Lucky swiveled his head briefly. Something in him wanted a look at Karrie. She appeared so thin and tiny. Only twenty feet away, shuddering, with wide and unblinking eyes. In those mesmerizing green orbs, Lucky felt the sadness. And abuse. And then he knew then and there and all the way to his marrow what had been done to her in the past forty-eight or so hours.
Somebody would have to pay.
Without another scintilla of reason, Lucky squeezed on the .45. The weapon bucked and slid out of Ziggy’s waistband, the bullet ripping downward through Ziggy’s masculinity before notching a neat hole in the perfectly polished decking.
If Ziggy screamed—which he certainly did—Lucky never heard it. While witnessing faces stood in momentary shock, Lucky bolted for Karrie. He covered the distance in quick strides, gathered her and the life vest into his arms and pitched both of them over the railing.
There was gunfire. The bodyguard with the machine pistol hadn’t switched off the safety so Lucky and Karrie were spared a certain stitching. As he leaped, he heard the familiar whizzing of spinning bullets cutting the air. But by then, they were on descent and before either could suck in a full breath, they splashed headlong into the black ocean water.
Part VI
Saturday
66
Downtown. 1:12 A.M.
The Crown International Hotel—aka The Downtown Crown—shared an architectural pedigree with the Biltmore, dating all the way back to their twin birth in 1923. The eight-story “little sister” was designed as a boutique destination, offering and advertising to its out-of-town patrons the ultimate in privacy—meaning a traveller visiting Los Angeles with his wife and family would have a nearby suite where he could stash a mistress or shack up for a few hours with a high-priced call girl.
When Andrew’s Wisconsin assistant phoned to move her boss to another hotel, the front desk suggested the nearby Crown. As a matter of an apology for whatever lapses in security had led to the awful assault Andrew had suffered earlier in the day, the Biltmore management had secured the Crown’s presidential suite—one of two top-floor, two-thousand-plus-square-foot apartments decorated with antiques dating back to when they had first dug out the foundation. Above the suites was a rooftop pool that required a penthouse room key for admittance.
As Andrew stepped off the private elevator, Cherry nervously followed. Check-in, as it turned out, had been an unpleasant revisit with the events from earlier in the day. The LAPD and the Biltmore both had detectives who required statements. Andrew and Cherry were briefly separated into downstairs function rooms and questioned about their run-ins with the hotel robbery duo of Romeo and his girl Jodi. Cherry had dutifully recalled the events as they had unfolded for her. She even tried to answer for Lucky, who she promised would be along soon once he had finished running down the recent lead on Andrew’s missing daughter.
With their stories appearing to match, Andrew and Cherry were released pending further investigation. It was there in the quaint and retro Crown International lobby that Cherry thought it would be best to bid farewell to Andrew.
“Will you please call me?” she asked. “I’d love to know that you and your daughter reconnected.”
“You’re not gonna hang out?” Andrew asked, sounding edgy. Like it was a bad time for him to be alone. “Don’t you wanna see how things turn out?”
“It’s not my party,” suggested Cherry.
“Nervous as a cat at a dog show,” admitted Andrew. “Swear to Jesus if he doesn’t come home with my little girl I’m gonna jump off the roof.”
“Well don’t do that,” half-giggled Cherry.
“Keep me company?” insisted Andrew. “You’ve been a huge help. Lemme at least write you a check for your time.”
“Are you calling me a hooker again?” joked Cherry.
“Heck no!” laughed Andrew. “I may be stupid, but at least I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
There was, between the two, a new air of hope.
“You like Diet Coke?” asked Andrew. “Cuz my secretary makes sure my hotel room is stocked with all that aspartame crap.”
“Too much caffeine makes me vibrate,” said Cherry.
Despite that, she accepted Andrew’s invite and followed as he inserted the room’s key card into the slot. The door opened and Andrew led the way into the sumptuous, yet homey penthouse suite. The ceilings were high with glossy white crown molding. The windows were equally tall and ornate. The wall-to-wall carpet was well-cushioned and easy on Cherry’s stockinged feet.
“Hungry?” asked Andrew. “We could order up some room service while we wait.”
“That’s me. All about the free grub,” she quipped.
“Good,” he said, looking for and disappearing into what looked like a bedroom. “I’m starved. Do us a favor and order whatever you like. Then double it for me.”
“Sure. Where’s the menu?”
“Somewhere,” he echoed back. “I’m taking a shower.”
Cherry heard a distant bathroom door close. She turned in place, scanning the big living space for the desk. She found the leather-bound hotel guide under a reproduction Tiffany lamp. Inside she found a dinner menu. The pictures of the pasta looked tasty so she ordered two penne Bolognese dishes and a large Caesar salad to split.
Wondering if there was anything besides Diet Coke, she opened the refrigerator in the kitchenette and hoped to find something that wasn’t a stimulant.
“Red Bull,” she groaned, disappointed that the primary option was what the girls at The Rabbit Pole called liquid rocket fuel. The backstage mini-fridge was always fully stocked with energy drinks like Red Bull and Monster. Some would chug a can just before their turns on stage. Others would pour out half and tip the bartender to refill the can with vodka turning the drink into a poor man’s speedball.
Cherry chose one of six eight-ounce bottles of water that lined the door. She was briefly startled by the baggie of disposable syringes. Was Karrie’s dad a diabetic? Absentmindedly she read aloud the label on one of the medications.
“Alprostadil…”
The mouthful-to-say medication was difficult to pronounce. But the brand name Caverject rang a bizarre, but recent bell. One of The Rabbit Pole dancers—a black vixen named Tania—would sometimes regale her stripper compadres with her tales as a former Las Vegas escort. She once told a story about a “client” with erectile function so lousy that his only way to achieve a working hard-on was to directly inject his member with a medication called…
Caverject?
This smacked Cherry as odd. Not that Andrew would suffer the same dysfunction as some purveyor of Las Vegas escort girls. By her reasoning, there had to be scores of men who required similar prescriptions, otherwise why the drug?
That’s not it.
It was more about why the father of a missing teen girl would think he would need to pack his prescription of dong dynamite.
Whatever, she said to herself.
Cherry swung the refrigerator door shut and twisted the cap off the bottle of water. Seeking a garbage pail to toss the lid, she saw what looked like a pile of research that had been scooped up from Andrew’s Biltmore hotel suite and delivered. The hodgepodge of notes and reading materials had been piled onto a corner table in no discernible order but for size. The scribbled-upon legal pads were at the bottom. Standard printed 8½ by 11 sheets such as letters and fax copies were in the middle. And on top were everything from message slips to Post-it notes. The single, odd piece in the pyramid-like pile was an opened envelope that Cherry instantly recognized as the same one Lucky had found in Karrie’s pink Hello Kitty backpack.
Pinching a corner with her thumb and forefinger, Cherry inched the envelope from the stack. Yes. She was correct. Karrie had block-printed “Dad” on the front flap in blue ballpoint ink.
Don’t you read it, Cherry Pie.
She could have kicked herself for not returning the envelope to its spot in the stack. But then again that curious itch she needed to scratch
might never be answered. Cherry was already deeply emotional in the quest to find Karrie. She had given of herself and hadn’t yet asked for a red cent in return. Well, she had indeed asked. But had seen none and hadn’t thought of her own wallet in hours. The least she could expect was an answer or two.
Privacy be damned.
In Cherry’s mind, she deserved to know what was in the letter. She slipped her fingers into the slot and removed a tri-folded sheet of lined paper that looked as if it had been ripped from a spiral notebook. In the same colored ink was a handwritten note in a mix of rudimentary cursive and lower case printing. At the top left read a simple and straightforward, “Dear Daddy.”
A quick reader, Cherry’s eyes were charging through the initial lines of the first paragraph when she was startled by a voice.
“What the GD are you reading?” asked Andrew, his voice demonstrably flat—and monotone.
Cherry snapped her head to see Andrew standing in the center of the living room, hotel robe engulfing his way-too-skinny frame and using a hand towel to mop at his flame-red hair.
He’s right, Cherry. What the GD were you doing?
67
They had hit the seawater in a human tangle and briefly sunk before being buoyed back to the surface by the life vest yoked around Karrie’s neck. Both had first gasped for air before noticing how damn cold the water was. Despite the shock, there was an immediate unity to their actions. Lucky instantly fell into a half-breast stroke, his other arm hooked onto the life vest. Meanwhile, Karrie was on her back, assisting by kicking her feet. With every stroke, she watched the superyacht recede, shrinking to a more manageable and far less menacing size.
The swim was in total silence.
The tide was going out, carrying them backward and nearly under the Vincent Thomas Bridge. The span was lit in arcing, blue lights. Against the misty black sky, it glowed in an ethereal sort of majesty. Karrie imagined it as a gateway to heaven.
The Catalina Sea and Air terminal was on the south side of the bridge. There was a pair of boat launches, a double-slip dock, a helipad, and a forty-yard strip of beach and rock. Twenty feet shy of the shore, Lucky felt his feet squishing into the bottom silt. It might as well have been his final ascent up Mount Everest. After the more than half-mile swim, it felt as if all oxygen had been depleted from his system.
The teenager helped, crawling herself to safety before slumping on a patch of sand.
“So cold,” she shivered.
“C’mon,” urged Lucky, helping her back to her feet. He gripped her wrist and they climbed the forty yards to the terminal parking lot. He scanned the half-dozen or so parked cars and quickly went to work in the light of one weak flood lamp angled off the eaves of the one-story building.
Karrie, barely clothed and dripping wet, dumped the life preserver and hugged herself while observing her unknown savior. When she had first laid eyes on him, she had only noted his bulk, buzzed scalp, and leather jacket. He had caught her attention because he stood out from the well-dressed guests and crew on the boat. In barely a bat of her eye, he had met her gaze with an unsettling recognition. She thought she recalled gunshots. But what did those really sound like? The rest was like streaks of color being hurled at her. Then black followed by the enveloping splash of the cold ocean.
Lucky snapped the antenna off a nineties model Jeep Wrangler and used it to fish between the window and doorframe until the door unlocked. He climbed in, shoved the passenger door open and called for Karrie to climb in. She obediently complied, stepping up in time to see Lucky had already torn the shielding from the steering column. His hands were shaking from the early stages of hypothermia. She watched him find a clump of wires, strip them with his teeth, and twist them together into a copper point. He paused as if reciting a quick prayer before touching the red ignition wire. The starter turned and, with a touch to the gas pedal, the engine turned over.
“Shut the door,” Lucky said while adjusting the buttons marked HEAT and MAX.
“Who are you?” coughed Karrie, her lower jaw vibrating from her frozen core.
“Friend of a friend,” he whispered.
The answer seemed to satisfy her. She took a moment to splay her fingers in front of the heating vent but looked disappointed that it hadn’t begun to blow warm air.
It was if only then did she think to ponder his answer.
“But I sorta don’t have any friends,” she said.
“You’re safe now,” said Lucky, gunning the engine in hopes it would begin sharing some heat byproduct. “All you need to worry about is getting warm.”
Tears welled in her eyes and she began to convulse with relief. As if the shock of the past fifty or so hours was just beginning to catch up to her. Safe, she thought. What the hell was that? When was the last time she’d felt cared for?
“Friend of who?” The words came out sounding like she was gulping at air.
“I work for your family,” said Lucky. “I’m a former cop and I’ve been looking for you for about three or four days now.”
“My family,” cried Karrie. Her eyes squeezed shut and, for that instant, she became a toddler. “I miss my mommy so much.”
Ahead, the sky appeared to ignite with a blast of lights. From the Vincent Thomas Bridge, a phalanx of police vehicles aimed their floodlights into the channel. The Harbor PD helicopter swirling above unleashed a scorching beam onto the suspended superyacht.
“Good,” breathed Karrie. “For the other girls…”
“Buckle up,” warned Lucky, grinding the Jeep into gear. Either the clutch was stiff or Lucky’s knees were turning arthritic, because the Wrangler lurched forward with a jolt. “Sorry.”
“I’m okay,” said Karrie, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself.
In a matter of minutes, Lucky had swung the Jeep up the ramp onto Seaside Highway. He shifted lanes making sure to be fed into the 110 freeway north headed for downtown Los Angeles.
“Gettin’ warm,” Lucky announced, directing the center vent towards the soaked teen.
“Wow. This isn’t even your car,” realized Karrie after sucking back some emotion.
“Borrowing it. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the owner gets what’s coming.”
“But you stole it.”
“Your dad can afford it.”
“My dad…”
The question in Karrie’s voice sounded like a cork had been jammed into her windpipe. The words just stopped. Lucky glanced to his right only to see the teen staring back at him, her eyes round and unbelieving.
“I work for your father.”
“…No.”
“Yes I do,” he clarified. “And he came all the way out here for you.”
“He’s here? My dad is here?”
“Taking you to him right now. Should be there in give or take twenty minutes—”
Karrie pushed her door open, producing a profound rush of wet air. Lucky was sure had it not been for her seatbelt, she would have leaped right out staining herself on the fast-moving asphalt. Without a second thought, he had a hold of her wrist. But she tried like hell to shake him free.
“Stop your—”
“I WANT OUT!”
“WHOA WHOA WHOA!” Lucky shouted, his vocal cords hoarse from swallowing salt water. He clutched quickly and nudged the gearshift into neutral and let the Jeep drift to the shoulder where he braked. The passenger door flapped as the Jeep crunched to a stall.
“LET GO!” she screamed.
Lucky’s free hand went to Karrie’s mouth if only to protect his ears from the extreme pitch of her sudden, feral screeching.
“Shut up!” he hissed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You are hurting me!” she was able to muffle.
“Listen to me!” he urged her, tightening down on her mouth and wrist just enough to cause a pinch or sting. “I made some dead men back there just so I could bring you home! Whatever your shit is, it has crap hell to do with me, okay?”
Her
eyes. So young and doe-like. Big as saucers and all of a sudden more terrified than anything he had seen in their brief encounter. Slowly, Lucky removed his grip, leaned across her, and shut the passenger door to trap the warmth from the car’s heater.
“Now…” said Lucky in his best, most calming tone. “Your father…”
Karrie’s eyes closed. He watched her draw her elbows back into her body and her fists clenched into tiny balls of ivory knuckles.
“I meant it when I said you’re safe with me,” he continued. “That means safe from everybody. Including…”
“But you work for him,” she barely whispered.
“Not entirely true,” conceded Lucky. “The only thing I care about at this moment is you.”
She began to convulse again. But the tear-filled tremors were smaller, deeper, and far sadder than moments ago when she had shown relief from captivity.
The air left Lucky. The cabin was beginning to warm him and so the pain was returning. Though it somehow felt deserved. Like he had it coming.
“Your dad,” Lucky cued again, “You ran away…from him?”
Karrie’s chin dipped to her chest and she slowly nodded.
“Because…” he said, even though in the cold of his bones he knew the dark answer.
Karrie inhaled, but the air sucked back in a halting staccato. Hardly cleansing. Barely worth a breath.
“Because…” she said, “No matter how much I begged, he wouldn’t stop fucking me.”
Lucky wasn’t so keen on promises. The word promise itself sounded so very loaded to him. And juvenile. A promise, after all, was a bond between grade school chums. Or something a child held his or her parents to. Promises were not for adults. Instead, grown-ups had their word. They had agreements. Contracts. Guidelines. All for a world that with every step toward old age, was revealed as more gray and fuzzy than idealistic black and white.
The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset) Page 61
