“That’s odd.”
“Yeah, it gets even worse.” Harry rubbed his forehead. God, his head ached. He’d slept maybe three hours last night, and no more than two the night before. “The landlady’s been collecting my mail, bringing it inside—there’s an enormous pile right on the bed. It’s mostly junk mail, but I go through it because there might be credit-card bills mixed in, and what do I find?”
George wisely didn’t try to guess.
“A notification that the equivalent of adoption proceedings have been started. A petition has been made to the county court about some freaking name change crap. And there’s some bullshit paper I’m supposed to sign, giving up all legal rights to custody. My stepsister’s trying to steal my kids.”
Even as he said the words aloud, Harry couldn’t believe it. Why would Marge do that? What the hell was going on?
“So I call back—by then it’s at least one A.M. And they’re still not home. Emily is only a baby. What the hell is she doing out at one A.M.? I called at two and three and four, and they still weren’t home. I called all yesterday, too, and last night. They’re gone.”
“Maybe they’re out of town. Maybe it’s no big deal—”
“And what? Maybe the letter I received from the legal firm of Peckerhead Backstabber and Jones was just a mistake?”
George opened his mouth to speak but then closed it, saying nothing.
“What?” Harry asked.
George glanced at him then shook his head. “No.”
“No, Faulkner, what? Tell me what you were going to say.”
“I don’t think we’ve known each other long enough.”
“Are you kidding? You can say anything to me.” Harry smiled ruefully. “You usually do. I don’t know why you’re being so f—” He stopped himself. George was right. His language needed some serious self-editing. Funny, he never used to let the foulness of the street extend into his personal life. Of course, back then he’d had a family. Two impressionable boys and a toddler girl. It was Emily, his daughter, who was the living tape recorder. Anything that slipped out of his mouth would be played back—at high volume—usually at some inopportune moment. “I don’t know why you’re being so …” He cleared his throat. “Uncharacteristically restrained.”
Traffic on the Southern State was heavy but still moving at about ten miles an hour faster than the posted speed limit. George finessed his way into the left lane, letting several quick miles slip past before he glanced up.
“Promise you won’t shout at me?”
Harry tried to look hurt. “When do I shout at you?”
George just smiled.
“Okay,” Harry said. “All right. I won’t shout at you. I promise.”
“Maybe,” George said, slowly, carefully, “you should just sign the paper.”
“What?”
“You promised you wouldn’t shout!”
“I’m not fucking shouting!” Harry shouted. He took a deep breath and tried again, more softly. “I’m not shouting. Gosh darnit.”
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but think about it, Harry,” George said. “You’ve seen those kids, what? Two times in the past two years? For a half a day at Christmas? That’s not being a father. That’s being Santa Claus.”
“No,” Harry said. “No. They’re my kids. They’re not orphans. They don’t need to be f—They don’t need to be adopted.”
“Maybe you should take some time off, go out to wherever it is you’ve got them hidden,” George suggested. “And stay for at least a week this time. Emily’s what? Five now? After two years, she probably doesn’t even remember you.”
“Emily’s four and a half. Shaun’s fourteen,” Harry said. And Kevin … Kevin was dead. He would’ve been just about to turn seventeen.
Harry closed his eyes, fighting the waves of sickness that accompanied all thoughts of his oldest son. Even after two years, it still hurt too much. Even after two years, the wounds were too fresh. He was okay as long as he didn’t think about Kev. Problem was, he couldn’t look into Shaun and Emily’s faces without thinking of their older brother.
Was it really any wonder that he never went to visit?
He pushed all thoughts away, keeping his eyes closed, effectively ending his conversation with George. “Wake me when we get to Farmingdale.”
Alessandra was frantic. Twenty-four hours had passed since Michael Trotta’s ultimatum. That left only twenty-four more to go. Her time was half up, and she was no closer to finding the money than she’d been when she started.
She’d slept only a few hours last night. She hadn’t meant to sleep at all. But fatigue had overcome her while sorting through several boxes of Griffin’s papers that had been hidden in the garage, searching for something, anything that might be a clue. She’d woken up in a panic, dreaming of an attack dog leaping at her, razor-sharp teeth going for her face.
She’d gone out to the twenty-four-hour Dunkin’ Donuts and bought five large cups of coffee, cursing herself soundly for falling asleep. She had only forty-eight hours, total, and every minute counted.
By mid-morning the workers were back, replacing the rest of her broken windows. By mid-afternoon, Alessandra had finished the last of her coffee, long stone cold.
Her turquoise dress was streaked with dirt and dust as she stood in the room that had been Griffin’s office and slowly turned in a circle. She’d torn up the carpeting and found nothing. She’d searched and removed all that was left of the furniture and books.
She’d brought the pickax in from the garage, prepared to tear open the walls if necessary. But it seemed so improbable. If Griffin had hidden something in the walls, she would have known about it. Wouldn’t she?
She sat down on the floor, slumping with fatigue, trying desperately to think.
Michael Trotta had said that Griffin stole the money last year. Last April. She tried to think back, tried to remember what they’d been doing, tried to think of something that would set that particular time apart from all of the endless, similar, blurred months of her marriage.
They’d gone on vacation, spent a week in Cozumel, Mexico. God, if Griffin had spent the money gambling or even hidden it down there …
Alessandra forced herself not to think of disaster scenarios. April. April. Spring. Spring would have been in full bloom. Flowers and …
She sat up.
Griffin. Out in the backyard. Working with a shovel and a rake. Planting that azalea.
She’d come home early from another of the endless baby showers she’d received invitations to as Griffin’s wife. She’d left before dessert was served, before the presents were opened, feigning illness. In truth, she couldn’t take it. She couldn’t bear the sight of even one more disgustingly adorable tiny pink or blue outfit, she couldn’t stand to listen to one more endless conversation about breast-feeding.
She’d been surprised to see Griffin home in the middle of the day—almost as surprised as she was to see him actually doing yard work. They paid an enormous amount for a landscaper to come in once a week and maintain the grounds. Griffin had allergies—and an aversion to getting his hands dirty, too.
Yet there he was, out in the back, planting that azalea. The same azalea he’d made a point to ask for in the divorce settlement. The azalea he was supposed to pick up this month, as soon as the ground thawed enough to dig it free. The azalea she’d set on fire just two nights ago.
With a burst of renewed energy, Alessandra pulled herself to her feet and went out to the garage, searching for a shovel.
“Where’s Emily?”
Shaun looked up from his book, shading his eyes to see his aunt in the glaring sunlight. Her words didn’t make sense, because Emily was right in front of him. She was building a sand castle down at the edge of the water. She was …
Gone.
Her red bucket lay on its side next to a small mound of sand, but Emily was gone.
Shit.
Shaun stood up, his heart pounding. The Pacifi
c Ocean was calm today, but even calm, the waves were strong enough to knock over a four-year-old—even one as tough as Em.
Marge was already purposely striding toward a man and a woman on a blanket nearby, and Shaun could hear her clear voice asking if they’d seen which way the little girl had gone.
Em’s bathing suit was a bright, cheery yellow that made her hair and eyes seem an even darker shade of brown. Shaun scanned the waves but saw no flash of color. Shading his eyes again, he gazed down the beach, spinning first one way and then the next. And there, through the mist rising off the water, he could see it.
A very small spark of yellow, way, way down the beach, heading north toward Carmel.
He dropped his book and ran.
Heart pounding, legs and stomach churning, he prayed that yellow spot was Emily, not some empty sand pail or lost beach towel. He was supposed to have been watching her. He was responsible for her safety. How could he have let this happen? What if she’d gotten too close to the punishing force of the ocean, been knocked over and drowned? What if she was already dead?
It happened. He knew it happened. People died. People he loved could go into the city, or down to the beach, or even just around the corner and they might never come back. He’d learned that the hard way.
But Emily …
He wasn’t sure he could live if Emily was dead.
And, God, how would he ever face his father?
His stomach hurt, but he kept running, his eyes fixed on the bit of yellow. It was growing larger, growing a head with stringy dark hair, two arms, two legs.
It was Emily.
She was crouching in the sand, poking at a shell as he skidded to a stop. Thank God. Relief flooded through him, turning instantly to a cramping wave of nausea. He dropped to his knees and threw up, right there, in the sand.
A trio of high school girls hurried past him, giggling and making noises of disgust, and the mortification nearly made him throw up again.
One of them turned back to him. A pretty one, with long red hair tied back into a ponytail. Her eyes were blue and wide. “Are you all right?”
Shaun wiped at the tears that had flooded his eyes. Perfect. He was crying. Could this get any worse? He checked with one hand to make sure his bathing suit hadn’t slipped down to expose his bare butt as he swept sand over his former breakfast with the other.
“You should slow down and walk it off after doing sprints,” she told him. “Particularly in this heat.”
God, he’d managed to puke on his glasses. He was looking at the prettiest girl in the world through dots of vomit. What a complete and total loser. He took them off and wiped them on the bottom edge of his shorts, and the world became fuzzy. Safer. Emily was a yellow blob, and the girl was like something one of those dead French guys painted. Still nice to look at, but hazy, undefined.
“You were running really fast.” She laughed. Her laughter was like magic. “I was watching you for a while.”
She had been watching him? Shaun put his glasses back on. She was wearing a black two-piece bathing suit that clung to a perfect body that screamed to be watched. She was probably around sixteen, a couple years older than he was. A couple years older than the girls in his eighth grade class at school, and unlike many of them, she had sixteen-year-old breasts. She had very, very nice breasts. Oh, God. Shaun felt himself blush a deeper shade of red.
“I’m a runner, too,” she told him. “I’ve almost lost my lunch more than a few times when it gets hot like this, so I know exactly how you’re feeling. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Shaun opened his mouth and squeaked. Oh, God. He cleared his throat and started again. “I’m okay,” he said, his voice managing not to break. “I just … I was …”
“You know, sometimes when marathon runners have intestinal distress, they just go to the bathroom in their shorts,” she told him. “They just keep running.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
She laughed. “It’s true. At least you had the decency to stop.”
Emily had seen him and had come to stand nearby, her eyes wide as she stared at the girl.
He gave the girl a weak smile. “I’m sorry I grossed out your friends.”
“They’re babies. You know, you should run in the morning, around seven-thirty or eight, before it gets too hot. That’s when I run.” The red-haired girl smiled back at him. “Maybe I’ll see you around, huh?”
She turned, breaking into an easy trot to catch up with her friends.
What just happened here? He blows chunks, and the prettiest girl on the beach starts to flirt with him?
“Do you got the throw-up flu?” Emily asked as he crawled toward the surf and rinsed his face in the salt water.
“No,” he said tersely. “I puked because …”
She didn’t have a clue. Em was standing there, frowning slightly, concerned because he’d gotten sick, but other than that, she didn’t have the slightest idea that she’d been the cause of his distress.
“Where were you going?” he asked her far more gently than he would have had the red-haired girl not stopped. “You know you’re supposed to stay where you can see me on the beach, or Marge won’t let us come down here alone.”
Em gazed at him calmly, still without a speck of remorse in her eyes. “I was following Daddy.”
Shaun froze. “What?”
“I saw Daddy, and I followed him, but he goed too fast for me to catch him.”
The elation that had come with the pretty redhead’s smile wore off, leaving complete exhaustion in its place. “Em, you know Dad’s not in California. He lives in—”
“Washin’ton, D.C.,” she recited. “ ’Tecting the president from bad guys.” She sat down next to him in the sand. “But we’re on vacation, maybe Daddy’s on vacation, too.”
Shaun put his arm around her. She was sturdy but so small. “Daddy doesn’t take vacations,” he told her gently. “His job’s too important, remember?”
Em nodded, content with that explanation. “The president needs him.”
“Yeah,” Shaun said, wishing he was still young enough to believe the stories he’d started making up two years ago. He hugged his sister more tightly. “Next time you wander off, you’re gonna be in big trouble, you got that?”
Emily nodded. “Shaun?”
“Yeah, Em.”
“What does Daddy look like?”
Shaun closed his eyes. “Like you, Em, remember? Just like you, only a whole lot bigger.”
* * *
“What the …?”
Harry stopped short as he went around the side of the house, and George had to tap-dance to keep from crashing into him.
Alessandra Lamont hadn’t seen them yet.
George opened his mouth to complain again, but Harry shook his head, holding one finger up to his lips and then pointing at Alessandra.
She was digging in the garden. Her hair had fallen almost completely loose from an elegant knot at the back of her head. Her face and arms were streaked with dirt.
She was working hard, digging around the roots of the skeleton of a bush. Only three or four branches remained, covered with soot, blackened fingers reaching pathetically toward the sky. It was weird, as if that bush, and only that bush, had been completely consumed by a miniature forest fire.
But that wasn’t the odd part. It made sense she’d want to remove the dead plant. It was ugly, and she was trying to sell her house. And it made sense she’d be covered with dirt. Harry knew a little about gardening, knew that people could get dirty when the richness of the earth mixed with the sweat of hard work.
But the odd part was that Mrs. Griffin Lamont was doing her gardening while wearing a dress more appropriate for a cocktail party.
“That’s an Armani,” George murmured. At Harry’s blank look, he explained. “A designer dress. Probably cost upward of seven hundred fifty bucks. What is she doing?”
“Searching for buried treasure?”
As Harry wat
ched, Alessandra stood up. Her legs were long and slender, very nicely shaped despite the streaks of dirt running from her knees down her shins. She hooked one ridiculous-looking high-heeled shoe on top of the shovel and, using her body weight, dug in. The muscles in her arms and legs strained, and her dress tightened across her rear end.
“It would kind of be a shame to offer to help,” George said quietly.
Harry nodded, perfectly content just to watch for a while—to see exactly what it was she was digging up.
But she spotted them and dropped the shovel, spraying herself with dirt.
“Lord!” she said. “You scared me!”
“Sorry.” Up closer, she was even dirtier. She had cobwebs in her hair and an angry-looking scrape on her shoulder. Her dress was ripped, too. It had pockets on the front, and one of them looked as if it had caught on something and torn partly free. It had ripped right through the dress, leaving a little triangular-shaped hole through which he could see her underpants. Her bright red underpants. God. “Whatcha up to today, Mrs. Lamont?”
She made an attempt to push several loose strands of hair behind her ear—as if that would improve her disheveled appearance. Her hands were shaking. Caffeine jitters, Harry guessed. Hell, if he were her, given a too-short deadline by Michael Trotta, he’d keep himself wired with coffee, too.
She seemed exhausted. And terrified. Her blue eyes looked bruised, her mascara smeared, most of her other makeup long since worn off. She looked like complete hell, yet somehow even more attractive than she had two nights ago when they’d first met. She looked more like a real woman and less like a posable Barbie doll. And Harry found himself wanting to help her.
“Look,” he said quietly. “We know what’s going on. We know about the missing money. We know Michael Trotta’s threatened to kill you if you don’t give it back.”
She turned away, all but putting her hands over her ears to block his words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bodyguard Page 5
