by Beverly Long
No one spoke up. Suddenly a small woman sitting in the middle sat forward in her chair. “I’m the only one at this table who has lost a child. I can tell you, it’s no wonder that the Percys didn’t stay together after that. Heartache changes things.”
How had it changed Meg? And why had she never told him? He could feel the hamburger in his gut churning.
Pink Shirt wiped her eyes. “I thought Gloria Percy was a lovely woman. I didn’t know her husband as well. I heard that she remarried a few years later but by then, I had lost touch with her. I can’t even recall her husband’s name.”
Ted Blakely. That was his name. Gloria Percy had become Gloria Blakely. But her obituary hadn’t mentioned any children.
“Whatever happened to the other child?” Cruz asked. “The brother.”
“I don’t know,” said Tattoo Lady. “I’m not sure if T.J. ended up with his mother or his father.”
T. J. Percy. “What did T.J. stand for?” Cruz asked.
The ladies looked at one another and shook their heads. “I never heard him called anything but T.J.,” said Tattoo Lady.
Cruz mentally reviewed all the information he’d seen on Blakely. Nowhere had there been any mention of a middle initial or name. But he was willing to bet that the T stood for Troy. The boy had stayed with his mother and taken his stepfather’s last name. T. J. Percy had become Troy Blakely.
And something had happened to set him off, to make him seek vengeance on Meg. It had probably been his mother’s and stepfather’s deaths. The timing was right. He’d somehow managed to track Meg down, realized she was in San Antonio, and had gotten the job at the hotel. He’d lost it just months later. Maybe that had made him even angrier. Maybe he hadn’t cared. After all, he’d already learned Meg’s routine, had copied the key to her office, figured out where she parked. Followed her home.
The vision of a man breaking all the windows in his mother’s house as she looked on made the blood in Cruz’s veins run cold. What kind of son did that to his parents? A crazy man. Maybe he’d been crazy for some time. Certainly somewhere along the way, something had gone south in the Blakely house. To the point that Gloria and Ted Blakely didn’t even claim T.J. as their son.
The women were all staring at him. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing at the head of the table, trying to figure out the whole horrid mess.
“Thank you,” he managed.
“Would you like to join us for a piece of pie, young man?” Pink Shirt asked. She pointed to the empty chair.
He shook his head. He didn’t need pie. He needed air. To clear his head so that he could figure out what to do next.
There was no need for panic, he rationalized. Nothing had happened for weeks. Meg wasn’t in any more danger today than she had been yesterday, the day before, or last week. Maybe much less. Blakely could well have tired of the game and moved on.
Of course, Cruz was going to make sure of that.
And by the time he got back to his hot car, he had a plan. Blakely’s mother and stepfather were dead. But that still left his biological father. He might know where his son was hanging out.
Cruz pushed a button on his cell phone. Sam answered on the third ring.
“I need some more help,” Cruz said.
“Name it,” Sam said.
“I need to find somebody. A man by the last name of Percy. He lived in Maiter, Texas, in 1995 or 1996. He was married to a woman named Gloria. They had a son whose name was Troy and also a deceased infant girl. Her name was Missy. They got divorced and the wife later remarried a man named Ted Blakely.”
“Okay, it’s probably enough. I’ll find him.”
It took Sam twenty minutes. Computers were wonderful things. Lawrence Percy had been twenty miles outside San Antonio for the past ten years. He was single and he had steadily been employed as a machinist in a factory.
Cruz put his now-cool car in Drive.
* * *
LAWRENCE PERCY ANSWERED his door wearing sloppy sweatpants and a stained T-shirt. His hair had specks of green paint in it. He was holding a brush. “Yeah?” he asked.
Cruz immediately decided a direct approach might work best. “I’m Detective Cruz Montoya. I’m investigating a series of events that occurred in San Antonio.”
The man blinked once. “I don’t go into the city.” He moved to shut the door.
Cruz stuck an arm out. “Margaret Gunderson,” he said.
The man’s jaw dropped. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” he said, his voice soft.
Cruz considered and took a chance. “She’s my ex-wife.”
The man’s eyes turned watery. “How is she?”
It wasn’t the response Cruz expected. “I wasn’t sure you’d care. I recently heard the story about your child’s death.”
The man nodded. “I was so angry with her. Hated her. She was alive, walking down our street and our sweet Missy would never get that chance. I wanted her to suffer. I wanted her whole family to pay.”
“Past tense?” Cruz questioned. “You still want her to suffer?”
The man shook his head. “No. She suffered enough. We all did.”
“Why did you leave Maiter?”
“My son, T.J., was struggling in school. Moving didn’t help. Nothing did.”
“What’s your son’s full name?”
“Troy Jamison.”
“Where is your son now?”
“I have no idea. For a while, he moved in and out of my mother’s house in San Antonio. They’d get along for a while, then there’d be some big blowup. But she always took him back. ‘He’s my blood,’ she would say.” The man’s eyes turned bleak. “I had to turn my back on my own mother. Haven’t seen either of them for over five years.”
“What’s your mother’s address?”
The man hesitated. “What’s going on?”
“Someone is terrorizing Meg. Trashing her car, her apartment, her office. Following her. I think it could be your son. For a brief period, he worked at the same hotel that Meg works at. I think that was on purpose.”
The man didn’t look surprised. “Got a pen?” he asked. Then he rattled off the address. Cruz wrote it down.
“Thank you,” Cruz said. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Lawrence Percy nodded. “Be careful. I don’t know my son all that well anymore but I suspect he could be very dangerous. The only thing I really know for sure is that I wish to hell he wasn’t my blood.”
* * *
CRUZ DIALED MEG as he ran for the car. It went to voice mail. “Meg,” he said, “be careful. It’s Troy Blakely. Watch out for him.”
The next call he made was to Detective Myers. When he answered, Cruz gave him just enough details for the man to understand the urgency of the situation. The detective said he was an hour outside San Antonio but that he’d leave immediately for the hotel.
Cruz was half that. He drove fast, trying to shave another few minutes. He tried Meg’s office again and got the same busy signal. He pressed zero and got bounced back to the hotel operator who transferred him to Charlotte’s desk.
It rang and rang. He went through the whole routine again with the operator, but this time he asked to be transferred to Security, hoping they could get a message to Tim Burtiss.
He got voice mail again.
Damn it. Did no one answer their phones anymore?
He glanced at his watch. He’d be there in fifteen minutes. He forced himself to calm down. Everything would be fine.
* * *
MEG WAS ON A LONG CALL with a disgruntled guest when a note slid under her closed office door. When she finished the call a few minutes later, she walked over and picked it up. It was from Charlotte. Scott called. He wants to see you right away.
Meg crumpled up the note and tossed it in her waste can. After learning about the baby, she’d gone to see Scott. Hadn’t told him about the pregnancy. Cruz deserved to hear that news first. But she had told him that she was sorry. Sorry that s
he’d involved him in her deceit, that he was a good man who deserved better. He’d read between the lines and had made it easy for her by saying all the right things. I respect you. I care for you. Of course we can still work together.
Hopefully, he hadn’t changed his mind about that. She needed an income and health insurance.
She looked at her phone and saw that there was a voice mail waiting. She decided to ignore it. She’d see what Scott needed first and then get to her calls. She grabbed a yellow legal pad and hurried out.
When she opened the door that connected her office to Charlotte’s, she saw that the space was empty. She opened the outer door and the security guard sprang to his feet.
“Have you seen Charlotte?” she asked.
“No. I thought she was at her desk.”
She must have left by the other door. Maybe she had to use the restroom and didn’t want to announce it to the security guard. “No problem. She probably just stepped out for a minute. When she comes back, let her know that I saw her note and that I’m in Mr. Slater’s office.”
“I’ll walk you,” he said.
There hadn’t been any issues for weeks. But the memory of her destroyed office still nagged at her. She could lock it but didn’t know if Charlotte had her keys. “Just stay here,” she said. “It’s just up the elevator. Nothing is going to happen between here and there.”
She walked down the hallway, took the elevator to the next floor, and was fifteen feet away from Scott’s office when a door opened and a man stepped out. She saw his eyes first. They were dark and cold. She saw the gun next—it was black and deadly looking.
“Keep walking, Meg,” he muttered. “Don’t make any sudden moves or I’ll shoot you here. Then I’m going to shoot anybody who comes running to help.”
Chapter Nineteen
Meg’s mind scrambled to make sense of it. “What do you want?”
The man didn’t answer. Just pointed her toward the stairs.
She went. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. It was all she could think of. Cruz would be so damn disappointed in her. He was so smart, so careful and she’d been so careless.
What would he tell her to do now?
Stay alert. Figure out who he is and what he wants. Be smart. She could practically feel heat coming off the sapphire necklace, burning her skin.
They reached the landing at the bottom. She looked up, hoping the camera would catch a good view of her face. It had been knocked down. “What do you want?” she asked again.
“Shut up,” he said. He poked her in the back with his gun. “My car is twenty feet from this door. Walk directly to it and get in the driver’s side. Don’t be stupid.”
It was a blue four-door with tinted windows. When she opened the door, the smell of smoke rolled out at her. It made her want to throw up. She swallowed hard and got in. He slid into the backseat. He tossed the keys over the seat, into her lap and pressed the gun against her neck.
“Drive. Turn left onto Bridge Street.”
Her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t get the key into the ignition. She took a deep breath and was immediately sorry when the horrible smell traveled farther into her lungs.
She finally got the car started and pulled out of the lot. They drove for fifteen minutes, turning this way and that on busy city streets. She tried to keep track of where she was but it was an area of the city that she wasn’t familiar with. Finally, he directed her to turn onto a street where the apartment buildings were close together and run-down. “Right there,” he said, pointing to an empty parking spot.
It was a tight fit, even for the small car. She put the vehicle in Park and shut off the engine. It was stone-quiet in the car. And the oppressive heat from outside seeped in.
She could hear him pulling off his face mask. “Get out,” he said. “We’re going into that building,” he said, pointing at a six-story structure that had several broken-out windows.
The front door of the building looked as if someone had tried to kick it in. It was dented and beat up and didn’t close quite right. She opened it and he pushed her toward the stairs. “Keep walking,” he said. On the fourth floor, he yanked her back and pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. He unlocked the door and they stepped inside a small, filthy apartment. There were dirty dishes, empty food boxes and trash everywhere. It smelled like cat urine. There was a table in the middle of the kitchen, long and narrow, with a wood top that was scratched and pitted. On it were guns, probably half a dozen, all in some half-state of assembly. There was a can of gun oil and dirty rags.
She turned to look at him. He was only a couple inches taller than her and had a slim build. He wore dirty army fatigues.
His hair was bleached blond and touched his shoulders. He had a straggly blond mustache. While there was little resemblance to the man she’d known, who had worn his dark hair and beard trimmed short and always had a pressed uniform, there was no doubt. He was Troy Blakely.
All this time, Cruz had been on the right track.
And with his hair blond and more of his bone structure visible, she saw something else that she recognized.
Her world started to go gray and she grabbed for the table behind her.
“It’s been a long time, Meg,” he said.
A very long time. “Hello, T.J.”
* * *
CRUZ BEACHED HIS CAR in the valet parking, ignoring the yells from the startled valets. He ran into the hotel, through the lobby, toward Meg’s office.
Tim Burtiss stood. “I didn’t know you were back, sir.”
“Where’s Meg?” Cruz asked.
“Mr. Slater’s office,” Tim answered.
Cruz took off running again, taking the steps to the third floor two at a time. When he got to Slater’s office, the receptionist wasn’t at her desk. He opened the inner-office door and Slater looked up from his desk.
“Where’s Meg?” Cruz asked.
“Get out,” Slater said.
“Where is she?” Cruz asked.
Slater shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea. I haven’t talked to her all morning.”
Cruz got a very bad feeling. “Come with me,” he said. “Something is not right.”
To Slater’s credit, he didn’t argue. Just hurried down the hall with Cruz. When they got back to Meg’s office, Officer Burtiss stood again.
“Is Meg back?” Cruz asked hopefully.
“No, sir. Neither she nor Charlotte have returned.”
They were both missing? What the hell did Charlotte have to do with this?
Cruz opened the door. He searched Charlotte’s work area first. The light was on, as was her computer and there was a cup of coffee on her desk. Cruz felt the cup. Still warm.
He moved into Meg’s office. There was a yellow legal pad on her desk, filled with pages of notes. He glanced at them. Some kind of customer complaint. He pointed at the name. “See if this guest is still here,” he instructed Slater. Was it possible that Meg had simply left to personally resolve a problem?
While Slater was on the phone, Cruz kept looking. He saw the crumpled up note in Meg’s garbage and unfolded it. He read it.
Slater ended his call. “They checked out two days ago.”
Cruz showed the note to Slater. “You didn’t talk to Charlotte this morning?”
“No. What the hell is going on here?”
Cruz looked at Meg’s phone. He saw the voice mail light blinking and realized it was probably his frantic message. “I don’t know. But we need to find both of them.” He pulled out his cell phone to call Myers and fill him in. Before he dialed, he continued his instructions. “The police will be here soon. Get your security staff started on searching the hotel. Tell them to hurry.”
* * *
“T.J.,” SHE SAID, working hard to keep her voice steady. She did not want him to know that her sudden knowledge had her insides twisting up in a painful knot.
He ran a hand through his long hair. “I hated having to cut my hair for that s
tupid job. And the beard itched like hell. But nobody would have ever known it. Because I was nice. Officer Friendly, that was me.” He laughed at his own joke. “Yes, Ms. Montoya. No, Ms. Montoya. Whatever you want, Ms. Montoya.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” she said, staring at his light brown eyes. Without the glasses and the blue eyes, it was easier to recognize him.
He laughed again. It was almost a cackle and it made him sound crazy. “Blue contacts. Weren’t they fabulous? I’ll bet you are sorry. I watched you every day and you had no idea.”
“How did you find me?”
“I went through my mother’s filing cabinet after she and my stepfather died. She had a copy of your wedding announcement. Once I had your married name, it wasn’t hard to find you, although I never expected you to be in Texas.”
He sprawled onto the dirty couch and motioned for her to sit in the lone straight-backed kitchen chair. “You’re some kind of big shot. You get your picture in the paper and everything.” He tilted his head down. “You know why you help convicts, Meg? Because you almost were one. They should have sent you to jail for what you did.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I’m sorry you lost your job at the hotel,” she said, searching for some way to turn him. “I could talk with our human resources manager and you could get it back. Start fresh.”
“I already told you it was a crappy job.” He got up and started to pace around her.
Okay. That probably wasn’t the right tactic. “How are your parents?” she asked.
He stopped suddenly. “My mommy is dead,” he said, as if he was five years old.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. “I’m sorry to hear that, T.J.”
“Don’t call me that,” he yelled, lunging at her. He got so close that his spit hit her face. “You ruined everything. We lost everything because of you.”
“I was fifteen,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Now, you’re going to pay.” He kicked her chair, hard enough that it pushed her backward. “You sit right there,” he said. “Don’t move.”
