The Perfect Victim

by Linda Castillo

  His tone drew the attention of the young paramedic. "You can talk to him, but don't agitate him," she warned.

  Randall ignored-her. "Where's Addison? Where the fuck is she?"

  Clint turned his head. Blood trickled from his mouth, spreading onto the sheet like red paint. "Lousy ten grand ..."

  He felt no sympathy for the dying man. Loss perhaps, anger, the bitter taste of betrayal, but not sympathy. It was necessity that had him blotting the blood with gauze. "Where did they take her?"

  "Glover ... ark."

  "Glover Park?" Hope flared inside him. ''Where in Glover Park?"

  Clint moved his head slightly. No. He closed his eyes, let out a breath. "Call Gavin .... " A fresh line of blood pumped from his nose.

  Randall let it run. "How do I reach Gavin?"

  "... lover park .... " He coughed. Blood spewed onto the surrounding sheets.

  The heart monitor began to wail. Even as the dying man's final breath slid from his lungs, Randall knew he didn't have enough information. He wouldn't get any more information from Clint.

  The paramedic jumped from her seat and went to work.

  Shaken, Randall moved back. He watched the young woman work, but he knew Clint was dead. He'd seen enough death to recognize it. Clint had merely been given the time in which to make his final confession.

  Too bad it hadn't been enough to save his soul.

  Fighting panic, he stood, starkly aware that time was slipping away. Indecision hammered at him. Dear God, he had no idea where to begin looking for Addison.

  Clint had mentioned Glover Park. A year ago, Clint had lived in the upscale neighborhood north of Georgetown.

  "Stop the ambulance," he said.

  The paramedic looked at him uneasily. "This man is dying," she said. "We'll do no such thing."

  "That's a fatal wound and you know it." Randall clutched the I.V. bar as the ambulance negotiated a turn.

  "You don't know that,” she argued.

  He touched the young woman on the shoulder. "I'm a private detective. My client, a young woman, was kidnapped in that bloody fiasco back there." He searched her face, wondering if she saw him as just another crazy roaming the streets of D.C. He could only imagine how he must look, desperate, high on drugs ... or insane.

  Raking a trembling hand through his hair, Randall took a breath and lowered his voice. "I need to find her. Time is running out. If you don't stop this ambulance and let me out, I won't be able to get to her in time. They'll kill her."

  Never taking her eyes from Randall, she turned to the driver. "He's a private dick, Dennis. Let him out."

  The driver studied them through the rearview mirror. "Cops told me to make sure you went directly to the hospital."

  Randall hadn't wanted to use violence, but he didn't have a choice. He reached for his pistol. Alarm skittered through him when he found his holster empty. He cursed, realizing the police must have taken it while he'd been unconscious.

  Knowing he was going to have to bluff his way through, he stuck his right hand in his coat pocket and pointed his finger at the driver.

  "I've got a .38 in my coat and by God I'll use it if you don't stop this ambulance," he said.

  The ambulance screeched to a halt. Hanging onto the I.V. bar, Randall managed to keep his balance. "It would have been a hell of a lot easier if you had just stopped when I asked." Reaching for the radio, he yanked the microphone from its base.

  "Just get the hell out of here, you crazy son of a bitch!" the driver shouted.

  Randall reached for the rear door latch and swung it open. The ambulance had stopped in the middle of a busy intersection. Horns bellowed as he eased himself onto the pavement. Behind him, the door of the ambulance slammed shut. He lumbered through traffic to the sidewalk. Dizzy with pain, he spotted a Christian bookstore. Head down against the wind, he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and started for the store. Around him, the air was cold and held the threat of more than merely rain.

  Chapter 24

  Clint’s brownstone was located on a quiet street on the outskirts of upper Georgetown. Randall had the cab drop him at the comer, then waited until the taillights were out of sight before ducking into the alley.

  Ransacking Clint's house was a long shot, but it was the only place he could think of to begin. He desperately needed information, anything that might help him find Addison. Clint had mentioned Glover Park. He'd referred to the name Gavin. It was all Randall had to go on; it had to be enough.

  He scrambled over a chain-link fence, trying in vain not to jar his ribs. The pain came hard and fast, wrapping around his chest like barbed wire. Head reeling, he went to his knees in the grass and gasped for breath. He prayed his body held out long enough for him to find Addison.

  Cursing, he waited for his vision to clear and struggled to his feet. He looked at the house. No lights. The street beyond was quiet and dark. Satisfied, he lumbered toward the back door.

  Relief flitted through him when he found the screen door unlocked. He let himself into the back porch and looked around for something with which to break the glass. Spotting a broom, he gripped it, drew back, and shattered the pane with a single stroke.

  The sound of breaking glass seemed deafening in the quiet. Two houses down, a dog began to bark. Aware that he was about to cross the point of no return, Randall reached inside and unlocked the door.

  The house was eerily still. The linoleum creaked under his feet as he made his way through the kitchen. The air smelled of dust and lemon oil, tinged with the faint redolence of the cheap cigars Clint had been so fond of.

  "Damn you, Clint," he murmured, disbelieving his friend had betrayed him, hating it that Addison's fate dangled by little more than a thread because of it.

  The image of her came at him out of nowhere. Her fragile eyes filled with horror as the guns were raised and leveled. Once again, the helplessness and outrage rose up inside him. He heard the blasts. He felt the tremendous force of the impact. He remembered the sight of her covered with Clint's blood. For a terrifying moment, he'd thought she'd been hit.

  A drop of sweat slipped between his shoulder blades. He left the kitchen. His heart thrashed against his injured ribs like a wild animal trapped inside his chest. Control, he thought in a last-ditch effort to calm himself. Lose it now and it's over, Talbot. For you. For Addison.

  Clenching his teeth against panic, Randall moved down the hall. He walked past the bathroom and strode directly to Clint's study. The smell of cigars was stronger here, mingling with the faint odors of whiskey and old paper. He risked turning on the banker's lamp.

  Clint's desk was well used, but neat. A decanter of whiskey rested on the credenza behind it. Randall opened the top drawer, not surprised to find a nine-millimeter Beretta. He pulled it out, checked the clip, and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans. Opening the next drawer, he rifled through a stack of past due bills, a few newspaper clippings, a Playboy magazine, and an old wallet stuffed with pictures.

  Acutely aware of the passage of time, he yanked out the last drawer. He knew the police would show up eventually. Urgency pulled him in one direction while the need to be thorough pulled him in another. He tried not to think about Addison or the terror she must be feeling. He tried not to think about what Tate might want from her. He couldn't bear to think that she could. be hurting—or that she could already be dead.

  He rifled through a drawer full of statements and bills. Beneath them was a legal pad. Randall pulled it out and spotted the address book. He dropped into the chair and paged through the book.

  Most of the entries listed first names only, some with initials, some with no name at all. Under G, no Gavin. He cursed in frustration, slammed the book closed, and dropped his head into his hands. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Time seemed to mock him.

  He opened the address book again. Starting at the beginning, he went through it, page by page. Dr. Arnoff in Chicago. Brownie, obviously an alias or nickname. Dave at Foley's Bar. Mart
ino. Desperation clawed at him. Closing the book, he glanced out the window. Beyond, the street was dark and quiet. Mist formed a yellow halo around the single street lamp.

  "Come on, goddammit." Turning back to the desk, he scanned the writing pad. On the upper right comer, a scribbled name caught his attention.

  Paul Gavin.

  He opened the book. To his surprise, the name Paul appeared under P. Snatching up the receiver, he dialed the number.

  "Yeah, it's Gav." Deep voice. Boston accent.

  "I'm a friend of Clint's." Randall trusted his instincts and went in blind.

  "Don't know any Clint, man."

  "He said you'd meet with me."

  A long silence ensued. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, man."

  ''This is about what happened at Franco's."

  A quick intake of breath. Barely audible. And then silence.

  ''Name the place and I'll meet you," Randall said, starkly aware of the desperation in his voice. "I've got money for you."

  He heard the disconnect like a death knell. He felt defeated. Beaten. Lost. Slowly, he lowered the phone to its cradle and sagged into the chair.

  "Jesus Christ, what now?" The pain in his ribs was wearing him down. Emotion cluttered his brain. Every time he thought of Addison, he felt his sanity slip a little more.

  "Where are you?" he whispered into the cold silence. "Where in the hell are you?"

  Suddenly furious, with fate, with himself, Randall shoved the decanter of whiskey off the credenza. The glass shattered, the smell of whiskey rising to taunt him. Shaken, not knowing what to do next, he snatched up the receiver and dialed the hospital from memory. His voice was hoarse when he asked for his brother's condition.

  "Mr. Talbot," the nurse began. "I've got good news. Jack's been taken off the respirator. The tube was removed this afternoon. Blood gases look good and he's doing fine. He's been asking for you."

  Randall closed his eyes. "I need to speak with him."

  "We're not supposed to—"

  "It's an emergency, goddammit."

  A moment later, Jack's weak voice filled the line. "Hey, little brother. What's going on? Where the hell are you?"

  Randall swallowed the emotion welling inside him at the sound of his brother's voice. Four days ago, he hadn't thought he'd ever hear that voice again. "I'm in D.C., Jack. I'm in trouble. I need your help."

  "You sound bad, Randy." Concern laced his brother's voice. "What the hell's going on?"

  "Tate's got Addison."

  "Jesus. How?"

  "Clint. They bought and paid for him, Jack. Then they fucking killed him."

  "What can I do?"

  "I don't know where they're holding her. I know Tate's behind this, but I can't get to him." Randall's voice cracked on the last word. He took a moment, struggled for calm.

  Dammit, he needed to get inside Tate's head. He needed an angle. "When you were hacking, did you see anything about Tate owning any property? Someplace private where he may have taken her?"

  "Not that I can remember. Damn drugs turned my brain to cornmeal." Jack coughed. "Christ, I wish I could get my hands on a computer."

  "What about friends or bodyguards? Anyone he stays with regularly?"

  "Wait a minute. I remember seeing something about a boat. His wife owns a boat. A big mother. Expensive as hell."

  "Where does he keep it?" The telephone line hissed, reminding Randall of the miles between them.”

  "I think it was registered to the state of Maryland. He kept it in Boston ... no, Baltimore."

  "Get your laptop. I need help. Jack, I'm desperate. Call Van-Dyne. Ask him to contact the locals in D.C. and Baltimore. Tell him everything you know about the case. I'm going after Addison."

  "How do you know she's there, Randy?"

  "I don't."

  Chapter 25

  The door was locked. For ten minutes Addison shoved, pulled, and beat, with her fists, her feet, her shoulders, all to no avail. Perspiring, she swung around and noticed the glimmer of light beyond the satin drapes above the bed.

  Stepping up on the bed, she tore the satin aside. Disappointment plowed through her when she realized the windows were too small to accommodate her body. Furious, she snatched one of the brass candlestick lamps from the nightstand and yanked the cord from the wall. Aiming for the window, she swung the lamp like a baseball bat. Plexiglas exploded outward, sending shards clattering onto the deck beyond. Frigid air blasted through the opening.

  Addison dropped the lamp, put her face to the window, and screamed as loud as she could. "Help me! Somebody help me! Please!"

  The door behind her burst open.

  She spun, dizzy with adrenaline, sick with fear. A man dressed in a black turtleneck and dark slacks came through the door like an enraged bull. "Bitch, you just bought yourself a whole lotta trouble."

  She turned to the window. "Help me, please!" Terror resonated in her voice. "Help me!"

  Strong hands bit into her shoulders and yanked her back. "Shut the hell up!"

  A scream erupted in her throat as he pulled her away from the window. A viselike arm went around her waist. Fisting a section of her hair, he jerked her backward with brutal force. When she tried to scream again, he let go of her hair and slapped his hand over her nose and mouth, cutting off her oxygen.

  Addison struggled as she had never struggled in her life. Forgetting about the window and her cries for help, she clawed at the hand until panic had her writhing and twisting, striking out with her legs, wanting only to take a breath.

  Suddenly, they were falling. She felt his body tighten. He released her to break his fall. They tumbled off the bed in a tangle of arms and legs.

  She landed on top of him, her face so close to his she felt the warm rush of his breath against her ear. Instinctively, she rolled away. Lurching to her feet, she scrambled toward the door.

  A talon-like hand clamped over her arm and spun her around. The blow came out of nowhere with mind-numbing force. A starburst of light exploded behind her eyes. Pain cut through her cheek, jarring the side of her face all the way to her sinuses.

  She was aware of him releasing his grip on her arm. Her knees buckled. She caught the doorknob barely in time to keep herself from falling.

  "Stupid bitch."

  Every muscle in her body tensed at the sound of his voice.

  Clinging to the knob, Addison shook her head, swallowing the bile that had risen into her throat. She'd never been subjected to violence, and it left her feeling sickened and helpless. She'd never thought of herself as physically weak, but at the mercy of such a violent man, she felt utterly powerless.

  Unable to move, she let the door support her, giving her senses a moment to regroup.

  "Get up."

  Using the knob for balance, she rose. Fear coiled inside her, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "Who are you?"

  He stared back at her, his face expressionless. "I'm going to have to put you in another room," he said. "Let's go."

  She knew firsthand his strength and didn't want to cross him. But she couldn't bring herself to obey. "Let me go," she said. "I don't know who you are."

  His smile sent a chill skating up her spine. "Move."

  Her only thought was that this man wasn't human. There was no emotion behind the dull eyes, no compassion, nothing she could reach. When she didn't move, he grasped her biceps and forced her toward the door.

  Addison balked only enough to slow him down. She needed time to think, to plan her next move. "At least tell me where I am," she said as he guided her down a narrow hall.

  "You don't need to know." The hall opened to a small bedroom. "Get inside," he ordered.

  When she merely stared, he shoved her roughly through the door. "If I hear so much as a peep out of you, I'll be back." A grin split his face. "Next time, I won't be so nice."

  Addison started when the door slammed. She listened to his departure before turning and taking a quick inventory of the room. It was sma
ll, perhaps six feet square, with no windows. The furniture consisted of a bunk bed and a night table. A narrow pocket-door opened to a functional bathroom.

  Absently, she touched the cut on her cheek. She'd never been so afraid, felt so threatened or so isolated from the rest of the world. Needing to move, to expel some of the adrenaline rushing through her, she began to pace. She tried to imagine what might transpire in the coming hours, realizing she couldn't fathom such insanity. She tried to come to terms with the possibility that her life may very well end on this horrible night. But the thought of dying with so many things unfinished, without ever seeing Randall again, nearly sent her over the edge.