A Fortune's Children's Wedding

by Barbara Boswell

  Chapter 3

  Angelica and Romina were in the kitchen seated at the table with tall glasses of iced tea in front of them. Weatherall and Searcy stood a few feet away. Footsteps sounded in the room above them—Birmingham PD carrying out the search, Flynt assumed. Sarah and Casper were nowhere in sight.

  “Agent Weatherall, Agent Corrigan, sit down,” Romina invited, gesturing to the two empty chairs at the table. “Would you like some iced tea? And how about a cookie? I have oatmeal and chocolate chip, freshly baked.”

  Weatherall sat down, and Searcy moved to take the last empty chair.

  “Not you!” Romina said fiercely, dropping any pretense of hospitality. The animosity between her and the P.I. was clearly personal. “That seat is for Flynt. Angel, honey, pour the agents some tea.”

  Flynt gingerly sat down in the chair next to Angelica. The table wasn’t very large and his knee bumped hers under it. She drew back as if she’d been burned. He noticed that her hand wasn’t very steady as she poured the two glasses of iced tea from the pitcher.

  Because his sensual effect on her was as unsettling as hers upon him? Or because the pitcher was heavy? His knowledge of the subtle nuances between the sexes was definitely lacking, Flynt conceded. Until now, he hadn’t minded.

  Romina passed a plate of cookies, pointedly excluding Searcy who sullenly watched them as he leaned against the wall.

  A heavy silence fell. The footsteps continued to thud above them. Flynt was excruciatingly aware of Angelica sitting beside him—and also aware that she was avoiding even glancing in his direction.

  He needed a diversion—and fast. “Would it be out of line if I asked to be filled in on the situation here, Glenn?” Flynt easily lapsed into his between-us-agents tone.

  “Go ahead, Glenn, fill him in,” Angelica imitated him, her expression derisive.

  Or was it baiting? Maybe she wanted his attention, after all. Deliberately, Flynt let his knee touch hers again. Angelica’s eyes met his, and he saw something flare in the velvety dark depths. Instead of jumping away, she let her leg rest against his while their gazes held.

  And then Weatherall finished his cookie and began to speak.

  Angelica shifted away from Flynt, breaking contact between them on both the physical and unspoken levels.

  “We think—hell, we know, although we can’t prove it,” drawled Weatherall, “that Romina Carroll is part of an underground network, hiding women on the run with their kids. Almost all of them are fleeing court-ordered custody decrees, although there are some who’ll take off to prevent any contact at all between the father and child. The bureau is involved because parental kidnapping that violates legal custody or visitation rights is still viewed as a kidnapping under the law.”

  “Although the cops and FBI don’t treat parental abduction as seriously as stranger abduction,” Searcy interjected testily. “Which is why guys like me get hired by the fathers who’ve been shafted twice. First, the ex-wife disappears with the kids, then the law ignores it. Sometimes the cops and agents actually help the underground by deliberately turning a blind eye to the people running the safe houses. Sometimes they’ll even tip ’em off about a raid.”

  “Do you actually believe that Officer Webber would call Mama and tip her off?” Angelica was incredulous.

  “That does seem unlikely,” agreed Flynt, hoping to forestall additional sniping between the Carrolls and the P.I. “I’d like to hear more about this underground.”

  “How about if I tell you why the need for it exists?” Romina’s voice rose with urgency. “Ever heard of domestic violence? Or sexual abuse? What about ineffective law enforcement or judges who won’t believe the very real claims of abuse that mothers make against the monsters who are beating them up or molesting their own kids?”

  “Until the courts consider the evidence presented about the children’s safety, mothers are going to be forced into taking action on their own,” Angelica chimed in. “They have to protect their kids, no matter what.”

  Flynt saw where they were going with this—and disapproved. “Even if ‘no matter what’ means breaking the law?” he challenged.

  “That’s right.” Angelica met his gaze defiantly. “Because the law can be wrong.”

  “Now there’s a familiar refrain.” Flynt grimaced. “Every perp I ever arrested was quick to point out that they’d done nothing wrong, that they were clearly the victims of a bad law.”

  “There are some cases involving violence and abuse that have been bungled by the courts,” Weatherall pointed out. “For their children’s sakes, the mothers feel they have no choice but to take off and stay hidden. They view the underground as the only way to keep their kids safely away from the abuser.”

  “You’re spouting their propaganda, Weatherall! It’s like listening to Romina or Nancy Portland, the head honcho herself!” ranted Searcy.

  “I’m simply presenting all sides of the issue to Corrigan,” Weatherall said calmly, refusing to rise to the bait.

  “That’s very fair of you, Glenn.” Romina placed another cookie in front of him.

  “What’s this underground network?” asked Flynt. “And who is Nancy Portland?”

  “A living saint. Tell him about Nancy, Angelica,” Romina prompted.

  “Nancy Portland is from a wealthy, well-respected family and has been happily married for years,” Angelica said, turning to gaze into Flynt’s eyes.

  She leaned forward. The table was so small that her action brought them back into close proximity. Her shoulder brushed his arm; her thigh touched his. This time Angelica didn’t jerk away. Flynt could tell by the fervid glow in her eyes that her subject was so important to her that nothing could divert her.

  He wished he were similarly preoccupied. But the controversial Nancy Portland did not engage his interest the way Angelica did.

  Prickles of heat shot through him. The sizzling sexual awareness he felt in her presence caused Searcy and the others to fade into irrelevance. Flynt could see and hear only Angelica.

  “Nancy is smart and brave and a brilliant organizer,” Angelica said, her face rapt with admiration. “She lives in Tampa and heads an underground of secret safe houses all over the country where women running from their former abusive spouses can hide with their children. The mothers and kids are supplied with false identity papers and are often helped financially when it becomes necessary to leave one safe house for another.”

  “Portland’s blatantly anti-male! She’s never helped a father and kids running away from a physically abusive mother,” shouted Searcy. “As for the sexual abuse allegations, Nancy Portland doesn’t even try to learn the true facts. She believes whatever trumped-up tales these women concoct to get her to help them.”

  “It’s true Nancy doesn’t help men,” Romina confirmed. “Because men are the ones with the power and the money and the connections. Nancy helps women because they’re powerless with nowhere else to turn.”

  “But before she gets involved in any case, Nancy Portland interviews the women and their children,” Angelica put in. “She can tell who is lying, she knows if the children are genuinely scared of their fathers and want to get away. Nancy won’t assist a woman making false accusations. She’ll turn them away and advise them to work things out with the children’s fathers.”

  “That’s not what she told Darlene Carson who’s made plenty of false accusations about my client and brainwashed their kids against him,” Searcy raged. “Ted Carson won legal custody of their two daughters, now aged six and seven, after a bitter divorce. The kids went missing with that lunatic Darlene a year-and-a-half ago, and Ted hired me to find them after the initial police investigation went nowhere. I traced them to Birmingham two days ago. And Birmingham, of course, means Romina Carroll. But now—” He threw his hands up in the air and cursed some more.

  “You traced them to Birmingham, then assumed they were with Romina?” Flynt repeated slowly. “Why?”

  It seemed an unlikely assumption to make
. The neighborhood was crowded, and he’d learned from his own inquiries that a number of residents spent a lot of time at their windows, watching the comings and goings on the street.

  How could women and children be smuggled in and out without others knowing about it? And when a number of people viewed strange happenings, they liked to talk about them. Flynt had learned that basic investigatory truth early on. Conspiracy buffs to the contrary, the idea of a vast collusion of silence about anything was extremely improbable.

  And this house was so small! Though he hadn’t seen the upstairs, the area couldn’t exceed the size of the rooms downstairs—the cramped living room, the eat-in kitchen, and tiny vestibule. Keeping extra people hidden without a trace required a mansion, and this tidy little box simply didn’t fit the bill.

  Flynt stared at Romina. What in her background had contributed to her seeming beyond-the-ordinary with sympathy for runaway women? Romina was an activist; he certainly hadn’t expected that when he was doing his cursory case legwork. His musing carried him one step further. How had Romina’s children—including Brandon’s daughter!—been affected by what they’d seen and experienced from their mother’s cause?

  “Good question, Flynt!” Romina exclaimed, her voice piercing his reverie. “For the past three years, we’ve had to endure these raids because Searcy and other paid snoops show up in Birmingham and work the cops and local field agents into an uproar. Do you know there’s been a tap on my phone for the past three years?”

  “Our family’s privacy is invaded and our rights are trampled on.” Angelica was indignant. “Hard to believe it could happen in America, but we’re living proof that it can—and does.”

  “It’s not a tap,” Weatherall said quickly. “The phone is attached to a number-tracer registry, which is perfectly legal. Conversations can’t be overheard, a number is simply logged into a computer and the origin of the calls can be traced.”

  “And guess what? Records show that Romina gets calls from phone booths all over the country. Explain that!” demanded Searcy.

  Angelica shrugged. “Mama has lots of friends who live all over the country and like to stay in touch.”

  “And none of them have their own phones?” howled Searcy.

  Flynt cleared his throat. “Any record of outgoing calls?”

  “The outgoing calls are all to local numbers, and they all check out.” Weatherall smiled slightly. “If Romina calls friends all over the country to stay in touch, she uses phone booths too. Using coins. There are no telephone credit card numbers on record.”

  Neither Romina nor Angelica offered any explanation. And Flynt faced the fact that these raids weren’t instigated on the whims of “Searcy and other paid snoops.” He knew that whatever the evidence in this case and others, it was strong enough to authorize police and FBI involvement, compelling enough for a judge to issue a warrant.

  And all this had been going on for the past three years!

  What he’d deemed odd about the Carrolls, their suspicion-bordering-on-paranoia, their rehearsed blank expressions, designed to give away nothing, made sense in light of the facts he’d just learned. He had thought their initial behavior was that of people with something to hide. Well, it appeared what they were hiding were people!

  No wonder Angelica had held him at gunpoint until his identity had been established to her satisfaction. Until she’d believed that he wasn’t a doggedly determined P.I. like Searcy or an infuriated ex-spouse who might use force against them to demand information about missing children. Once again, he found himself contemplating the kind of men in Romina Carroll’s life since her early affair with Brandon. Had a string of abusive men in her personal life turned her pro-active? He could only imagine the effects of it all on Romina’s family. On Angelica.

  As if the Carrolls’ secret world wasn’t bizarre enough, he was about to introduce Brandon and the Fortunes into it. And now there was another angle to be considered.

  Flynt thought back to that meeting in the Fortune mansion, when he’d broken the news of the existence of Brandon’s daughter. They had all contemplated the likely possibility that either Romina or Angelica or both were behind the extortion attempt.

  But with the revelation of Romina’s involvement in this underground network, the list of suspects widened considerably. Suppose Romina had mentioned her past relationship with Brandon to one of the fugitives she’d sheltered?

  A woman on the run, desperate for money, might easily view Angelica as a direct conduit to the Fortunes—and their fortune. Such a person might decide that exploiting the secret connection promised a cash bonanza.

  For the first time since reading that amateurish blackmail note, Flynt found himself seriously considering the death threat it contained—if you don’t pay big bucks your daughter will be killed and you’ll be framed for her murder.

  It was time for a swift re-evaluation of the situation. Exactly who were they dealing with?

  Angelica hadn’t known Brandon was her father, which immediately eliminated her as the blackmailer. And now, upon meeting and observing her, all Flynt’s instincts told him that Romina hadn’t sent that note either. Romina would’ve known of Brandon’s connection to the Fortunes for the past nine years, since the media broke the scandalous story of the child Monica Malone had obtained through blackmail. Yet she had made no attempts to contact any of them in all that time. When Romina Carroll cut her ties, they stayed severed.

  Flynt recalled some basic facts from his investigation. After Romina’s parents had accepted a bribe from Monica Malone, on the condition that they keep Romina’s pregnancy a secret from Brandon—and preferably end it—Romina had run away, never to return. She hadn’t contacted her own parents for twenty-six years!

  For a moment, he allowed his imagination free reign and considered the possibility of the other Carrolls as culprits. Could Sarah or Casper be the blackmailer? Almost instantly, he dismissed the notion; Sarah and Casper Carroll were mere children, and though he’d only met them briefly, neither seemed criminally inclined.

  No, it was Nancy Portland and the underground she headed, which raised all manner of questions. How was this clandestine organization financed? Blackmail could be one convenient source of cash, if a profitable secret was unearthed. If Romina had mentioned Angelica’s paternity to Nancy, the massive Fortune Corporation and its assets would certainly offer a lucrative target. Was the Portland woman capable of blackmail—and of carrying out the threats made in that note?

  He didn’t know. He’d never heard of Nancy Portland until today, but from what he discerned, the woman continually, defiantly flouted the law. Running an underground operation undoubtedly required association with other individuals who weren’t law-abiding either. Computer hackers, forgers…hit men?

  Your daughter will be killed. The threat echoed in Flynt’s head. The additional threat to frame Brandon for murder didn’t worry him. In fact, it was an incredibly stupid ploy, providing Brandon with a foolproof defense. But then, a hit man didn’t have to be intelligent, only bold and greedy and lacking a conscience.

  Your daughter will be killed. Flynt’s insides began to churn. Brandon Fortune’s daughter was no longer a faceless unknown to him. She was beautiful, feisty Angelica. Who might be in grave danger.

  He turned his head to see her drinking the last of her iced tea. She set the glass down and daintily dabbed her lips with a paper napkin.

  Flynt swallowed hard. Her mouth looked luscious and tempting as a ripe strawberry. Instantly he looked away from her, not daring to allow himself to follow that train of thought.

  He made himself focus strictly on the problem at hand. Angelica at risk was a possibility none of them had ever seriously contemplated. Flynt considered it now.

  His reason for being here had taken a crucial turn. Concern for Angelica’s safety superseded everything else.

  “Angelica, could I speak to you privately?” Flynt searched her face. Which was once again set in that same unreadable, impenetrabl
e mask he’d seen earlier. “I want to show you something.”

  “I bet I can guess exactly what you want to show her.” Searcy smirked. “Yeah, you’ll need privacy for that. I suggest you two get a room.”

  Romina jumped to her feet, pitcher in hand. She looked ready to throw it at him. “Get out of my house, Searcy! The others might have a legal right to be here, but you don’t! So leave, right now, or else I’ll have you arrested for breaking and entering. Or stalking. Or something!”

  “Try it!” taunted Searcy. “And I’ll—”

  “Time out, you two.” Weatherall stood up. “Searcy, Romina asked you to leave. This is her home and you’ll have to abide by her wishes.”

  “Fine! But I’m not giving up,” Searcy said as he stomped out.

  “Searcy is frustrated,” said Weatherall. “He gets so close and then—nothing. His contract specifies a big bonus if he locates his clients’ missing kids and they’re brought back. So far, he’s never collected that bonus.”

  “And he never will, either. Glenn, would you mind coming upstairs with me to check on those cops?” Romina asked politely. “That’ll give Flynt and Angel a chance to talk privately about her father.”

  Weatherall and Romina left the kitchen. For a few moments Angelica and Flynt sat in silence. The reasonable side of Romina had caught him by surprise, Flynt mused.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” Angelica asked at last. “If it’s about Brandon Fortune, I’ll tell you for the last time—I’m not interested in hearing it. I am not going to meet him.”

  “Angelica, you are.”

  “Flynt, I’m not.”

  He was momentarily riveted. It was the first time she’d called him Flynt, despite his earlier request that she do so. He liked her husky voice and the sound of his name on her lips. He wanted to hear her say it again.

  “Go back to—Brandon Fortune,” Angelica gulped the name, “and tell him I hope he has a nice life but not to expect me to be in it.”