That last sentence made Jordan look up. Watching her? Whipping her head around, she studied all the passersby, looking for someone lurking behind a post or in a corner. From what she could tell, no one stood watching her, no one seemed to be looking her way, no one made eye contact. But surely, one of the people there was the man who wrote the note.
A ripple of fear replaced her exhilaration. Who was this person she was dealing with? He called himself a friend, but she knew that his motives were purely mercenary.
What was she letting herself in for? What kind of danger was she facing? Unsteady, she rose from the bench, clutched the envelope to her chest and walked briskly toward the exit doors. When she got outside, she ran for the parking lot as though she were being pursued by bloodhounds.
Chapter 7
Dom was at the West L.A. courthouse for maybe the tenth time this year. The courtrooms all looked the same, brown paneled walls, rows of gray seats for spectators, shabby linoleum floor. A partition separated the public from the judge, the lawyers and the defendant. Today, the latter was Joe Hogan, a guy with a long record.
Joe claimed that the person captured on the jewelry store’s hidden camera wasn’t really him, but his long-lost twin brother. The fact that Joe was caught with the stolen jewelry meant his twin brother had set him up.
To her credit, the public defender who was lucky enough to be assigned this one defended him with spirit and enthusiasm. But not success. The case was wrapped up in two hours and Dom was free to go.
What he should do, he knew, was to head crosstown to West Hollywood. But he was in West L.A., near Riches and Rags.
Which brought up thoughts of Jordan. Or more of them. All morning in the courtroom, he’d been thinking about her. When he’d seen her on Saturday evening, she’d said she’d call the next day, which was yesterday—Sunday. She hadn’t called. Now here it was Monday, noon. He went to the pay phone, called in to the precinct to check his messages.
Nothing from Jordan.
Okay, he thought, hanging up but keeping his hand on the receiver. Things like this happened, he told himself. In fact, Dom reasoned, he wasn’t always real good about following up on phone calls. So what he knew he should do was forget it—leave the ball in her court. That was what he should do.
Should. Great word. Usually used during a war between what was the right thing to do versus what a person really wanted to do.
What he wanted was to hear from Jordan, to be with her. His gut instinct backed him up on this one. There was heat between them that couldn’t be tossed away or ignored. Yeah, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
So then why hadn’t she contacted him?
Could be a lot of things, of course, but coming up with her reasons when he wasn’t in her head wasn’t a real smart thing to do. What was also not smart was to drop in on her again. He remembered her telling Lisa she’d see her on Monday, so he knew where she was. Riches and Rags. About three blocks from the courthouse. Still, a guy had some pride.
Disgusted with all this analyzing, he picked up the phone and called the shop.
“Riches and Rags,” announced an unfamiliar voice.
“Jordan Carlisle, please.”
“Who’s this?”
“Lisa?” he asked.
“No, I’m Gretl.”
“Oh. Well, Gretl, do me a favor and tell Jordan it’s Dom.”
“Will do.”
What felt like several minutes passed. He fidgeted, had a sudden craving for a cigarette. But those days were over, so he popped a stick of gum into his mouth. More time passed. He played with the foil gum wrapper, got irritated. Being kept on hold was not his favorite way to spend his free time.
Finally, the same voice came on the line. “I’m sorry. Jordan can’t come to the phone right now.”
Oh, yeah? he thought, but he took in a quick breath and made himself sound civil. “Would you mind asking her to call me?” He gave her his pager number, then took himself off to a favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch.
Two hours later, when he hadn’t heard from her, Dom went to another pay phone and punched in the shop’s number. Either she really was too busy to speak to him, he figured, or this was her way of telling him to get lost. If she didn’t want to see him again, he wanted to hear it straight from her mouth. Did she think he was the kind who would get the hint and just fade away? If she was under that impression, she didn’t know Dominic D’Annunzio.
This time Jordan answered. “Riches and Rags. How may I help you?”
“You can help me by talking to me.”
She expelled a breath, then said quietly, “Dom.”
“Got it in one.” He waited. In his present sullen frame of mind—which he suspected was more of an overreaction than the situation warranted—if he said anything, it might be the wrong thing.
“It’s nice to hear from you,” Jordan said.
“Is it?”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, I was supposed to call you yesterday, wasn’t I?” She emitted another sigh. “I got a little, um, distracted.”
Something in her voice—a disturbing undertone—made him sit up straighter in his chair. His irritability vanished. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said with feigned lightness. “Just some... family problems.”
Maybe there really were family problems, and maybe there weren’t, but she was lying. He knew it immediately in his gut and by the way his cop antennae were beginning to hum. “Hey, anything I can do? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Her sharp intake of breath let him know he was in the ballpark. “Dom, I—” She cut herself off in mid-sentence. “No, there’s nothing.”
“What, Jordan?” he insisted. “Talk to me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said much too quickly. “I need to help out a customer. Bye.”
She hung up so abruptly, the sound made his head jerk back. As he stared at the receiver, a couple of impressions registered at the same time. Yes, Jordan had been avoiding him, but no, it was not because he’d been pushing her into a physical relationship.
It was something else, something she was both panicked about and didn’t want to share with him—maybe even needed to keep from him.
The only thing that popped into his head was that she might have received another note about the kid. Might be that, or it could be something totally unrelated.
Whatever it was, he told himself, maybe he should use this as a reason to stay away from her.
Right. Sure. Like he could.
He glanced at his watch. He didn’t really have to get back to the station. Besides, all that was facing him was more paperwork. He’d made a dent in the last pile, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. The paperwork just kept coming.
He walked the three blocks to Riches and Rags and went in. Several customers milled about, but he spied Jordan immediately. She stood behind the front counter, sorting through a pile of what look like jeweled pins that lay on a piece of velvet. As he strode toward her, she glanced up, saw him and seemed to go very still.
“Dom,” she said with an unsteady smile as he approached. “What are you doing here?” He got that she was trying for casual and offhand, but her body language gave her away. There was a jumpiness about her, even some fear in the eyes.
He went around to her side of the counter, grabbed her hand and headed toward the rear door. “Let’s discuss that, shall we?”
She protested weakly as he hauled her out of the shop and into the alleyway. On either side of the door were piled empty cartons. A high concrete ledge faced a modest parking lot in which were three cars, including Jordan’s Rover. Setting his hands on her shoulders, Dom eased her onto the ledge so that she was sitting. Propping one foot next to her, he leaned an elbow on his bent knee.
“Okay,” he said. “Out with it.”
Jordan wrapped her arms around her midriff protectively. “For your information,” she said with some spirit, “I don’t enjoy being manhandled.”
> “I’ll remember that. And I don’t enjoy being lied to. By the way,” he added easily, “you’re one terrible liar, at least when you lie to me, and I’m an expert.”
“I don’t lie,” she muttered defiantly, but she didn’t look at him, and there was no real heat to her words.
He smiled. “Yeah, I think that’s true, most of the time. So when you have something to hide from me, you don’t do it too well.” The smile left his face. “Come on, Jordan. What’s going on? Talk to me.”
Her answering look was mutinous. “No, I don’t have to, and you have no right—”
He waved away her words. “Don’t start with that bull, okay? Did you get another letter about Michael? Is that the problem?”
She gasped, then said quickly, “No.” Too quickly.
Yeah, his intuition had been right on the money. Another note from the creep who’d sent the first one, and probably another warning about no cops. Which explained Jordan’s whole attitude.
He watched as she lowered her arms, releasing her tight hold on herself. With her right hand she reached for the third finger on the left in that familiar gesture of hers of playing with her rings.
However, only one of those particular articles of jewelry was in evidence.
“What happened to your engagement ring?” he asked.
Her hand jerked back, and she rested a clenched palm on her knees. “What? Oh. It’s out getting cleaned.”
Shaking his head slowly, he chuckled. “Man, if you ever decide to take up lying full-time, you’d better take a class.”
She bit her bottom lip, then made a face of self-disgust. But she didn’t say anything else. Just sat there, mute, looking miserable.
He removed his foot and lowered himself onto the hard concrete ledge next to her. With a frown, he gazed at her for a couple of moments while he thought.
The missing ring added a new element to the puzzle and now he could connect the dots. She’d sold or pawned her ring to come up with money. Reward for information, that first letter had said. Was that it? Ransom for her supposedly still-living kid?
A tide of anger and disgust swept over him. Some piece of crud was yanking her chain, and Dom hated that. When he found him, he’d settle the score. In the meantime he had to take care of Jordan to protect her from any more pain.
He lifted the hand that was in her lap and took it in his. It was clenched tightly. Rubbing his thumb over the knuckles, he said quietly, “Hey, Jordan. Come on. This is me. You know you can trust me.”
He felt her go still. For a brief moment, he even thought she was about to unburden herself. Then she snatched her hand away.
“You want to know what’s going on?” she said with renewed spirit. “Fine. Thanks for the invitation to your bed, but I respectfully decline.”
That one threw him, but only temporarily. His answering bark of laughter seemed to be equally disconcerting to her. “Forget going to bed,” he said. “That can wait. There’s something more going on.”
“No, there isn’t.” She rose, brushed off her skirt and faced him. Her chin came up defiantly, and she continued in that cool, finishing-school way she sometimes had. “I thought about your kind offer the other day, to have sex with you, and I have decided that although I am attracted to you, there is just no room for you, for any man, in my life. It’s not personal,” she added quickly, her gaze less guarded now. “It’s just that I have too many other...matters to deal with.”
Dom sat staring at her. Jordan Carlisle was a piece of work. Clapping his hands a few times, he whistled in appreciation. Had to give her credit for the old college try. “Nice speech. Especially that ‘it’s not personal’ part—you even made sure to take care of my tender feelings.” He grinned. “It’s a crock, of course. But nice.”
At his final comment, Jordan’s face fell, and all the defiance seemed to drain from her. Holding her clenched hands to her breast, she begged him with anxious, pleading eyes. “Dom, please. Go away. Just go away. Maybe...maybe you need to forget you ever met me.”
Openmouthed, he stared at her, feeling the first real flicker of disquiet about their relationship since their conversation had begun. Forget he’d met her? Impossible.
What should he do next? Hell, he’d tried reason, tried strong-arming her, he’d tried encouragement, he’d tried sarcasm. No matter what he did, she seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length and he didn’t like it. Especially when he became aware of a sensation in his throat and gut that felt strangely like hurt. This woman had the power to hurt him. Somehow he’d given her that power, but damn it, he would not let that get in the way.
Maintaining eye contact with her for a few silent moments, Dom tried to stare her down. But it didn’t work. They had reached an impasse.
“Jordan,” he said one last time. “I’m trying to help you.”
Her face twisted with regret. “I know.” She seemed on the verge of saying something more, but she closed her mouth and shook her head. “Don’t.”
It was time for him to admit it: Obviously, if he was going to do anything for Jordan, it would have to be without her permission.
“So, is that your last word on the subject?”
“It is,” she replied firmly. “And now I have to get back to work.”
She turned away from him, opened the door and disappeared into the shop, leaving him to stare after her, frustration welling inside, accompanied by a strong sense of desolation.
This section of downtown L.A. wasn’t one of Jordan’s usual haunts. The city was segmented, each community a self-contained entity, so most Angelenos stayed pretty much in their personal areas of work and home. She’d been in this neighborhood a few times, of course, mostly to attend the Music Center’s opera and symphony, and for fund-raisers at USC and the Museum of Modern Art.
But at eight o’clock on a Monday night, only a few blocks from the Civic Center, the city seemed foreign, a strange and threatening animal. And eerily quiet. Here were slums and the symbols that went with the word—liquor stores and check-cashing services, rows of shabby tenements, graffiti-filled walls, litter-strewn vacant lots and shadowed alleyways. Not for the first time, Jordan realized how pampered her life was, how living as she did among the upper reaches of the financial strata made it easy to forget the dark underbelly of American life.
Tense and anxious about the upcoming meeting, Jordan swallowed a surge of fear for her safety as she sought a parking place. She found one a block away from her destination. Tucking her purse under her arm and clutching the lapels of her jacket, Jordan walked quickly and purposefully to Carlo’s.
Above the bar was a neon-lit highball glass and a sign that read Cocktails. Several of the bulbs were burned out, and the whole thing made her feel, not for the first time, as though she were a character in an old black-and-white movie, as though she were about to run into a mysterious man in a slouch hat, an unfiltered cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
Shaking off the sense of unreality, she pulled open the door and walked in. The moment she did, the smell of liquor invaded her nostrils, upsetting her already queasy stomach. She found herself in a dimly lit, seedy-looking room. Her eyes adjusted enough to make out a long counter and a row of bar stools on her left at which sat five or six hunched-over patrons. The lone bartender had a shaved head and wore a large white apron wrapped around his enormous gut.
To her right was a wall of booths with cracked red leather upholstery. As she’d been instructed to do, she made her way to the rear booth and sat down. She could see the whole bar and the entrance door. She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock on the nose.
“Hey!” The gruff male voice startled her, and she looked up.
The bartender was staring at her, not friendly. “You want anything, you have to come up here. We don’t got waitresses.”
“Thank you,” she called, aware that her voice was shaking. “I’m expecting someone.”
He shrugged and went back to staring at a small television situat
ed among a row of liquor bottles.
Jordan kept her hands folded on the table and waited while her tension climbed to a nearly intolerable level. She told herself she had to keep her wits about her, had to act self-possessed, but the truth was she had no idea what to expect from this meeting. Every few moments she glanced at her watch, then focused again on the door.
She closed her eyes for a moment as a wave of hope mixed with anxiety washed over her. Michael. Her baby, her—
“Mrs. Carlisle?”
Her eyelids snapped open and she found herself staring at a young man with a friendly smile on his face. He had short, thinning blond hair, old acne scars on his cheeks, hazel eyes and pale blond eyelashes.
“Yes?” she said breathlessly.
“Glad you could make it.”
“Are you—?”
“‘A Friend.’ In person.”
Jordan wasn’t sure what she’d expected—some hardened criminal type, she supposed, not this small-townish, smiling young man. He wore chinos and a plaid, open-necked shirt. His hands were in his pockets, and he leaned casually against the side of the booth. He just missed being handsome, but he had a pleasant face.
“Want a drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
He sauntered to the bar and ordered a couple of shots of Scotch. She realized he must have been one of the patrons sitting there when she arrived and had probably been observing her, waiting to see if she’d brought anyone with her. When he returned, he slid into the booth on the other side, set his drinks on the table and promptly downed one. When he finished, his gaze roamed the room casually, then returned to her.
“So,” he said. “you saw the picture.”
“Yes.”
“Is it your kid?” Holding up his hand, he laughed. “Don’t answer. If it wasn’t close, you wouldn’t be here.” He took a sip of his second drink. “You have the money?” he asked pleasantly.
The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 12
