Since he had never planned an event this far in advance, he relished the anticipation. Stalking and watching his victim, planning every detail of the abduction, added so much excitement to his game. Much more tantalizing than trolling for an opportunity to present itself.
He could already see her in his mind’s eye: gagged and bound spread-eagle in his playroom. She would be naked, her eyes glazed with terror. He’d tell her everything he was going to do first to increase her fear. There was nothing like the smell of purely feminine panic. Someone should bottle it as perfume.
He smiled as a new thought occurred to him. Maybe he would hold on to her for a few days. Add yet another new element to the game.
Did he dare? Of course he did.
In fact, they could make a weekend of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
James stepped back into the crowd of reporters and snapped another picture. Resting the camera on its strap, he brushed aside the fake press pass that dangled from a cord around his neck.
At the ribbon cutting ceremony for a pea-sized patch of mulch converted from vacant lot to playground, Congressman Baker was giving a speech on family values, laying on the bullshit thick as cream cheese. Total media whore. Couldn’t get enough press. Which was OK with James because no one noticed an extra reporter.
Dickwad was a busy man, constantly attending charity events and giving speeches, soaking up attention like a dry sponge.
Christ. If James really had to do this for a living, he’d eat a bullet.
Behind the podium Baker hemorrhaged lies; James blocked out the sound. Warm and dry, the early morning sunlight heated his back as he lifted the camera again.
Did Baker really think rolling up the sleeves of a Turnbull & Asser dress shirt magically transformed him into a workingman? There was no way those Ferragamo oxfords would ever be confused with a pair of Dockers.
James glanced around him at the sea of dark blue, tropical weight wool. Didn’t matter. This was Washington, DC. No real people here anyway. Even the media looked bored. Nothing less than murder or sordid sexual scandal got their juices flowing. They’d probably heard it all, but they kept the cameras rolling anyway. Meanwhile, up-and-coming Congressman Baker looked like a fucking movie star on TV.
Baker waved to the crowd and stepped down from the dais. James snapped a continuous stream of pictures as the congressman moved toward the black Town Car parked at the curb and conferred with a slightly younger, dark-haired man, his aide, Aaron Myers. The television news crews kept pace, shoving microphones in front of Baker’s face in a last-ditch effort to get one more comment.
Baker raised a hand and flashed the press a final, commercial-worthy smile.
So far, James hadn’t come up with any dirt on Golden Boy Baker, but it wasn’t for lack of effort. He’d researched Beth’s supposed disappearance. Baker was claiming his wife had tried to commit suicide then run away. But James knew better. There was no way Beth had ever tried to kill herself. She was too devoted to her children. And there was nothing wrong with her mental state. Baker must have set her up.
But why?
After the police investigation had stalled, Baker’d hired some very expensive private investigators. They were still on his payroll. Evidence to the public that the politician was devoted to finding his unstable, self-destructive wife. Baker was now the media champion of mental health issues, and still milking a good deal of publicity from Beth’s disappearance a year later.
Through the lens, James watched Myers nod to Baker and pull a PDA from the chest pocket of his tailored suit jacket. The aide tapped on the face with a stylus. A uniformed chauffeur opened the back door, and Myers slid into the car. Baker turned to give the crowd a last wave before joining him.
James lowered the camera and stared. The back of his neck itched.
The next item on Baker’s agenda was a charity luncheon to benefit the homeless. What a world. Only a politician could figure out a way to raise money while eating lobster puffs and drinking champagne.
James knew where Baker was headed because he’d hacked into the congressman’s schedule, which was so full for the next few days that he wouldn’t be making a trip home to his posh Main Line Philadelphia home.
This morning’s vision had been bright enough that he knew he had to get moving. Some nasty shit was headed Beth’s way. He still needed to touch Beth’s silver medal to start the psychic film rolling, though. So he was fairly sure it wasn’t going to happen in the next few days.
James clicked off the digital camera, reached into the thigh pocket of his cargo pants, and snapped the lens cap into place. He’d download today’s pictures onto his laptop as soon as he got back to his hotel. Something nagged at him. Something he’d seen this morning just wasn’t right.
He’d have to trail Baker for just a little longer and cross his fingers that Beth would be OK.
Congressman Richard Baker sat at his desk, his opened and sorted mail stacked in front of him. His secretary had also brought him a cup of excellent coffee. He had an hour to kill before the charity luncheon. He’d just begun to skim through the pile when the intercom beeped at his elbow. Anita connected the incoming call.
“Thirty minutes. You know where.” The line went dead. The taste in his mouth turned acrid.
Blotting his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, he called his driver. Then he gave his aide, Aaron, a quick assignment and asked him to meet him at the luncheon. There was no need for Aaron to get involved. Richard was more than capable of taking care of the situation.
A half hour later, his car drew to a stop next to a sleek Town Car nearly identical to his own in the middle of Arlington National Cemetery. The cars were surrounded by an endless sea of white crosses. Instructing his driver to stay put, he exited his own vehicle and slid into the other sedan.
Privacy glass isolated the rear seat.
A small, lean man sat in the far corner of the back seat, his face concealed in shadow. “I assume, since you paid me last time, that you do not want that DVD sent to the media.”
Sweat trickled down Richard’s back absorbed by his thick Egyptian cotton shirt as he nodded his assent. The man was unimpressive at first glance, but Richard knew those feral black eyes were as vicious as a jackal’s. He’d already taken a chunk out of Richard, and like a true scavenger, he was back for another piece.
“Then you’ll need to make another installment.” The man spoke quietly, but there was no mistaking the malice in his tone. “Same amount. Next week.”
This had all started with one indiscretion shortly after his wedding. He’d been desperate. Staying on the straight and narrow all through his courtship of Elizabeth had proved harder than he’d anticipated. He never should have married her, regardless of the polls. His father had insisted that he needed a family to secure the office. Sure, he’d won the election, but now his secret was out there, floating around with Elizabeth. Ironically, it was a copy of the same DVD this man held that his wife had seen that fateful night when she’d barged in on him.
This asshole was going to bleed him as long as he drew breath. His blackmailer was the only other person who knew his secret, and he knew he’d have to pay up if he wanted to keep it that way.
Richard straightened his tie. “I don’t have access to that kind of cash.”
“I don’t want to hear excuses, and don’t get snotty with me, pretty boy. That’s your problem, not mine. The folks at CNN would love to get their hands on your debut film.”
Richard’s throat constricted. He gritted his teeth and nodded.
Back in his own car, he put on his happy face and proceeded directly to the luncheon, where he did what he did best: he acted. He returned to his office later that afternoon grim but determined. It was time he asked for some assistance with this situation. This time next week, his blackmailer would be receiving last rites instead of payment.
Richard pushed the intercom on his desk. “Anita, please phone my father’s secretary and find out when he’ll be back from New
York. Tell her it’s important.” He sat back in his leather chair. His gaze drifted to the window.
No doubt about it. The man had him by the gonads and was likely to haunt him forever. To add to his load, the men his father hired were still unable to find Elizabeth after that debacle in Virginia. It was all her fault, really. Not only couldn’t she satisfy him, but she’d spied on him, her own husband. Then she ran away, publicly humiliating him. Now she was a loose end that he simply couldn’t afford to leave untied.
Unforgivable.
As soon as they found her, he would make her pay. Difference scenarios flipped through his brain. It had to be painful, and not too quick. She deserved to be punished, and he’d earned the pleasure her punishment would give him. The thought of his father’s men taking care of her left him feeling distinctly unsatisfied. His dad’s man Johnson could handle the blackmailer. After all, that was business. Elizabeth’s betrayal was personal.
A special news report flashed on the television in the corner cabinet of his office. He reached for the remote and increased the volume. The reporter on the screen provided the details of yet another woman’s body found in a waterway, this time very close to his Southeastern Pennsylvania constituency, possibly an additional victim of the Riverside Killer.
An image took shape in his mind.
Raped, strangled, and tortured.
Perfect.
He shifted his gaze to Elizabeth’s picture, which still stood on his credenza. As he stared, he pictured her naked body under his, his hands wrapped around her neck, his thumbs pressing down on her windpipe, her final breath leaving her lungs as he forced the life out of her body. The vision was the only fantasy he’d ever entertained about his wife.
Fear and pain were the ultimate aphrodisiacs.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Thanks, Wes.” Jack placed the receiver in its charger and leaned back in his chair. After three days of searching, his former partner had found nothing on Beth Ann Markham from Virginia. It was as if she didn’t exist.
Wes’s call wasn’t much of a surprise. But why would she change her name? What kind of trouble could she be in? It didn’t seem likely she was on the run from the law. Beth epitomized the whole suburban soccer mom package. All she needed was a minivan and a PTA bumper sticker.
So now what was he going to do?
If he confronted her, she’d skip. No question.
Would that be such a bad thing? Did he need this hassle in his miserable life right now? He could barely keep his hands off her, but she still didn’t want anything to do with him. Limping around with a semi from dawn to dark was making him irritable.
Why had his uncle hired her?
Jack opened the humidor on the corner of the antique oak desk and selected a premium Dominican. He drew the cigar under his nose and inhaled deeply. The worn leather behind his head was infused with the smell of his uncle’s expensive cigars, as was everything in the room. He should look on the bright side of his new life. He’d never been able to afford these on a cop’s salary. Good scotch had been a rare treat as well, reserved for visits to his uncle.
Visits that had been few and far between in the last few years.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he rose, limped to the credenza across the room, and poured two fingers of single malt into a crystal tumbler. Jack wandered to the far wall, covered in framed photos of his uncle’s life. A multitude of familiar faces smiled at him, pictures from weddings, christenings, and other family events. There was a section devoted to Danny’s travels and his army career. His uncle had toured Europe and South America extensively. At the far side of the room, Jack’s eyes lit on a few grainy images of Danny’s unit in Vietnam. His uncle had never, ever talked about that war. Not once. Jack had sensed Danny’s experiences in Southeast Asia had been the stuff of nightmares. There were a half dozen photos, though, all placed at eye level. Danny hadn’t wanted to forget that chapter in his life, however painful it had been.
Jack found his uncle easily in five of the pictures. Danny had been career military, somewhere in his mid-forties during the Vietnam War. According to Jack’s mother, Danny was injured in ‘68. Though his physical injures hadn’t been serious, he’d retired. Would’ve made colonel if he’d stayed in longer.
The last picture didn’t seem to fit the others of Danny and his fellow officers, men he’d been close to, in off-duty type activities. The last shot was a small group of men, taken from a distance as they gathered next to a helicopter. There was something different about these guys. Something edgy. Jack leaned closer, but the images were too small and he couldn’t see much detail.
With a sigh, he paced back to the desk and lifted out the tray from the humidor in search of a cigar cutter.
An envelope rested on top of the next row of stogies.
Jack picked it up. His name was scrawled in Uncle Danny’s handwriting across the front.
Shit.
Jack opened the envelope and unfolded the letter.
Jack,
If you’re sitting at my desk smoking my cigars, then I guess this feeling in my gut is right on target. Haven’t been up to snuff these last few weeks. Well, damn. Don’t grieve too much. I’ve had a great life, much longer than I thought I’d get on this earth, considering.
I hope you accept your inheritance and its conditions for two reasons. You need to settle down, establish some roots, be near your family. And I still need a favor from you. Aye, here’s the rub.
I hired a woman to take over as caretaker. I need you to look after her for me. She’s in some sort of danger. Sorry, I don’t have any more details. This is a favor for someone I owe the last forty years of my life to. And obviously I’m unable to satisfy the debt. She has no idea the job’s a setup to keep her safe, so keep that to yourself. I trust you’ll take care of the situation.
I’ll miss you boys. Enjoy these cigars with Quinn and Sean. Nothing’s more important than family. I learned that the hard way.
Danny
P.S. There’s another case of The Macallan in the basement.
The letter dropped to the leather blotter.
Son of a bitch.
Well, that certainly answered a few of Jack’s questions. And raised about three zillion more.
Thunder boomed and Jack glanced out the window. Pregnant black clouds blotted out the evening sky. A door slammed. Ben called for his sister as footsteps thudded on hardwood.
Jack set the glass and unlit cigar on the desk next to the letter and headed for the hall. The boy never ran in the house. Or yelled, for that matter.
“Ben, is something wrong?”
“Yeah, I can’t find Katie. She’s really afraid of loud noises. This storm’s gonna freak her out. Mom told me to stay with her. I—I just turned around for a second to shut the door. The wind was pushing it.” The boy raked a hand through his hair.
Before Jack could speak, the lights went out. Another crash of thunder vibrated the windowpanes.
“It’s not your fault, Ben. Don’t worry,” Jack assured him. “She came in the house with you, right?”
Ben gave a quick nod.
“Then she’s here somewhere.” Jack rummaged around in the hall closet in the dark and came out with two heavy-duty flashlights.
“OK.” Ben took one and switched it on. “Where’s Henry? He’ll find her.”
Jack held back a snort of laughter. The children thought Henry was Lassie reincarnated. “You look down here. Check all the closets, under the furniture, behind the drapes. I’ll take upstairs. OK?”
Ben ducked into the living room. “I found Henry. He’s hiding under the coffee table. His teeth are chattering. Is he afraid of thunder, too?”
“Yeah, he is. Doesn’t it figure?” Jack shook his head.
On the way up, Jack leaned heavily on the banister, but he made it. He turned into the first bedroom, obviously Beth’s. Shining the light under the dresser, he absorbed the details in the room as he searched. He couldn’t help himself. Once a cop, al
ways a cop. And geez, this was a moral search warrant, the perfect excuse for him to poke around in Beth’s room without feeling guilty about invading her privacy.
He found a couple of empty duffel bags in the bottom of the closet. Minimal clothing and few personal effects. No Katie.
He checked the attached bath. Jack had never seen a woman’s medicine cabinet that wasn’t full to bursting. Yet Beth only had a couple of cosmetic items—and a box of black hair dye. He’d been right. That color wasn’t natural.
There was one surprise. Over the shower curtain rod. Bras and panties hung in a sexy row of skimpy lace and satin that made Jack’s mouth water. That black satin thong, the item of his most recent sordid dreams, dangled at eye level next to a tiny white number adorned with flowers on the back strings.
Holy hard-on, Batman!
There was definitely no time to stand here and wonder what kind of panties Beth was wearing right now, yet in the blink of an eye, Jack’s mind conjured up a picture of Beth wearing that little white thong. The yellow flowers would nestle under those two dimples she’d have at the base of her spine. He’d run his tongue…Damn.
You are in big trouble, O’Malley.
Jack reminded himself he was looking for a scared child and moved on. He entered the next room, Katie’s. Nothing under the bed. A backpack in the closet contained most of the little girl’s clothes. Apparently, she wasn’t ready to unpack. Sadly, it occurred to Jack she wasn’t sure how long she was staying. A stuffed giraffe was tucked under the covers in the bed.
The beam of light moved across a few well-used children’s paperbacks on the dresser: Clifford the Big Red Dog, Henry and Mudge. No wonder Katie loved Henry so much. He was a shoe-in.
Jack moved to Ben’s room. The kid had fewer possessions than soldiers kept in a military barracks. Paperback editions of the entire Harry Potter collection sat on the nightstand. Wait, what was that sticking out of Ben’s copy of The Chamber of Secrets? A photograph.
She Can Run Page 10
