by Joanna Wayne
“But why go after them instead of arresting Quinton?” Matilda protested. “There’s no way they could be involved. They’re both here all night, every night. I told him that. And they’ve never been in trouble with the police.”
“Never?”
“Almost never. Alana shoplifted a lipstick from the drugstore when she was twelve. The clerk called the police and the officer scared her so bad she claims she’s never even eaten a grape in the produce aisle since.”
“What about Sam?”
“He’s never been arrested.”
“Still, maybe you should get a lawyer.”
“I called one this morning,” Matilda said. “My friend Johnny gave me the name of one of his customers who’s a defense attorney. I’m waiting on him to call me back. But I thought I should ask you first. I was afraid lawyering up would make all of us look guiltier.”
“I think you’d be wise to hire an attorney.”
“Then I will. I never thought it would come to this, especially after I cooperated with the detective and basically told him how to find Quinton.”
“Are you saying that you know where Quinton is staying?”
“I don’t have an address, but I gave Detective Lane the names of the thugs Quinton hung out with when he lived in Dallas before. I even gave him the names of the sluts he’d dated—at least the ones I knew about. And I told him the names of some of the bars where Quinton used to hang out.”
“How did you know those?”
“He used to talk about them. He liked playing the part of the good-time guy until he’d run into trouble and need help from me. I was the enabler. I knew that even then, but it’s hard not to help your only brother when he’s in trouble and begging for your help.”
“Give me the same information about Quinton that you gave the detective, Matilda. Start by describing him in detail for me so that I’ll recognize him if I run into him on the street. Height, weight, tattoos. Leave nothing out.”
“He’ll be easy to spot. His arms and even his neck are covered in tattoos and there’s an old, jagged scar that runs from his hairline down his right cheek from where our drunk father took a knife to him when he was ten years old.”
So Quinton had learned his ways from his father. That explained a lot. But then some of the guys Adam had served with in the military had similar stories from their youth and had turned out to be model marines.
In the end, it was all about the choices they’d made.
“You don’t want to get involved with Quinton, Adam. He’s guard-dog mean and he’s got friends who are just as mean or meaner. Quinton used to brag that one of them shot and killed two unarmed men in cold blood and got away with it.”
“I fought the Taliban for years, Matilda. I’m used to mean. Just give me the information.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I consider myself warned.”
Finally, there might be something he could do to help rescue his daughters.
* * *
SAM HAD BEEN so nervous after talking to Lane that he’d rammed his fist through the wall. That fact played and replayed in Adam’s mind all the way into Dallas. That was why the school where Sam was taking summer classes was his first stop.
Adam watched as students left the building in clusters and took the walkway to the parking lot. Finally he spotted him, walking with two other young men about the same age and height as he was.
He was dressed as Matilda had said, but Sam was not the clean-cut, innocent-looking kid Matilda presented him as. He was at least a couple of inches over six feet tall, muscled, and he needed a shave and a decent haircut.
He parted from the other two guys in the parking lot and climbed behind the wheel of a Buick that had seen better days several years ago, the same car Matilda had said he’d be driving.
Adam pulled in behind him and followed him out of the lot. It was possible that Sam might lead him back to the Bastion home. But Adam had a strong hunch that Sam might lead him straight to his uncle Quinton.
Sam took the I-20 freeway and exited east of downtown. Adam kept on his tail but a few cars back until Sam pulled into a parking spot in front of a pawnshop in one of Dallas’s seedier areas. Adam parked a few spaces down from him, staying behind the wheel of his truck until Sam entered a small, neighborhood café.
Adam took a cold beer from the cooler in the bed of his truck. It was important to fit in when hanging out on the streets of a neighborhood like this one.
He found a spot in the shadows of a decaying building across the street from the café. He could easily see who came and went and had a view of some of the booths through the large, dirty windows that lined the front of the café.
Sam took the last empty booth along the row of windows. Adam moved a few steps to the right so that he had a better view. He pulled the bill of his Dallas Cowboys cap low over his forehead and slouched against the building.
He watched as Sam spoke to a waitress. She returned a few minutes later with what appeared to be a Coke over ice. Sam pushed a straw into the drink and sipped, but his gaze stayed focused on the front door as if he were waiting for someone.
Hopefully, Quinton.
Sam finished that drink and ordered another without ever looking at the menu.
Twenty minutes later, he still hadn’t ordered and no one had joined him. But there was no way Sam had driven fifteen miles to order a Coke and drink it by himself.
When the waitress brought Sam the tab, Adam decided he’d waited for Quinton to show up as long as he dared. He crossed the street, walked into the café and straight to the booth where Sam was leaving money to cover his tab.
Sam paid no attention to him until Adam was standing directly over him, blocking his way out of the booth.
He looked up at Adam. “You got a problem, man?”
“No, I’m just here to talk.”
Sam tried to push past him. Strength was on Sam’s side, but Adam had the advantage since Sam was hemmed in between the booth and the bench.
Adam shoved him back into his seat. “You’re a long way from home, Sam. What brings you to the hood?”
“None of your business. You’re not a cop.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I saw your picture in the paper. You’re Hadley O’Sullivan’s boyfriend.”
“You just won round one.”
“My mother told you to follow me, didn’t she?”
“Oops. Lost round two. I’m here on my own. Now answer the question. What are you doing in this hellhole neighborhood?”
“Spreading the wealth.”
“Try again.”
Sam spread his hands in front of him, palms up. “Okay, you got me. I’m here to buy some crack like most everyone else in this greasy dive. But don’t run tattle to Mom. She doesn’t really want to know, plus she’s got enough worries right now. So do you.”
“Here’s the problem, Sam. I don’t think you’re here to buy crack or anything else. I think you’re here to meet your uncle Quinton.”
“What if I am? Is there a law against that?”
“There’s a law against stealing little girls from their beds and trying to collect a ransom for them.”
“You’re not pinning that on me. Man, I’m clean. I’m not crazy enough to get involved in a kidnapping.”
“Here’s a shocker, Sam. I don’t believe you. So let’s make a deal, man-to-man. You tell me where to find Quinton or the missing girls and I won’t call Detective Lane and tell him where you are right now. I won’t even mention that I’ve got evidence to prove you’re working with Quinton.”
“You’ve got no proof of anything. I’m not working with my uncle. No way. I know what you’re trying to do, but you’re not getting me to confess to kidnapping.”
“Too bad.” Adam took out his phone. “I guess we’ll just have to let Detective Lane work this out.”
Sam put his hand on top of Adam’s as he started to punch in the phone number. “
I’ll tell you how to find my uncle, but I swear I don’t know anything about that kidnapping.”
That remained to be seen.
* * *
QUINTON STOOD HIDDEN behind a Chevy van, watching as Adam and Sam stepped out of the café and into the glaring sunlight.
He had no doubt that Adam had followed Sam here hoping that he’d lead him to Quinton. Fortunately Quinton was too smart for him. He’d expected and prepared for something exactly like this. He’d spotted Adam even before he’d finished his beer.
Quinton would catch up with Sam. He’d make damn sure that Adam didn’t, at least not in time to get in Quinton’s way. The man might be tough when he had his marine buddies to back him up, but he was on Quinton’s turf now.
All it would take was a phone call.
* * *
ADAM ROUNDED THE corner and started up the next block. The houses were old and run-down, paint peeling, shutters broken or missing, old cars and rusted toys and appliances scattered about the yards the way people in more expensive neighborhoods did with shrubbery and flower beds.
A drug deal was going down on the next corner with no regard of him, a passing truck or three boys who looked to be about eight or nine who were riding by on their bikes. A shotgun house in the middle of the block had its windows boarded up. Another had a half-rotted porch with a front door that hung askew.
According to Matilda, Quinton had rented an efficiency apartment in a house two blocks farther down Pickford Street before he’d faked his death. He’d spent even more time in Mitzi’s, a neighborhood bar that was so rough that even the cops avoided it—or so Quinton used to boast to Matilda.
According to Sam, Quinton still hung out at Mitzi’s and he figured Adam would find him there if he cased the joint for awhile. Adam would—if it came to that.
Adam motioned to the boys as they rode by on their bikes. Only one turned around and came back to see what he wanted. Adam pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his front jeans pocket.
“What I got to do for that?” the boy asked.
“Answer a couple of questions.”
“That’s all I have to do to get the twenty?”
“That’s it, as long as I’m convinced you’re telling the truth.”
“What you want to know?”
Adam described Quinton, especially the unique patterns of his massive tattoos. “Have you seen him?”
“Once. I think he’s new around here.”
“When was that?”
“Two days ago. We were riding by on our bikes and he was standing on the porch of the big gray house. We slowed down to get a better look at the tattoos. He flexed his muscles and it made the eagles look like they were flying.”
“What big gray house?”
“The one in the next block. On the other side of the street. Got bullet holes in the front window. A bunch of ’em. There was a drive-by a few weeks ago. Nobody got killed, though.”
Adam handed the boy a twenty and reached into his pocket for another one.
The boy looked at him suspiciously. “What else you want to know?”
“Have you ever seen the man with the flying eagle tattoos with twin girls? They have red hair. They’re young, not three years old yet.”
“Nope. I’ve never seen any kids at all around that gray house.”
That didn’t prove the girls weren’t there. Adam wouldn’t have expected Quinton to parade them around the neighborhood, not when news of the abduction had gone virile.
He handed the boy the second twenty and started walking.
The big, gray house came into view as soon as he reached the corner. He stopped to assess his chances of sneaking in.
He heard footsteps but before he could turn around, something crashed into him from behind, knocking him to the pavement. His head hit the concrete and the world went blurry for a second. By the time he could see straight, feet were coming at him from every direction.
He tried to stand but the kicks were too many and too vicious. There were three guys, all big and muscular and all three enjoying themselves.
He tried to fight back, but they kicked him in his stomach, his chest, his head and even his thighs. He doubled over in pain as blood dribbled from the side of his mouth.
Before his injuries, he might have been able to hold his own with two of the men. But three guys this size against one would have been formidable odds even when he’d been in top form.
“That’s enough,” one of the men ordered. “Quinton said not to kill him, just to make him wish he were dead.”
So Quinton was behind this. He should have known.
Finally, the kicks and the curses stopped altogether. He tried to get up but he writhed in pain and threw up on the sidewalk.
He closed his eyes and lay there, struggling for the strength to stand. The pain was excruciating, but nothing like what he’d endured in Afghanistan. Then he’d begged to die. Now he just wanted to get up and get moving again.
His daughters might be a few yards away, imprisoned by a madman.
“Did you find what you came for?”
Adam saw the shadow and looked up to see who was talking.
At least he no longer had to look for Quinton. Quinton had found him.
Chapter Twelve
“It’s a tough neighborhood,” Quinton said. “It’s not really safe to walk around here by yourself unless you’re in the members’ club.”
“Go to hell.” Adam spit out another mouthful of blood.
“First Detective Lane, now you. I seem to be growing more popular by the hour.”
“Where are Hadley’s daughters?”
“Beats me. From what I hear, their mother is the most credible suspect. But you come in a close second, Adam. Can’t say that I blame you if you are guilty. Who wants to put up with another man’s kids?”
Adam struggled to stand. Quinton offered a hand. He ignored it.
Quinton smiled. “Since you came all the way out here, you might as well come inside, shoot the breeze, check out the closets and look under the beds.”
“And have you sic your attack dogs on me again?”
Quinton pulled a pistol from his waistband. “I’ll tell you what, Adam. Just to show you what a trusting guy I am, you carry the weapon. It’s loaded. I’ll show you the clip to prove it.”
He did and then he handed the gun to Adam. “The door’s unlocked. Stay as long as you like. Help yourself to a shot of whiskey to help dull the pain. But you’d best check every nook and cranny in the house while you’re in there. Show up again and I’ll kill you as an intruder.”
Quinton turned and walked away from the house leaving Adam alone with a pistol and a body that was so bruised he could barely move.
He staggered to the house and onto the porch. He knew he wouldn’t find the girls. But just maybe he’d find some sign that they’d been there. There might even be another video planted inside with directions for handling the exchange.
That was his best hope for anything good coming out of this venture into Quinton Larson’s world.
Two hours later, he went back to the kitchen and poured a double shot of whiskey into a glass. He downed it in one gulp. If there was any hint that Lila and Lacy had ever been inside this house, he hadn’t found it.
Yet he was more certain than ever that Quinton was behind the kidnapping. But if Quinton had realized that his chances of getting away with this were going down the toilet, he might have panicked and gotten rid of all evidence against him.
It would take a monster to kill two innocent children. Quinton fit that description to a tee.
But he wouldn’t give up hope yet. Nor could he go on like this. He took out his phone and called Meghan Lambert. If she had any pull with the FBI, now was the time to use it.
They needed every advantage possible on their side.
* * *
SHELTON LANE PULLED the fax from the machine. This is what he’d been waiting for. Now he dreaded reading it. Not that he had a choice. He was a c
op. Evidence had to rule.
He read it through twice, making sure he’d absorbed every detail. The facts were there. Adam Dalton was the biological father of the twins.
The girls’ DNA had been easy to come by. It had been on the glass of water Hadley had taken to the kitchen during the night. Adam’s had been more difficult to get. He’d had to go all the way to the hospital in Germany where Adam had gone through two years of recovery and rehab.
Too many lies usually equaled guilt.
Ironically, he’d been almost sure that Hadley was behind the disappearance from day one. Doors locked. Windows locked. Alarm not set. Ransom letter sent before the abduction. Boyfriend who shows up from out of the blue. A rich mother.
He hadn’t seen Hadley as a child killer, but he had more trouble ruling out that she’d planned the kidnapping to get some of her mother’s money.
And then he’d met Quinton Larson. The more the scumbag had talked, the more convinced the detective was of his guilt. But it turned out his alibi was almost airtight for the time of the abduction. He’d been caught on the security camera going in his girlfriend’s apartment early evening and out the next morning at 9:22.
Lane looked up at a tapping on his door.
“Got a minute?” the police chief asked. “It’s important.”
“Then I’ve got a minute. And a fax.” He handed it to the chief.
The chief read it and tossed it back to Lane’s desk. “That goes right along with what I came in to discuss.”
“I thought it might.”
“The mayor got a call from the FBI. They’re requesting that they be invited in on the case.”
“And I take it he’s not too keen on that,” Lane said.
“No, and neither am I, not when we have as much credible evidence against Hadley O’Sullivan as we do. If they walk right in and make an arrest, we’ll look like buffoons.”
“I’m not completely sure Hadley is guilty,” Lane said. “I can’t rule out that Quinton either abducted the girls or masterminded the whole thing.”
“Do you have evidence to back that up?”
“Not a shred. Just a hunch that there are still some loose ends that can’t be tied up yet.”
