by Lois Greiman
“Take care of Trivette, too.”
I wrote it down, though it made no sense at all. My hand was shaking. “Laney …” My voice trembled. “I don’t understand.”
“He had that hairless sphinx. Weird. We should have given it a sweater. But he wouldn’t have used it. People don’t change.”
“What do you mean? Who’s—” I began, but the phone was taken away and her kidnapper was back on the line.
“So Hollywood,” he said, “worrying about a cat when the world is on fire.”
“Don’t hurt her,” I said.
“I’ve no desire to. But regrettably I may be unable to prevent it if my demands are not followed to the letter,” he said, then, “Tell Mr. Solberg to collect the necessary funds. I’ll call him soon to let him know where to wire the money.”
“Wait!” I felt frantic, terrified, but the phone had already gone dead.
33
If it wasn’t for vinyl I’d be naked all the time.
—Teddy Bactrin, one of
Chrissy’s too honest beaus
Solberg and I stared at each other, lost and horrified. He turned like an automaton, and I blinked, coming back to myself.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the money ready.”
I nodded, broken, crushed, but when my gaze swept across my scribbled notes I spoke again. “How old are you?”
“What difference—”
“Your age!” I was trying to rally. “How old?”
“Thirty-seven. Why?”
“Because Laney doesn’t waste time.” My brain was beginning to click a little. “Did you ever have a cat?”
“A cat? No. Wh—”
“Who’s Muffy?”
“Are you crazy? I don’t have time—”
But I grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. “Who’s Muffy?”
“I don’t know. I—Wait.” He blinked. “I used to date a girl called Muffy.”
For a moment all sensible thoughts fled. Muffy? Really? I shook my head. “Get on your computer.”
“What?”
“Your computer. You have it with you, don’t you?”
“It’s in my—”
“Get it!”
He paused a moment, but finally he scrambled away. I grabbed a pen from the drawer and wrote down the twenty-one-second conversation as closely as I could remember. I had asked where she was. She’d begged me to take care of her cat, who was thirty-seven years …
“What do you want?” Solberg was panting when he ran back in. He was carrying something that looked like a beefed-up coffee can. But there was no time to dwell.
“Find Thirty-seventh Avenue,” I said.
“In L.A.?”
“For now,” I muttered, then closed my eyes, trying to think, to wish away the panic. What was the cross street? Not Muffy. That would have been too obvious, too dangerous. “What was Muffy’s last name?”
“Muffy?” He glanced up. A little color had returned to his lips. “Newton.”
“Find Thirty-seventh and Newton.”
He typed madly. The keyboard was in the shape of a cylinder. “There is none.”
I wanted to ask if he was positive, but there was no point, so I paced, then spun toward him. “What was her real name?”
“Muffy is her real name.”
“Seriously?”
“But her cousins called her Marigold.” Our eyes met.
“Thirty-seventh and Marigold!” He was already typing.
I’d asked who had abducted her. “Do you know anyone named Trivette?”
He shook his head, distracted, then yanked his attention toward me. “East L.A. Looks like residential slums.” He was already on his feet.
“Where are you going?”
He paused, cheeks bright, fists clenched. “To kill him,” he said.
For a moment I was too shocked to take him seriously, but when he turned away I grabbed his arm. “How? Solberg, think. We don’t know who he is. We don’t know where he is. Not specifically.”
“I’ll find him.” His voice was gruff, unrecognizable. “I’ll find her.”
“He’s probably armed.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip.
“It matters if he hurts Laney.”
Every molecule of color drained from his face. His arm went limp in my hand. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know, I—” A thought flashed through my mind, so quick I could hardly catch it. “Texas Rangers!” I hissed the words.
He stared at me, almost hopeful, waiting.
“I told her Jackson looked like Jimmy Trivette, from Walker, Texas Ranger.”
“Who’s Jackson?” he asked, but I was already dialing the phone.
Micky Goldenstone answered on the second ring. My voice sounded odd, cranked tight.
“Where’s Jackson.”
There was a pause. “Who is this?”
“Christina McMullen. Micky, is Jackson still in the hospital?”
“No.”
“Is he in custody?”
“His handgun was registered. He had no priors. They released him until the trial. Why?”
I felt my stomach twist. “Is he with Lavonn?”
“I don’t—”
“I need you to find out.”
“Are—”
“Do you think he’s capable of kidnapping? Do you know—”
“What the fuck’s going on?” His voice was a snarl.
“I think he’s producing a drug called Intensity. I think Lavonn hid it in my jacket. Laney was wearing it today and she’s been kidnapped.”
There was a second’s pause. “I’m on my way to Glendale.” I heard a door slam.
“Micky …”
“Yeah?” His tone was terse, taut as a stretched wire. “His old girlfriend, the one he made serve him …”
“Becca.”
“Yeah.” Laney had mentioned sphinx cats and the only reason I could think of was because they were a virtually naked breed. “If Becca didn’t do what he wanted, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and let silence fill the miles between us like a swirling tornado. “I can’t find her.”
It took Micky forty-two minutes to reach Jackson’s home in Glendale, but he wasn’t there.
It took Solberg an hour to realize it could take days to secure twenty-one million dollars.
Long before then he found a live online image of Thirty-seventh and Marigold. I had no idea how he’d tapped into it or if it was legal. Nor did I care. From the picture on the screen we could see that most of the buildings were boarded up. Anemic-looking weeds were scattered about dusty yards and stray furniture adorned broken sidewalks.
Solberg’s phone rang as we were gazing at the screen. We turned toward each other, breathless, terrified. He answered, knobby hand visibly shaking.
“I need more time to get your money.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Solberg.”
“I want to talk to Laney.”
“She’s indisposed just now.”
“If you hurt her, I swear to you …” He ran out of words, out of hope.
“What do you swear, Mr. Solberg?”
“Give me one minute with her and I’ll give you ten thousand dollars in cash.”
“But cash is so trackable. You’re not trying to trick me, are you, Mr. Solberg?”
“I don’t care what happens to you.” His expression was grim, his tone the same. “I just want Laney back.”
“Very romantic. I’m touched. And I had almost given up on the power of love. Tell you what, give me an even twenty-five million and I’ll let you talk to her.”
His hand tightened on the phone. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t know if I can get that much.”
“That’s interesting, because I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to talk again if you don’t cooperate. In fact, maybe the whole arrangement is off if you can’t find it
in your heart—”
“I’ll get it!” Solberg said.
“Ahhh, love will find a way. You are single-handedly restoring my faith in mankind, Mr. Solberg. And for that, you’ll get a few more seconds to talk with your beloved. But I think I’ll put you on speakerphone this time. I’m wondering if your amoretto isn’t a bit brighter than her gorgeous body suggests.”
She was on the phone in a minute.
“Jeen?”
“I want to hear.” I only mouthed the words, but he understood. His hands shook as he bumped the button for speakerphone.
“Angel.” He sounded faint with relief.
“Is Muffy okay?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “I brought her to my house. She’s watching TV in the other room. Starsky and Hutch.”
There was almost a sigh in her voice. “I used to love that show.”
“It’s the one where Hutch pretended to be Emma.”
She paused for a moment. I held my breath, praying she was coherent enough to remember the hours we had spent watching every episode. Praying she understood my meaning.
“That was a good one,” she said finally. “I want to watch it when I get home. I want to watch three stories in a row. And I want to come home soon. Please, Jeen, bring me home.”
His knuckles looked white against the gold metal of his cell. “I will, baby. I promise.”
“Before I see the sun set. Please. I’m cold. I’m scared. Get me home,” she said, and began to cry noisily.
“Secure the funds,” the kidnapper said, and hung up.
Solberg dropped to his knees. He was rocking back and forth, face crunched in agony. “What has he done? What has he done to her?”
“Not much,” I said, but my throat felt tight with terror and anger. “Not yet.”
“What are you talking about? She’s crying!” Solberg screamed the words at me, but his anguish did nothing but galvanize me.
“No she’s not,” I said.
“I heard her. She’s—”
“Faking it,” I said. “Now get up. We’re leaving.”
“She’s crying,” he whispered, ashen, but I was already hurrying into my bedroom. “She doesn’t make any noise when she cries, Solberg. Unless she’s acting,” I said, and stepped back into the living room carrying a wig, a baseball bat, and a robe.
He wobbled to his feet. “What are you doing?”
“I’m bringing her home,” I said. “You coming?”
He nodded jerkily and staggered to his feet.
“You’re going to need this,” I said, and handed him the bat.
He took it in two fingers.
“But you’re going to have to bring your own balls,” I added, and stared at him. “You got ’em?”
He swallowed and straightened his back.
“Good. You drive. We’ll take my car. It’ll cause less—” I began, but at that moment the doorbell rang. My heart stopped. I glanced at Solberg, but he was too stunned to react. My knees felt stiff as I made my way toward the door.
Aalia stood on the far side. Her gorgeous face was sober, her dark eyes wide and earnest. “I wished to thank you for your help,” she said, “before I must go.”
I realized finally that she was dressed in the same clothes I had first seen her in at the airport. Low-slung jeans and a long-sleeved jersey. Only the sideways cap was missing. A warning bell clanged in my head, but the din was already so loud I could barely distinguish the noise.
“Listen, Aalia, don’t do anything rash. I have to go now, but we’ll talk when I get back.”
She shook her head. “I cannot stay with my beloved sister and her husband. I have come all this long way to be free. To make my own decisions and my own friends but they …” She paused again. Her expressive eyes narrowed. “What happens here?”
I tightened my grip on the wig. “Nothing. I just have to go out for a while.”
“Something …” She paused. “It is wrong.”
“Please …” Panic was beginning to boil in my gut. “Just go home before—”
“Something has happened bad.”
“I don’t—”
“I will help,” she said, and pursed her lips.
“Listen—”
“Where you go, I go,” she said, and there was no time to argue.
In a matter of moments the three of us were striding toward the Saturn. A baseball cap was now on Aalia’s head. Solberg carried the keys. He popped the locks and got behind the wheel. I chose the backseat.
We pulled away from the curb at Mach speed as he glanced at me in the mirror. The sun was just setting.
“Where are we going, Chrissy?”
“To an apartment building on Thirty-seventh and Marigold.”
He nodded, pale but determined. “Which side is she on?”
“She can watch the sun set,” I said. Everything seemed sharply defined now, finely etched and crystal clear. “West side,” he said. “Third floor.”
“How … Three stories,” he breathed.
“Yeah.” I nodded grimly. “And Solberg …”
I could feel him watching me in the mirror.
“She’s naked.”
He blanched, but kept driving, narrow lips pursed tight. “How do you know?”
“She said she’s cold. She said people don’t change. She doesn’t believe that. Never has. But Jackson has traumatized women like this before.”
He nodded once and when he spoke, his tone was deadly even. “I’m not a violent man by nature.” He glanced toward me, eyes steady in the Saturn’s narrow mirror. “I want you to remind Angel of that later.”
“She knows.”
There were tears in his eyes. “I don’t want her to forget.” One tear dripped silently down his thin cheek.
“I won’t let her,” I said.
He nodded, then tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “What now?”
I sketched out the plan as he drove, then took a deep breath and dialed Rivera.
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
I glanced down. I had undressed in the car and now wore nothing but a robe and a wig, but I put those embarrassing truths out of my mind.
“I need your help,” I said.
“Should I rest up?”
I looked toward the front seat, hoping they couldn’t hear the conversation.
“Laney’s been kidnapped.”
There was a momentary pause filled with tension and angst, then, “Listen to me, McMullen. I want you to stop whatever you’re doing. I want you to go home and lock your doors.”
I nodded. “I’ll do that,” I said, “when she can go home with me.”
“McMullen, this is police business. If you interfere—”
“You’ll have to threaten me later. Right now I’m in a hurry. I think she’s been abducted by Jackson Andrews. She’s in an apartment building on Thirty-seventh and Marigold. If we’re not out of there in ten minutes we’re going to need an ambulance and backup.”
“Backup! Are you nuts?” His voice was rising with every word. “You’re not a cop, McMullen. Get your ass—”
“Rivera.”
There was a pause. The tension had amped up a thousand percent. “What?”
“I think I love you,” I said, and hung up just as we pulled over to the curb on Thirty-sixth Street.
I switched my phone to vibrate and dropped it into the pocket of my terry-cloth robe. It was almost dark. I glanced at my cohorts, feeling chilled to the bone and scared enough to pee in my pants. If I had any on. Which I didn’t.
“Are we ready?” My voice sounded funny—distant and vague.
My companions nodded in unison.
I took a deep breath. “Call me when you’re in position,” I said, and, reaching over the parking brake, pulled the keys from the ignition. I wrestled off my Mace and handed it to Aalia. “A brand-new can of protective spray,” I said. “Flip the red trigger, then point and spray.”
She stared at it. “What of you?�
�
“Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be running like a raped ape,” I said. Secretariat wouldn’t be able to catch me.
Solberg tightened his grip on the bat and stepped from the car. They headed south on Thirty-sixth together, but would split up before they could be seen from the third floor of Terrace Garden Apartments. I held my keys in a death grip and headed north.
Half a block up, a multicolor cluster of boys whistled catcalls. But I was too occupied to either appreciate their sense of humor or be offended. Upon reaching Sandcrane Street, I turned left. My bellowing breath sounded like a freight train. By the time I reached the cross street I felt as if I was going to pass out. There was only one streetlamp working. But maybe that was just as well. Anyone who would mistake me for Laney would have to either be blind or high. I said a quick prayer that Jackson was both.
Staring at Terrace Garden Apartments, I hurried across the street and took a breather behind a battered jade plant. I counted three stories up and ran my gaze across the row of windows. All of them were dark. Several looked broken. But the second-most southerly one seemed darker than the others. As if a blanket had been strung across the opening.
My phone buzzed just as I slipped between two vehicles. The pickup truck was up on blocks, the little Geo seemed to be short an engine. They wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. Hunkering down between the two bumpers, I recognized Solberg’s number and flipped open my cell.
“Are you in?” My voice sounded hollow and empty.
Solberg’s was similar. “We found an open door.”
I closed my eyes and steeled my resolve. “You know what to do?”
“Yeah,” Solberg said. His voice had deepened some and sounded oddly like the Terminator’s. “Bring Laney home.”
“Be careful,” I said, but he had already hung up. I dropped the phone back into my pocket, kicked off my flip-flops, and played out the coming drama in my head: Aalia meandering down the debris-strewn hallway, shouting for drugs. Jackson worrying, telling Laney to keep quiet, locking her in the bedroom, opening the door into the hall, glancing … But wait, what if he locked her in a different room? The bathroom maybe. Somewhere without a window to—
“What the hell you doing?”
I stifled a squawk but jumped as someone glared at me through the windshield of the broken Geo.
“I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m just—”
“Get away!” shrieked the guy in the car. His face was wizened, his hair stretched out of his head like gray antennae.
