Wedged between the car and the wall of the garage, I edge forward, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Pale light filters down on a spiral staircase in the back. I grip the metal and wait. The garage was built at a time when cars were smaller than Chelsea’s hatchback. There would barely be enough room to stand back and open the doors. I try to imagine the logistics of holding someone hostage while maneuvering a car into this space.
“Okay, up the stairs, one step at a time.”
Daylight sifts through the dust-caked window. Chest-high to the floor, I pause on the steps and look around. Obviously the living space is not up to code, but there’s a cot in one corner with a rag rug on the wood floor next to it. A molded white plastic unit in another corner appears to be a shower. A curtain hangs open on a suspended metal ring around a toilet and sink. Next to the cot is a small microwave on top of a miniature refrigerator. But where’s Chelsea?
I feel the gun barrel tap against my shin. “Move!”
Rounding the top of the stairs, I grasp a metal post for support. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joe mounting the stairs, o
ne hand on the railing, the other holding the gun. I grip the post tightly, shifting my weight in preparation for a sharp kick to Joe’s head. He stops, his gun aimed at my head.
“Move, I said!”
I take a few steps deeper into the room and see a rubber air mattress against the wall to the side of the stairs. A gray army blanket covers a bulky form, matted blond hair spilling across the mattress onto the floor.
“Oh my God, no!” In three strides, I reach the mattress and sink to my knees, my hand touching a shoulder. “What have you done?”
“She’s not dead. I’m not dragging a corpse out of here.”
I gently pull the blanket off her face. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted. I brush my fingers across her forehead and her eyes pop open, blinking at me rapidly. “Chelsea? Are you okay?” She blinks again and I realize she’s signaling me.
I look up at Joe, who’s sitting on the cot, holding the gun. “I think she’s unconscious. What’d you do to her?”
“Nothing. She won’t eat.”
“Is that what makes her a spoiled brat? Maybe she doesn’t like the accommodations.”
He doesn’t answer. I glance toward the cobwebbed rafters, pulling the neck of my tee shirt over my nose to shut out the putrid air. I breathe in the scent of my own body and look at Joe again. He’s sweating, his pallor more apparent in the gloom. I realize he’s panting for air again. Is it stress or illness? I shift my body and lean against the pole, pulling my tee shirt down.
“How long have you been living like this? You look like you need a doctor.”
“Can’t afford one,” he pants. “Don’t need one anymore.”
I lower my voice, seeking a soothing register. “I’m so very sorry, Joe. I know how that is.”
“Like hell!”
“Yeah, it’s exactly like hell.” I speak slowly, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. “I really do know what it’s like. For me, it was sleeping in my car, waking up to every sound in the night. I had nowhere to turn. Nothing left to hang on to. I felt humiliated. Angry. Wanting only to hide. Like you, I was robbed. For me, it was by my own husband. Trust me, Joe, I’ve walked in your shoes. Thanks to a friend with a big heart and a nice house, I’m off the streets.”
Without warning, he grabs a heavy work shoe off the floor and hurls it at me, striking me in the shoulder. “Don’t make me laugh! You were in on it! Your kind never suffers.”
I wince, choosing my words carefully. “Joe, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about everything you and everyone else lost. The man responsible for that is in prison now. You want me to pay for what’s happened. But I had no part in what Paul did to you and so many others. If I could put things right, I would.”
“Liar! You drive fancy cars. Spend your days hanging out with kids, playing around. It’s all a game to you. You have no idea the pain!”
“This is not a game.” I nod toward Chelsea. “Does she know what happened? What you did the other night?”
He looks away. “It was a mistake, right?” I wait for a response, leaving the question hanging before answering it myself. “That’s what I figured. It was just a mistake made in the dark of the night. You’re not a bad man, Joe. You’re not someone who would do this. I don’t think you even had a plan.”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t know anything.”
“You’re right. I’m just guessing that you came back after dropping Corky off. I think you mistook Chelsea for me in the twilight. You didn’t know she had come up to the house with me. Once she saw you with a gun, you had no choice. Maybe you thought I’d figure out how to come and find her, but I didn’t. This is about getting at me, not anyone else. You’ve got me here now. You can let her go.”
The gun wavers in his hand. His lips move, but there’s barely a sound. He speaks again and I hear, “Too late.”
“Not too late,” I say firmly. “Don’t let it end like this. You’ve already taken one life. Let her live. Her life’s just beginning.”
I watch his shoulders slump. He stares into the middle distance, as though trying to make up his mind. I know better than to say anything. A minute passes, maybe two, then he shifts his gaze, regarding me with detachment. When he speaks, his voice is stronger. “Your keys. Give them to me.”
“My car keys? You’re taking my car?”
“Just moving it. We don’t want anyone seeing it, do we?” His smile is almost friendly. “I won’t be gone long.”
I take the keys out of the front pocket of my shoulder bag and slide them across the floor. “You’ll let her go?”
His smile fades. He stands and looms over me, unbuckling his belt with his free hand. I shrink back, tensing for whatever he might have in mind. He walks behind me to the spiral stairs. “Don’t move!” he barks. Leaning down, he slings the belt around my chest, securing my arms, and yanks me tightly against the metal support pole before fastening the buckle. He lashes my hands together with a flexible tie, locking them tightly palm-to-palm.
“That should hold you until I get back.”
I close my eyes, my head falling forward, waiting for a blow to my head I’m certain is coming. Instead, I hear him going down the stairs, the pole jarring against my back with each heavy footfall. The garage doors creak open, then slam shut. I hear a soft rustling sound next to me.
“Welcome to summer camp,” Chelsea says, struggling to sit up. “But I don’t need visitors. I need to get the hell out of here!”
“Sorry, I know. I’m hoping someone picks up the text message I sent. How are you doing?”
“You kidding? Food’s terrible. He microwaves burritos. I’m vegetarian. Curfew’s around the clock.” Words spill out of her in a rush, but she looks wan, emaciated. Her eyes are dark holes in a pale face, her lips parched. She shakes off the blanket. Not surprisingly, she’s wearing the same tee shirt and jeans I last saw her in. Her feet are bound, her wrists secured. She holds up her hands to show me the thin, flexible band locking them together.
“It’s a bitch if you need to scratch. Trust me, after four days I itch.”
“Thank God you’re alive. It’s been five days already. Did he hurt you?”
“Five days? Time flies when you’re having fun.” Her eyes well and tears roll down her cheeks. “I fought like hell when he got me here. Lot of good it did me.” She turns her head into the light, revealing a bruised cheek and greenish swelling around her left eye. “Why the hell did you come on your own? He’s crazy! He’s not going to just let us go, whatever you say.”
I swing my legs over to my shoulder bag, hooking the strap with the toe of my sandal, and slide it toward Chelsea. “Check inside. See what you find. I think there’s a nail clipper somewhere.”
She grabs the bag with her bare feet and pulls it toward her. “He’s barely here. But when he is, he rants. Nonstop. He’s crazy!”
“I’m so sorry. There was no reason for him to take you.”
I expand my chest against the belt, leaning as far as I can from the pole, then contracting, trying to wiggle my arms loose. I glance at Chelsea, who’s rummaging in the bag. “Has he hurt you otherwise?”
“No, not like that. It’s like he forgets I’m even here. When he goes out, he ties a dirty rag around my mouth. I crawl to the toilet and back. Stare at the walls. I never hear a sound from outside.” A water bottle rolls out of the bag. She clamps it between her knees, twisting the cap loose with her fingers. “God, I was stupid!”
“What happened?” I inch the belt up my body, at the same time forcing my hands against the plastic strip. “Tell me what he did.”
“I was trying to call this guy Ernie, who’d dropped me off. I was going to grab a bite to eat with him and his girlfriend, Lisa, before they took me back to my car. Then I hear a sound in the bushes behind me and it’s that guy holding a gun, calling me a bitch and a lying thief.”
“Until he realized you weren’t me.”
“Right. But that didn’t matter.” Chelsea bends over the plastic bottle, seizing it
with her teeth and lifting it to tip water into her mouth. I watch her struggle, her chest heaving with every swallow, water spilling down her chin. She lets the near-empty bottle fall into her lap, then digs back into the bag.
“He held the gun on me, forcing me to get into his car and making me drive it here. I kept looking for a chance to run a red light, crash into something, but—hang on, found it!” She pulls out the nail clippers and twists her fingers to pry them open.
“So he locked you up here, then left—”
“With my car keys, yeah. Like an idiot, I’d told him where the car was parked. I kept hoping Ernie would see him taking it, but—anyway, an hour or so later, I hear him driving into the garage. He brought me a burrito.” She begins nipping away at the black plastic tie. “Still, I feel sorry for him.”
I don’t respond, knowing Chelsea isn’t aware that Joe killed her mother. I expand and contract my chest, shrugging my shoulders to work my way out of the belt.
“Joe’s a night watchman at the towing yard. I suspect that’s where he’s moving my car. I figure we have ten minutes, tops. How are you doing, Chelsea?”
“Close, close,” she mumbles, then lifts a hand with the cut strap dangling from her wrist. “Let me get my feet undone, then I’ll free you.” She shifts on the air mattress, pulling my Jinx hat, scuffed and flattened, from under the blanket. “Sorry, no time to practice.” She flicks it across the floor to me.
“Bad girl. You shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.” I grunt, exerting as much strength as I can muster to loosen the belt around my arms. “I bet you were wearing it when you walked out of the gates, right?”
“You think this is a bad karma thing because of your dumb hat?” She cuts through the strap binding her feet, giving me a triumphant look.
“Yeah, because it made him think you were me—wait, he’s back!”
We both freeze at the sound of the garage door creaking open. I barely breathe listening to the scrape as the door is closed again. There’s a shuffling sound, then the clatter of something metal. The car door is unlatched and a moment later, the engine is started.
Jinxed Page 25
