MYSTERY THRILLER DOUBLE PLAY BOX SET (Two full-length novels)

by Osborne, Jon

  A tuxedoed butler opened the door on Blankenship’s right-hand side a moment later. Sixtiesh, slender, distinguished-looking. “Yes, sir?” the man asked in a heavily accented British voice, nodding slightly as he did so. “How may I help you?”

  Blankenship flashed his ID again and told the butler what he was there for. When he’d finished, the Brit stepped aside and swept an arm gallantly in front of his trim waist. “Please come in, sir. You may wait in the drawing room while I inform Mr. Paulson of your presence, if that’s agreeable. May I get you anything to drink in the meantime? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  Blankenship shook his head and resisted the urge to call the butler “Jeeves” as he stepped inside the elaborate, marble-tiled foyer and glanced up at the enormous glass chandelier that was hanging thirty-five feet above their heads. Should the sturdy braided chain supporting the chandelier ever snap, anyone standing underneath it at the time would’ve been a goner in an instant, flattened right there on the spot like a human pancake. “No thanks,” Blankenship said. “I’m not thirsty.”

  The butler nodded again. “Very well, sir. Then please follow me.”

  As he trailed the butler through the awe-inspiring dwelling – surprised as hell that he hadn’t been asked to take off his shoes at the front door so as to not dirty up anything in the spotless place – Blankenship couldn’t help but to shake his head in wonder again at the unmitigated display of pure wealth all around him. The interior of the mansion continued the Renaissance theme from outside, with faithful reproductions of Michelangelo and other renowned artists’ work scattered everywhere he looked. He glanced to the left as they walked down a long hall laid out in the finest Italian marble and saw a billiards room that had been stocked with three tables for shooting pool and another for snooker. A framed and autographed poster of Minnesota Fats hung on the east wall, complete with its own miniature spotlight. The pristine green felt on all of the tables looked freshly cleaned, if not brand-new. Nice place to pass the time; to unwind after a long, grueling day of making money hand over fist.

  A moment later, they’d made it to the drawing room, and Blankenship wasn’t at all surprised to find that the ceiling there had been painted to look exactly like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He wouldn’t have expected anything less. After all, rich people needed to do something with all their cash.

  “I’ll be just a moment, sir,” the butler said. “Please make yourself at home.”

  Blankenship resisted the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the man’s statement. Only by the slimmest of margins did he keep himself from rolling his eyes. Make himself at home? Yeah, right. How? His home wasn’t anything like this place. Not even close. Instead of Michelangelo reproductions, his home featured worn-out furniture, threadbare carpets and mountains of unwashed laundry stacked up high in the leaky basement. To be perfectly honest, he and Madison thanked their lucky stars above each night if they even managed to feed the girls and keep them breathing over the course of the day, much less engage in any pricey home-improvement projects during their non-existent spare time, the costs of which no doubt ran in the millions of dollars.

  Blankenship sighed, not even caring if the butler noticed. On the financial end of the things, he and Madison had precisely eight hundred and twelve dollars and thirty-four cents in their shared bank account at the moment. Not even enough to cover the mortgage at the end of the month until Blankenship got paid again. “Thanks,” Blankenship said, not bothering to share this bit of personal financial information with the butler. No point in it, even if the butler should deign to share a few hot stock tips with him in return. “Appreciate it.”

  When the butler had gone following another slight bow, Blankenship made his way over to the massive fireplace along the south wall and studied the knick-knacks arranged on the mantle. Faberge eggs, of course, just one of which probably exceeded a year’s worth of his salary. He shook his head again, this time in disappointment with himself and the career path he’d chosen. Clearly, he’d gone into the wrong line of work by becoming a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI might pay the bills – even if just barely at times – but computer networking clearly obliterated the bills, causing them to turn tail and hot-foot it the hell out of there like the screaming cowards they were to people like Zachary Paulson.

  “Agent Blankenship. Thank you so much for coming.”

  Blankenship turned around at the sound of the male voice coming from behind him. He blinked hard before he could stop himself, then frowned. In stark contrast to the breathtaking luxury surrounding them, Zachary Paulson wore only loose-fitting blue jeans and a plain white wrinkled T-shirt with some sort of food stain on front. Maybe mustard, gauging from the yellow tint of it. There were no shoes on the man’s bare feet. His striking blue eyes looked badly bloodshot and were ringed with dark-purple half-moons along the bottoms. His short blonde hair looked uncombed and unwashed. Judging by the thick growth sprouting from the man’s cheeks, Paulson hadn’t taken a razor to his skin in at least three days. And who the hell could blame him? Blankenship probably would’ve looked the exact same way had he been in the man’s shoes. Or bare feet, in this case. Probably a lot worse. After all, when you had a missing child, nothing else in the world mattered. Nothing. Certainly not something as ultimately unimportant as basic personal hygiene.

  “Mr. Paulson,” Blankenship said, striding across the room and gripping the man’s hand in a firm handshake that he immediately lessened the pressure on as soon as he felt the weakness of Paulson’s grip in return. “Thank you so much for seeing me today.”

  Paulson dispensed with the pleasantries at once, and again Blankenship didn’t blame him. No time for idle chit-chat here. Not when that poor baby was still missing and maybe not even alive any more. “Zachary Jr.,” Paulson said worriedly. “Have you found him yet? Is he still alive?”

  Blankenship’s stomach dropped at the hope lacing the other man’s voice. “I don’t know, sir,” he admitted. “Could we sit down for a moment?”

  Paulson stood his ground. “I’m just fine standing up, thank you. Just tell me what the hell’s going on with my son.”

  Blankenship took a deep breath through his nostrils and readied himself mentally to do what he needed to do next. This was the part of the job he’d been dreading the entire drive over. He cleared his throat softly before delivering the mixed bag of news. “We’ve received two communications from the kidnappers in the past eight hours, sir,” he told Paulson, attempting to keep his own voice steady in an effort to put Paulson just as at ease as he possibly could. “No change in the circumstances, I’m afraid, but we’re pretty sure the baby’s still alive. We’re working on tracking down the communications electronically now.” Blankenship didn’t bother mentioning to Paulson the fact that the baby might be missing his right pinkie finger now. Not only had both Krugman and Maggie Flynn advised him against it, just how the fuck did you pass along that kind of devastating information without bringing on a complete mental breakdown?

  Paulson asked, “Did they demand any money? I’ll pay whatever it takes, Agent Blankenship. I don’t care how much. My son’s life is worth more to me than all the wealth in the world combined. I just want my little boy back alive.”

  Blankenship fought back another powerful wave of guilt that nearly buckled his knees. Krugman had also advised him to keep the ransom demand secret from the Paulsons, at least for now, saying that it would only further complicate already complicated matters. Made sense strategically, Blankenship knew, but on a personal level he couldn’t help feeling like a no-good, low-down rotten liar. And why the hell shouldn’t he feel that way? That was exactly what he was right now, after all. Exactly what all of them in the FBI were right now. Sins of omission were every bit as bad as sins of commission, no matter how good your intentions might be. Sometimes even worse. He just hoped that the greater good would be served in the end. If not…

  He shook away the unsettling thought. No use in worrying abou
t that right now. If the hammer was going to come down on his head in the end, the hammer was going to come down on his head in the end. Nothing he could do to stop it at this point. Clearing his throat again, he said, “Before we get to that, sir, could you please try to remember if there’s anyone out there who would have done this sickening thing just to hurt you personally? Anyone at all?”

  Paulson grunted and waved a hand in the air in irritation. “Hell, Agent Blankenship, there are plenty of people out there who would want to hurt me personally. They’d murder me if they had the chance and thought they could get away with it. Business is a dirty game, you know. Sometimes a few feathers get ruffled while you’re playing.”

  Blankenship nodded and pursed his lips. Seemed that Paulson’s line of work – however lucrative it might be – had its own set of pitfalls. The rewards were great, obviously, but the penalties were even greater. At least in this case. Not all that much different from the pitfalls that were found in his own line of work as an agent with the FBI, actually. “And your wife?” Blankenship asked. “How is she holding up through all this?”

  Paulson lifted his eyebrows and sighed. “She’s absolutely devastated, as I’m quite sure you can imagine. She barely even got to hold the baby before he was taken away from us.” Paulson paused and shook his head angrily. “I wish to God I’d been there that day. I had a stupid fucking conference call with some Japanese distributors that they wouldn’t reschedule, no matter how hard I pushed them to do so. Worth fifty million dollars in the end, not that I give a shit about that now.” He paused again as the anger on his face faded away, replaced by a melancholy look that further crumpled his already drawn and haggard countenance. “To tell you the truth, Agent Blankenship, Ann Marie and I were having some marital troubles before all this happened, but in a strange way I think this has brought us closer together.”

  Blankenship frowned. “Troubles, sir? What kind of troubles, exactly?”

  Paulson shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, the subject wasn’t one he felt at ease discussing with Blankenship. No huge surprise there, though. After all, who the hell wanted to discuss their personal lives with what basically amounted to a complete stranger? Blankenship knew he sure as hell wouldn’t. “The marital kind,’ Paulson said, “like I said. As a matter of fact, we were going to get a div-“

  “Gentlemen, am I interrupting something?”

  Blankenship snapped up his head at the sudden sound of Ann Marie Paulson’s voice. Zachary Paulson did the same three feet to his left. “Honey,” Paulson said, looking startled by the unexpected interruption. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I was just telling Agent Blankenship here that…”

  Blankenship lost Zachary Paulson’s words as his brain began to buzz with an intense electrical charge. His muscles tensed, coiling up like a hissing nest of cobras preparing to strike and deliver their venomous payload deep into a terrified animal’s throbbing jugular vein. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in a quick row as every last piece of the maddening puzzle he’d been working on snapped into place inside his mind at once.

  She’s in on it, he thought, fighting back the overwhelming rush of adrenalin coursing hotly through his veins and making his limbs tingle. I’d bet my fucking life that she’s in on it.

  He turned toward Ann Marie Paulson and barked out the accusation before he had a chance to change his mind. “Where’s the baby?” he asked. Resting his hand on the butt of the Glock holstered at his side, he took a menacing step toward her. “Who’s got the baby, Ann Marie?”

  Ann Marie Paulson’s breathtakingly gorgeous face blanched for a split-second before she was able to recover. Barely noticeable, but definitely there. “What the hell are you talking about?’ she snapped icily, pulling back her slender shoulders in offense as the color flooded back into her porcelain cheeks in a hot red rush. “And just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

  Zachary Paulson’s voice cut through the heated exchange. “Now, just wait one goddamn minute here, Agent Blankenship. What the hell are you-”

  Blankenship ignored him and kept his stare fixed squarely on Ann Marie Paulson’s lovely form. Unlike her husband, she looked absolutely flawless, decked out in five-hundred-dollar tailored jeans and a silk blouse that had probably cost her husband twice that much. Make-up perfect and not a single hair out of place. “I know that you’re in on it, Mrs. Paulson,” Blankenship snarled. “I can see it written all over your face.” He slipped his Glock out of its holster and fought back another hard shudder as he leveled the barrel of his weapon directly at the center of her beautifully developed chest, feeling like he was having an out-of-body-experience right now. And why the hell not? If he were wrong about this, it would mean the end of his career at best and felony charges at worst.

  But he knew he wasn’t wrong.

  Blankenship took another menacing step toward the woman and repeated the startling accusation, trying his best to ignore the cacophonous ringing in his ears that was rattling his brain so badly he felt as though he were descending the steepest drop on a rickety old wooden rollercoaster. “Now, like I said, Mrs. Paulson,” he growled, “where’s the fucking baby?”

  CHAPTER 42

  An hour later, Blankenship and Krugman were sitting with the Paulsons in their extravagant drawing room, Ann Marie in cuffs and tears now while her husband sat on a leather couch opposite twenty feet away from his blushing bride, a woman who was a good twenty-five years his junior. Zachary Paulson’s own face looked as white as a sheet as he stared in disbelief at his beloved, whose extremely attractive features would have looked right at home on the cover of Cosmopolitan magazine. Arm candy; trophy wife; the May half of a May-December romance. Call it whatever you wanted, Blankenship thought, but clearly things hadn’t worked out between the two.

  “We’ve got you dead to rights, Ann Marie,” Krugman said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and holding her watery stare. The old man didn’t sound angry with the woman, just absolutely convinced. Still, Blankenship wasn’t surprised by Krugman’s matter-of-fact tone. No doubt the Director had come across this exact sort of situation dozens of times in the past over the course of his lengthy career. Always look to the families first. “Just come clean with us now while there’s still a chance for us to save the baby,” Krugman went on. “You’re his mother, for Christ’s sake.”

  Ann Marie Paulson, nee D’Arbinville, stifled a sob that sounded to Blankenship like it started somewhere deep in her stomach, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel sorry for her. This was no mother here in front of him, after all, no matter what Krugman had just said. Madison was a mother. Peggy Krugman was a mother. His own mother was a mother. But Ann Marie Paulson? Not in a million fucking years.

  “We’ve got the cigarette case with your brother’s initials on it, Ann Marie,” Blankenship cut in, passing along the recent bit of welcome knowledge that had come courtesy of Maggie Flynn down in DC with some deft computer tracking. Though the baby-snatching asshole had managed to stay out of all the fingerprint databases, he hadn’t been able to erase the record of his birth. Blankenship stretched his neck six inches to the left and made a quick mental note to send Maggie Flynn a huge bouquet of flowers in thanks for her tireless dedication to her job. The least “Google” deserved for all the hard work she put in behind the scenes on every case, day after day, year in, year out. “Horatio D’Arbinville,” Blankenship went on. “So where is he now? Where’s the baby?”

  Ann Marie looked up at him with tear-filled eyes: sea-green orbs that were dotted with light flecks of grey that danced beautifully in the irises, not unlike those of the “Afghan Girl” in the famous, prize-winning photograph. Otherworldly. “I don’t know where they are,” Ann Marie said, her shaking voice laced with plenty of emotion but not even the trace of an accent that might’ve put Blankenship and Krugman onto her trail earlier. “I swear to God I don’t know. Horatio wasn’t supposed to hurt little Zachary. He was just supposed to scare you guys a l
ittle bit so that you’d pay the ransom. I had no idea about the finger; you have to believe me. I never would’ve agreed to anything so cruel.”

  From his post on the couch opposite her, Zachary Paulson curled his upper lip into a menacing sneer. “You disgust me, you stupid whore,” he spat, biting off the words with his teeth. “All this for money? You were a goddamn flight attendant when I found you, for Christ’s sake.”

  He paused and waved a hand in the air at the luxury surrounding them. “I gave you everything.”

  Ann Marie cut her hypnotizing stare over to him. Her already unsteady voice trembled even more. “You told me we were getting a divorce, Zachary. The pre-nup you made me sign is ironclad, a lawyer told me so. I would have been left with nothing.”

  Zachary Paulson shook his head in undisguised anger, his unshaven cheeks flushing bright red with the liters of boiling blood that were no doubt pumping hard through his frazzled system. “Nothing?” he asked incredulously. “Nothing? What about your son, you fucking loser? Not to mention God-knows-how-much in child-support payments each month.” Paulson stretched his neck violently. Blankenship could hear the tension-filled pop of vertebrae from across the room. “God, you’re a stupid bitch. You should have asked the lawyer about that. You’re in America now, dummy, not smelly France anymore.”

  Blankenship interrupted the testy exchange. Not only did he know that Paulson was ridiculously far off base with his assessment of the French legal system and the protections it afforded – not to mention the personal-hygiene habits of its citizenry – the conversation wasn’t accomplishing anything. They needed to stay on subject here, however hard that might be for them to accomplish with all the heightened emotions swirling around the room. Anger could wait here, though. Plenty of time for indulging that later on. The little boy couldn’t wait, however. Not even for another second. The baby’s continued life or horrible death depended on the tiniest fractions of time at this point in the case, so they needed to speed things along. “Now, listen to me very carefully, Ann Marie,” Blankenship said, holding her gorgeous gaze with his own in a viselike grip that he refused to let himself drop even for a millisecond. “You’re going to do exactly what we tell you to do from here on out. If you don’t do exactly what we tell you to do from here on out, you’re facing life in prison without parole. Do you understand that? Can you possibly wrap your feeble little mind around that fate? Cooperate with us, though, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get out someday. You’re still a young woman. You’ve still got plenty of years left in front of you. So if you ever do get out of prison someday, there’s still a chance that you can rebuild what’s left of your destroyed life.”