The complex had subterranean parking but wasn’t gated, so Dom went around to the back alley and walked down a flight of steps to the garage. He made his way up and down the aisles, on the lookout for either a silver Honda or Wally’s Mercury, not really expecting to see it, but hoping. When he reached the parking space for apartment #206, he stopped and stared. Hard.
Both cars were there, the Honda behind the Merc.
Yes! Dom thought, his fists clenched by his side. Gotcha.
Now he had to think through his options. What he needed to do was check out the guy, size him up—something Dom had gotten real good at in all his years on the force—see if Wally was the kind who’d break easily. If he was, Dom would bring him in, grill him in an interrogation room, get to the bottom of the story and find out just how much of it was real and how much was bull.
Myra existed, that much Dom knew, but much of the rest of the complicated tale Wally had told Jordan could be pure fabrication—the breakdown, the return to the parents’ hometown. Who knew where Myra was, and if there was a little boy with her? If Wally cracked, Dom would detain him in lockup, head up to wherever the kid was, check it out.
If, on the other hand, Wally wasn’t the kind to break easily, then Dom had to approach him from an entirely different direction. Wait for the information from records, get the parents’ address and go there, wherever there was. With this second option, though, it was crucial that he take extreme care not to set off any warning bells in Walter Kaczmarak. Should he knock on the door of the girlfriend’s apartment? he wondered. No, she might do something stupid; besides, he needed to talk to Wally alone.
After moving his car into an empty space in the garage, across from the Honda, Dom settled himself in for however long it took.
Morning sunshine poured in from the open terrace windows as Jordan knocked on the door. From within, Cynthia’s voice responded, “Come in.”
Jordan pushed open the door, carrying the tray with a teapot, a cup, sugar cubes, the way her mother-in-law liked it. She set it on the table in front of the small couch in the sitting room. More light streamed in through the French doors that connected Cynthia’s suite to the pool area. Jordan sat and smiled as Cynthia came out of her dressing room tying the sash of her robe.
“Well, you’re up bright and early,” the older woman said. “How nice. You brought me tea.”
“Yes, I wanted to talk to you.”
She watched as Cynthia sank onto the couch, poured the tea into the china cup, lifted one cube of sugar, then another, with the small silver tongs, dropped them into her cup and stirred the mixture with a spoon. “Yes?” she said.
Jordan thought of the small talk she should be engaging in now, “chatting” about friends, gossip, and so on, before getting to the purpose of her visit. But to do so would feel manipulative. She had news for Cynthia of great importance and had decided to come right out with it.
She paused, took a deep breath and said, “Something’s happened that I think you ought to know about.”
Her mother-in-law glanced up, took in Jordan’s serious face, then put her hand over her heart, as though to protect that fragile organ. “What?”
“It’s not bad news, I promise,” Jordan said quickly. “In fact, it’s good news.”
“Oh, well, that’s better.” She lifted her cup and took a sip of her tea. “Yes?”
“I...have reason to believe that Michael may still be alive.”
Cynthia went still, then she lowered the cup to its saucer. At first her face registered puzzlement. This quickly turned into a look of disbelief, followed by cold fury. She sat up straight. “How dare you?”
Jordan was taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“How dare you say that to me? Michael is dead, as is my son. There is no possible way either of them could be alive. Are you delusional?”
Jordan hadn’t expected this. Possibly she hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t considered this reaction, so caught up had she been in the recent events of her own world. Gently, she put her hand on her mother-in-law’s wrist. The skin was thin, a layer of expensive oil over parchment.
“Cynthia, please listen,” she said carefully. “I’m not imagining any of this, I promise. A man has sent me a picture of a little boy, and I’m sure it’s Michael. There must have been some mix-up during the car crash, and he’s—”
“Picture?” the older woman interrupted. “What picture? Let me see it.”
Dom had the pictures, as well as the letters. “I don’t have it with me. I’m sorry. Dom, Detective D’Annunzio, has it as part of an evidence file. We might have to—”
“You’ve brought in the police?” As Cynthia interrupted again, an expression of horror showed on her face. “Are we going to be bombarded by all that media attention again?”
Jordan shrank back, feeling as though she’d been smacked. Obviously, she’d approached this all wrong. She’d managed to push a couple of Cynthia’s very sensitive buttons. Temporarily at a loss for words, she watched as her mother-in-law’s agitated facial expression deepened.
But there was no way to sweeten the facts, not now that she’d begun, so she plunged ahead. Forcing herself to keep a calm, reasonable tone, Jordan said, “I’ve done nothing, Cynthia. I’m just trying to make you understand the situation. Will you listen?”
Mistrust hung in the air between the two women like heavy vapor. “Michael is dead, Jordan. What sort of fantasy are you involved in? Why are you saying these things? Why are you telling me this?”
“Because this man, the one who sent the pictures, he wants money. I’m hoping we’ll find Michael before we have to pay him any more, but I’m not sure just how it will turn out.”
Again, Cynthia went totally still, then her expression turned cold. “Oh. I see. So that’s what this is about. Money.”
Button number three, Jordan thought as she shook her head. “No, Cynthia, that’s not what this is about, this is not an attempt to get money from you for my own personal use. Have I ever done that? In all the time we’ve lived together, have I ever asked you for money, or acted as though I expected it?”
Pausing, she counseled herself not to let any more resentment show. “This is about my little boy,” she continued as calmly as she could, “your grandson. It’s about doing all I—” Catching herself, she went on, “all we can. I’ve already pawned my engagement ring.” She raised her left hand to show Cynthia her ring finger.
Her mother-in-law’s eyes went wide with horror. “But Reynolds gave you that—”
It was about the only thing he did give me, Jordan wanted to fire back, with the exception of Michael. But, holding her tongue, she lowered her eyes to her lap while the elderly woman continued. “How dare you? How dare you pawn the ring my son gave you?” Tears filled the weak, gray-blue eyes. “He was precious to me, and I miss him more than I can say.”
Awkward and uncomfortable as she felt, nevertheless Jordan couldn’t help feeling sorry for the older woman. She, of all people, understood Cynthia’s pain. Her only child, gone—a horrid, irreversible tragedy. It was the way Jordan had felt this whole past year. They had so much in common, she observed silently, not for the first time. What a waste that they couldn’t talk to each other.
“I’m sorry,” Jordan said, rising slowly. “Sorry I brought it up. It was wrong of me. I’ll take care of it. I won’t bother you again.” She walked to the door, then turned as she heard Cynthia gasp. She waited for her mother-in-law to speak, but she sat there, her tears making narrow wet trails in her recently applied facial powder.
“Are you all right?” Jordan asked. “Shall I get your medicine?”
Cynthia shook her head and made a gesture with her hand indicating that Jordan should leave. She did so, and made her way to the breakfast alcove, where she poured herself a cup of black coffee from the silver pot on the sideboard.
She sank into a chair and sipped her coffee. The chat had been an unmitigated disaster, and she felt awful. What she could have done d
ifferently escaped her, but it didn’t matter, she felt responsible anyway. Cynthia had a way of bringing that out in her.
Last night, after receiving Wally’s latest demand, Jordan had called Dom’s home and left word on his machine, telling him all about the letter and requesting that he speak to her first thing in the morning. He hadn’t called yet. They had to tread carefully now, that much she knew. Things were coming to a head, and the slightest misstep could upset everything.
Exhausted, she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. As she did, a kaleidoscope of images from the past week flashed in her mind’s eye.
Friday night with Dom at Bistro Rodeo and Morgan R’s, returning home to see the second letter from Wally. Working at the shop on Saturday, Sunday spent in a state of nervous agitation, Sunday night at the train station, Monday morning pawning her ring, meeting with Wally that evening.
Tuesday night—the charity dinner and making love with Dom. Wednesday night—last night—the fruitless trip to Bakersfield, followed by more lovemaking.
Days blended into each other, as did all the events: demands for money, secret meetings, waiting for Dom’s contacts to come through with information, the widening of the chasm between her mother-in-law and herself. Her son—the promise of seeing him again dangled in front of her. Dom—the promise of falling in love, deeply in love, for the first time in her life, with a complicated man who was married to his job and who felt guilty about his first wife, a man who had given her the gift of sexual ecstasy but who, even now, didn’t really believe her gut instinct about Michael.
Add to that the hours at the shop and the sleepless nights. She wondered how she was still upright. What she felt like doing was going to sleep for a week. Better yet, she’d like to have a breakdown and let someone else handle all this. Wake her when it was over.
Smiling ruefully, Jordan took another sip of coffee. Time enough for that later, she told herself. After Michael was back. No, as a matter of fact, she would postpone her nervous breakdown till after he graduated college. Again, she smiled, then shook her head. Enough silliness and mental meandering, she told herself. Time to pull back and reassess.
Dom was working the police angle, but Jordan needed to continue working hers. She had to come up with ten thousand dollars in case Dom’s sources didn’t come through in time. She could sell the wedding ring or the Rover. She’d prefer selling the huge diamond engagement ring, but it would take five thousand dollars to get it out of hock first.
What else? She trusted Dom to do all he could, but this was her little boy she was talking about. What if Wally got spooked and disappeared before revealing Michael’s whereabouts? What if Michael had to spend the rest of his childhood with an unstable woman who called herself his mother?
No, Jordan said, her spine stiffening with resolve. That would not happen. She would not allow it.
After sitting in his car for two hours, Dom was rewarded when a youngish man with prematurely thinning blond hair approached the Honda, keys in hand.
Dom was out of his car in an instant. “Hold it,” he called out.
“Huh?” The man looked up.
“Walter Kaczmarak?” As he advanced, flashing his badge, Dom studied Wally’s face and body language. Dom wore his gun in a shoulder holster and, should it become necessary, could whip it out in under a second.
“Yes.” Wally stood still, hands at his side, and looked him right in the eye. As he came nearer, Dom thought he saw something in his expression shift: Both awareness and hostility flashed briefly, but in the blink of an eye they were gone.
Any officer of the law was allowed to question any parolee at any time. Again, Dom flashed his badge, then said “Okay, up against the car, spread ’em.”
Wally did as he was told. He was all cooperation as Dom patted him down. Clean as a whistle.
“What’s this all about?” Wally asked pleasantly. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Just checking you out.” Turning Wally around, Dom stood right in his face, stared hard at him. He knew how to intimidate perps, had used his rough looks and bulky posture quite effectively in the past.
Wally stared back, didn’t flinch for a second. “For what?”
“Possible parole violation, for starters. You’re supposed to be in Bakersfield.”
He was all surprised innocence. “Just taking a couple of days to visit my girl, that’s all. I check in regular.”
Again, Dom picked up on the hostility in Wally’s eyes, but again, it was gone as quickly as before. Then his thin mouth curved into a good-natured smile, one that contained a hint of smugness. “Is it a crime to visit my girl?”
The guy was good, Dom had to admit. Real good.
What Dom wanted to do was to smash his nose, wipe that smug smile off it. But that was, as Steve would say, counterproductive, especially in an open parking lot where there might be witnesses. And Dom had a feeling the guy would stand up to whatever good cop-bad cop stuff he and Steve would throw at him.
Not that he could, anyway. Hell, there wasn’t even a case opened yet, no accusation, no charges filed, no reason to bring him in.
“Then there’s the matter of a couple of video store robberies,” Dom told him, still an inch from his face, “last week. They had your MO stamped all over them.”
Wally raised his hands, palms out. “Hey, not me. Like I said, I’m innocent as a twelve-year-old virgin.” He smiled again. “But, if you need to take me in, Officer, let’s do it. I need to call my lawyer.”
The son of a bitch was calling his bluff. Dom glared at him, moved in a little closer, again saw the instant of hostility, this time accompanied by a touch of fear in the eyes. “That’s your nght,” Dom growled.
“Hey, listen. I didn’t do a thing. And there’s no way I’m going back there. I didn’t like it in state prison.”
“Yeah, I can understand that.”
“But I want to cooperate, Detective, so whatever you need to do, I guess you’d better do it.” He held up his hands, wrists together, inviting Dom to cuff him.
He wanted to put his fingers around the guy’s throat, say, “Cut the crap, where’s the kid?” He wanted to haul him in, get him in an interrogation room and go to work on him, get the lowdown on whatever scam he was running. But his instinct told him he was in danger of crossing a line. He’d crossed a lot of lines since Jordan had come into his life.
So he held back, stepped away, his mind working furiously. making sure nothing showed on his face. He was at option two: Perp not intimidated, so do nothing to set off any alarms.
“Okay this time,” he told Wally. “But I may be back. And next time, be sure to tell your parole officer where you are. Or you’ll find your sorry ass back in the slammer.”
“Jordan, phone,” Lisa called from the front counter.
She hurried to where Lisa was balancing the receiver between her cheek and her shoulder while she rang up a sale. “Is it Dom?”
“I don’t think so.”
Jordan smiled at the customer, then grabbed the receiver. “This is Jordan.”
“You screwed up, Mrs. Carlisle.”
She recognized the voice instantly. It was Wally, and he was seething with enough anger to melt the phone line. “What are you talking about?”
“I got a little visit this morning, that’s what I’m talking about. From your cop friend.”
Jordan’s mind was racing, trying to make sense of what he meant. “Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play innocent with me. You brought in the cops, which means our deal is off.”
Both Lisa and her customer were watching her intently, so Jordan angled her head away from them and kept her voice low. Her heart raced with panic. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“Then let me lay it out for you. A guy with a badge came to see me. And it’s the same guy that’s been hanging around your shop, paying you visits. Your friend, get it?”
She was struck dumb. Dom had found
Wally? Had met him face to face?
“No answer, right?” Wally sneered. “Yes, Detective D’Annunzio was kind enough to introduce himself to me. Not that he mentioned your name or your connection with him. He’s not totally stupid, is he? But I’m smarter, Mrs. Carlisle, a lot smarter. I told you I’d be watching you, so I had no trouble recognizing him. Which is why I’ve already called my sister and told her to take the kid and scram.”
“No!”
“Yes. By the way, you can ignore the latest note. I withdraw my offer. I guess Myra’s little boy will stay just that, Myra’s little boy. You’ll never see him again.” He hung up with a loud finality that made Jordan jump.
In a state of shock, she stared at the receiver.
“Jordan?” Lisa came from behind the counter. “Hey, are you all right?”
She turned and looked at Lisa, then shook her head. “No, I’m not. I have to leave. I’m sorry.”
As she headed for the office, Lisa ran after her. “Wait, Jordan, what’s the matter? Can I help?”
“I’ll call you later.”
She threw open the door of the office, grabbed her purse, got her car keys and made for the back door.
“Jordan,” Lisa called after her, but Jordan had nothing to say.
Not to Lisa, at least. To Dominic D’Annunzio, she had a lot to say.
The pounding on his door woke him out of a deep sleep. He hadn’t meant to conk out, had come back from Chatsworth to shower and change and get moving again, but had passed out on the couch on the way to the bedroom. He awoke with a start and sat up straight, waiting for the world to come into focus.
The pounding continued. “Dom?” he heard Jordan call. “Open cup!”
She sounded agitated, that much registered. Stiffly, he pushed himself from the couch, limbs aching, head pounding, and made for the door. He wished his brain wasn’t so foggy, wished he could gather his wits enough to form a coherent thought.
The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 20
