Licensed to Thrill: Volume 2

by Diane Capri

  “Sleep, here I come,” she said aloud to the empty room. Stood. Sore feet yelped. Still wearing pumps.

  Stretched the kinks out of her back caused by too many hours in the lumpy chair. Winced. Not that she cared. She loved her job, her work. Her back was young enough to take it.

  The once pressed white blouse long ago pulled loose from her grey skirt. Earrings on the desk where she’d tossed them hours ago.

  Jennifer glanced up and caught her reflection in the small mirror hanging behind the door. She’d chewed off her lipstick. Mascara under her eyes created an unflattering raccoon look. Grimaced.

  She kicked her pumps off and headed around the battered wood desk down the corridor in her stocking feet. Didn’t worry about her bedraggled appearance. No one important was likely to see her at this time of night anyway.

  Stopped at the closest coffee pot counter near the stairs hoping for stale coffee. No dice. The pot was empty, except for long-burned scum on the bottom. Spied a Styrofoam cup about one-third full of black liquid perched on the counter.

  “Better than nothing, I guess,” she said aloud.

  Flipped the burner off under the pot, rinsed the scum, and set it aside for tomorrow. From experience, she figured she’d be the first one to make coffee in the morning when she was much more likely to need it.

  Carrying the cold coffee, she rounded the corner and bounded up the stairs.

  Hallways were dimly lit by emergency lighting. No matter. She could find her way around the familiar spaces in total blackness. She’d spent so much time at work over the past five years. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered to have a home, she was so rarely there.

  Exit lights cast an eerie red glow in the darkest corners. Where office doors had been left open, the last vestiges of twilight and weak street light offered enough illumination to navigate. Jennifer had never felt safer.

  Petite fingers kneaded her forehead to stave off the stress migraine’s sharp edges behind her right eye.

  She patted around in her pocket for an eight-hundred-milligram ibuprofen caplet as she walked. Put the bitter painkiller on her tongue, washed it down with unexpectedly sweet, cold, black sludge left by an earlier paying client. Grimaced at the appalling taste.

  “There,” she said aloud into the empty corridor. “That should do it.”

  When she came around the last corner, Jennifer noticed that the door to the small conference room, like several other doors along this corridor, was closed. Not slowing her pace at all, she reached the door, put her hand on the knob, turned to open it and, glancing down at the carpet, pushed in.

  Three steps into the room, Jennifer stopped, startled. Seated around the table were senior attorney Melanie Stein and two people Jennifer had never seen before.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MELANIE LOOKED UP, ALMOST as startled. Jennifer began to apologize and back out, but Melanie waved her forward. “No, come in. I’d like to introduce you to our new clients.”

  Mortified, Jennifer wagged her head back and forth, attempted to decline and back the hell out.

  “This is Ronald and Lila Walden,” Melanie said, as everyone stood to exchange greetings. “And this is one of our top associates, Jennifer Lane.”

  Both clients stared at Jennifer as if she was an apparition.

  When Ronald spoke, Jennifer could smell his breath across the table. The faintly acrid odor of metabolized alcohol when he exhaled churned her already queasy stomach and aggravated the budding migraine.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said, while his wife merely nodded.

  Stubby fingers he drew through dark wavy hair sported yellow smoker’s stains; nails bitten below the quick. Raw flesh unhealed.

  Once, Ronald Walden might have been handsome in a boy-next-door kind of way. The years and the mileage combined to produce a used and weary man.

  Partly because these were pro bono clients, Jennifer guessed at first he was a workingman who had never been inside a blue-chip, silk-stocking Tampa law firm like hers before and was probably nervous.

  No.

  He shook not because of nerves. Alcohol withdrawal. Jennifer recognized the signs. Her father, too, had been a drinker once.

  Lila Walden remained still, primly restrained, ankles crossed as she’d no doubt been taught in the church where she’d been baptized and married. The way she styled her hair and dressed reminded Jennifer of aged photographs in her mother’s albums.

  An old-fashioned, imitation leather purse rested on Lila’s lap under hands holding a delicate lace handkerchief. Narrow gold wedding band her only jewelry. Quiet. Controlled.

  “We’ll be helping Mr. and Mrs. Walden with a guardianship proceeding,” Melanie said, as if Jennifer were a part of the team. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Jennifer’s time was already promised to other clients.

  “Our baby just up and disappeared, ma’am,” Ronald Walden told Jennifer. “We been lookin’ for her for weeks.” Ronald waited, figuratively hat-in-hand, pleading for Melanie or Jennifer to work a miracle. If only she could.

  “They’re concerned about their daughter being evicted from her apartment while she’s gone because the rent hasn’t been paid,” Melanie explained. “And they want to use her funds to hire a private investigator to find her.”

  Melanie headed up the Community Services team and Jennifer was grateful not to be assigned to the often desperate clients who lived too near society’s edges. She envied Melanie’s objectivity; something Jennifer could never master. She quickly recalled what Melanie said about this heartbreaking, hopeless new case yesterday at lunch.

  Almost as if she’d been abducted by aliens, Roxanne Walden had vanished three weeks ago. She’d left her tony apartment full of expensive furnishings and everything else she owned behind. She’d even left her purse, complete with wallet, credit cards, and cash.

  Tampa PD had done what it should have, Melanie said. Missing women had become a high priority to American law enforcement agencies. For too long, too many victims had been presumed missing but later discovered dead, usually at the hands of husbands or boyfriends. The police had tried to find Roxanne by using all their normal means.

  When the Waldens first reported Roxanne missing, local police had checked her credit card charges, ATM withdrawals, and bank account activity. There had been none. Roxanne’s car was still in the parking lot of her apartment complex. All airline, train, bus, and cruise ship lists of passengers departing Tampa had been examined. Friends and colleagues were interviewed. Even unidentified bodies that had found their way to the morgue in the intervening weeks were, one by one, considered. But none were Roxanne.

  Now, standing in the small conference room in the presence of Roxanne Walden’s parents, Jennifer felt herself being pulled into the vortex of a family tragedy, one she had no power to change. Except that it would have been incredibly rude to do so, Jennifer would have tried again to excuse herself from this nightmare.

  She knew she was the antithesis of the warrior goddess, Cyrene, for whom she’d been named: Cyrene Jennifer Lane. Maybe the ancient Cyrene had fought a tiger with her bare hands, but the modern Jennifer Lane had no illusions about her own bravery. She was a hardworking lawyer, honest, sincere. Maybe even intelligent. But she was certainly not brave. Jennifer had never been brave.

  When Melanie insisted that Jennifer take a seat at the conference table, she didn’t have the strength of will, or the right, really, to refuse. She tucked her blouse back into the waistband of her skirt and ran her fingers through her hair. Rubbed under her eyes, to minimize the black mascara rings. Jennifer knew she still looked foolish, but it was the best she could do.

  Jennifer listened through half an hour of Ronald Walden’s lament, feeling more disheartened with each passing second. There was no way Roxanne’s story would ever have a happy ending. She felt that as strongly as she’d ever felt anything.

  Ronald tossed a small cell phone from one hand to the other, then pushed a stack of pictures toward her.


  Jennifer flipped through the color photographs. The scene suggested Roxanne had only run outside briefly. To the mailbox, maybe.

  Nothing about the pictures of Roxanne’s two-bedroom apartment, only a few miles from where Jennifer now sat, screamed murder. Designer clothes still hung in the walk-in closets, while boutique toiletries implying pleasant floral scents rested on the dressing table in the master bathroom. A high-end computer perched on an ebony ergonomic desk in the home office.

  Big screen television gleamed like a black hole from the wall where it was mounted opposite a glistening oil on canvas. Speakers remained poised to serenade from the corners of the main room.

  Ronald handed a grubby manila file folder to Melanie, who opened it to review the contents.

  “Here’s the notice of eviction,” Melanie said, handing the document that had been tacked to the door of Roxanne’s apartment over to Jennifer.

  Skimmed the notice. Management would be removing Roxanne’s things from the building after five more days.

  “I knowed the gal felt real sorry for us,” Ronald continued in his heavy Southern drawl. “That’s why she called. She said if we just paid the rent, everything would be okay.”

  “Was Roxanne married?” Jennifer asked. Chagrinned to realize she’d used the past tense.

  Lila made a small snorting sound that might have been mirth, but Ronald said simply, “No.”

  “Children?”

  Ronald shook his head back and forth. No children, either.

  Jennifer struggled to maintain a safe emotional distance. She couldn’t get swallowed now. Not tonight. Melanie would be handling the Waldens’ case and she’d be great for them. Jennifer still had mountains of other work to do.

  She left as soon as she could reasonably excuse herself. It was the migraine that scared her, Jennifer told herself, not intuition that Roxanne Walden would never be reunited with her parents above ground. Jennifer couldn’t change the outcome. Just like the last time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RUSSELL DENTON SETTLED HIMSELF deeper into his leather wing chair and ignored his fatigue. Outside, Tampa’s daily summer thunderstorm raged. Oblivious to the relentless pounding of the monsoon-like rain, the savvy, self-made billionaire focused yet again on Jennifer Lane’s short dossier, and noted little with which he was able to find fault. At least, nothing that he was capable of changing. He checked the information he’d already memorized, comforting himself with its familiarity.

  She was young but smart. University of Florida law graduate five years ago. Summa cum laude—if not from an Ivy League school. And she craved approval. Excellent. He liked insecure overachievers. He understood them well.

  The next notation concerned him the most. Jennifer Lane suffered from debilitating migraines for which she took prescription medication. Her condition was well controlled, he’d been assured. Not that he believed.

  Russell examined the candid photos. Jennifer wasn’t beautiful, although the resemblance to the other woman was clear if you knew what to look for. A certain tilt to the nose; crinkles around her eyes; brown, curly hair. Those physical traits were the same. The dimple in her chin seemed identical. Jennifer was well groomed, but plain. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. The other one had been something special. Flashy. Irresistible. Maybe Jennifer’s ordinariness would mask the similarities. He hoped.

  A small frown formed between his eyes as Russell reread the next line on the page. Single. Too bad. He’d made that mistake once before. Married would be better.

  Make the best of it. Single. No husband or children to distract her. And this one was nothing like the other. Not a party girl.

  He stared again at the pictures. Definitely not glamorous. Not his nephew’s type at all. Single could be all right this time.

  It had to be.

  Russell forced his brow to relax and the frown faded slightly. He nodded to himself. Yes, Jennifer Lane looked good to him on paper. Besides, he’d already rejected all of the other options and he didn’t have the luxury of starting over, even if Jennifer wasn’t perfect.

  Russell closed the slim yellow folder and placed it carefully on the coffee table in front of his chair. Then he picked up the blue folder and sat back to review once more the memorized dossier on Stuart Barnett.

  Russell’s memory was his great ally. He memorized everything. Lately, though, he’d noticed his own increased mental confusion. He memorized material but couldn’t recall it quickly when he needed to.

  Forced himself to concentrate. Rain pelted the windows of the high-rise as strong wind gusts rattled the panes, but Russell didn’t notice the weather outside.

  Stuart Barnett was older than Jennifer, of course. Fifty. Experienced. The black sheep at a good enough law firm. Despite strong talent, Barnett was underappreciated by his partners and had been passed over for promotion several times. He was bitter and had something to prove. Excellent.

  The frown returned to Russell’s face as he reread the facts. He picked up the four-color driver’s license photo and another picture the investigator had collected.

  Barnett was too good-looking a man, his wife was too wealthy. The combination meant the lawyer wouldn’t be easy to control. A definite problem. One that couldn’t be helped.

  Russell tapped the blue folder against his knee. He reexamined his plan.

  The package could work perfectly. Jennifer the face; Barnett the experience. Would it, though?

  Russell could find better legal talent, but as a team the two of them might do the job.

  Still, Russell’s intuition was almost as essential to him as his memory. And something about this decision nagged him, just didn’t feel quite right.

  If his other efforts were unsuccessful, everything would depend on Lane and Barnett’s success. Denton Bio-Medical was the only thing Russell truly cared about—besides his nephew. He’d worked too hard, for too long, to lose everything now.

  Lane and Barnett. Could they do it? If he was wrong—no, he wouldn’t even consider that. He pushed the thought away. He needed to be certain.

  Russell tested his own decisions in the way a highly successful man surrounded by sycophants must: proceed objectively. He’d made his own way in the world since he was sixteen. He’d learned the hard way to rely only on himself.

  Now was not the time for a crisis of confidence.

  Russell felt hot in the heavily air-conditioned room. Ignored his rising fever. Replaced the blue folder on the table next to the yellow one. Looked straight ahead, facing the hidden camera behind the large mirror, as if he could see through to the camera’s lens and its operator in the other room. At least he would have an accurate tape. He could examine it later. He would be able to reassure himself objectively. Or develop alternatives.

  An exceptionally loud crack of thunder snapped Russell back to full attention. Raised his glass of iced tea in a toast to Tyler, the unseen camera man, and then sipped. Checked the time.

  “Exactly four o’clock. We’re ready,” he said, testing the microphone again.

  “Are you tired?” Tyler asked via the small, invisible microphone inside Russell’s ear.

  “A luxury I can’t afford,” Russell insisted.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  “No appetite.” Russell heard the disapproving silence. Lane and Barnett would be prompt, regardless of the weather. Everything about them in the recorded dossiers told him so. He glanced again at his watch. No one had dared to keep Russell Denton waiting in decades.

  Russell sensed his life coming down around him with the same violence the storm outside. But fifty years in business had taught him never, ever, to show his emotions. Poker face. Essential.

  “You could still change your mind,” Tyler’s disembodied voice suggested.

  Russell gave a quick negative head shake. Tyler was wrong. Russell Denton couldn’t change his mind. Because if he did, he would die.

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  Diane Capri and
/>   Lee Child Dialogue

  Don’t Know Jack: Behind the Book

  Readers ask me where I get my ideas. I usually tease, “I order them from ideas dot com.” The truth is I don’t always know. Ideas spark, kindle my interest and sometimes explode into a novel or a series of novels. But in the case of Don’t Know Jack, I do remember the moment.

  A couple of years ago, I was chatting with Lee Child at a book event in New York about his iconic character.

  “Where is Reacher hiding?” I asked.

  “Reacher doesn’t hide,” Lee said. Maybe a little huffily?

  Lee’s a lot bigger than me. And he writes violence like a man with experience. I’ve always thought him a gentle giant, but . . . . I backpeddaled a bit.

  “Right. But where does Reacher live?”

  “Wherever he wants,” the tall guy said. I thought I detected a slight challenge in his tone.

  I backed out of arms’ reach before I pressed on. “He waits until trouble finds him and then he wipes the floor with the bad guys. Perfect. But what’s he doing between books?”

  Lee shrugged, said nothing.

  Tenaciously, I tried again.

  “Reacher’s killed a lot of people by now. Sixteen books. A lot of bodies. Surely someone wants payback, don’t you think?”

  Lee leveled the patented Reacher stare. “Who in his right mind would go looking for Reacher? You?”

  Right. Only an idiot with a death wish—or an FBI agent who knows nothing about Reacher’s, er, talents—would undertake such a foolhardy quest. Even then, she wouldn’t do it if she had a choice.

  But matching wits with Jack Reacher, now that would be interesting, I thought, even though it could very well be deadly. Then again, the bigger they are the harder they fall. Whoever takes Reacher down will become a legend in some circles.

  What if a determined, ambitious woman . . . .