Let's Make a Baby!

by Jacqueline Diamond

  The bars on his window were getting dusty, he noted as he reached the front. The sign, Ryder Kelly Investigations, needed retouching, too. It was a good thing clients rarely came here in person.

  As he entered in a jangle of bells, raccoon-circled eyes brightened behind the reception desk. He was glad his assistant wasn’t out on an audition today. Since it was hard to find secretaries in Los Angeles and even harder to keep one, Ryder tolerated Zizi’s absences. Luckily, since she lacked acting talent, he was in little danger of losing her to Hollywood.

  “Hi!” She was wearing her cropped hair red this week, he noticed. Not auburn or strawberry, but the fiery shade of a painful sunburn. “How’s the ankle?”

  “Better.” He sidled through the outer office, between two filing cabinets, a table holding a printer, and Zizi’s desk. The air in here had its own special odor: one part cheap perfume, one part fingernail polish and one part dust. “Anything new?”

  “A man named Anthony Callas wants to talk to you pronto,” she chirped. “He left his number.” She handed Ryder a smudged note.

  He recognized the name. In a town as trendy as L.A. it paid to keep up with the entertainment trade papers. Anthony Callas produced records and was looking to buy a radio station. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “It’s confidential.” Zizi inspected her nails and frowned. “How come they can send rockets to Mars and they can’t make polish that doesn’t chip? Oh, did that woman ever get hold of you?”

  Ryder’s hands went cold. Had Lisa changed her mind? “A woman called? When?”

  “No, last Thursday. I meant to mention it, but I forgot.”

  What a fool he was. Whatever her real agenda had been, Lisa didn’t regret leaving him, now or ever. “Was it Nina McNally? I haven’t heard from anyone else.”

  Zizi wrinkled her nose. “Not her. This woman said she was from, uh, I think she said International Substrate Inc. Her company needs to find someone in a hurry. She insisted on knowing where you were.”

  “You told her where I was in Colorado?” He couldn’t keep the sharpness from his tone.

  “Was there something wrong with that?”

  “Zizi, my whereabouts are not supposed to be public knowledge.” Ryder didn’t want to scold her too strongly, though, for fear she might quit. Zizi had been here eight months; his previous three assistants had lasted five weeks, three months and one week, respectively.

  “We started chatting and it slipped out,” Zizi said. “I, uh, guess I talk too much, huh?”

  Ryder bit off a sharp retort. “In future, please don’t disclose my location.” Then the coincidence struck him. A woman claiming to represent an international firm had learned his whereabouts but hadn’t contacted him at the chalet. A short time later, Lisa turned up on the slope. Was it possible their encounter hadn’t been a coincidence, or was he paranoid? “Did this woman have a foreign accent?”

  Zizi shook her head. “Only if you count saying ‘eh’ twice, the way Canadians do.”

  Canadian? Definitely not Lisa. “She never reached me. I guess they found someone else for the job.”

  In his office, Ryder dialed Anthony Callas. A man’s tense voice answered promptly. “Callas here.”

  “Ryder Kelly, private investigator. You wanted to talk to me?”

  “How good are you at finding runaways?” The producer asked breathlessly. “My daughter took off.”

  That was a frightening scenario for any parent. “You’re sure she ran away of her own free will?” Otherwise the police should be brought in, regardless of any threats.

  “She left a note, demanding I leave her alone,” Callas said. “I don’t want the police involved. I just want to make sure she’s all right.” He explained that he’d tried without luck to reach her by phone and there’d been no postings on social media.

  “Good start,” Ryder said. “If she really left of her own accord, that’s a plus. Usually, runaways don’t go far. Unless she’s under someone’s influence.”

  “Ginger’s sixteen and she’ll trust anybody except the one person who really cares about her.” The man sounded as if he was both angry and hurting, which was no doubt true.

  They agreed on a retainer and set a meeting for that afternoon at Callas’s home in Beverly Hills. After instructing his client to compile a list of his daughter’s friends and other contacts, Ryder hung up hoping he could help the man and prevent the girl from coming to harm.

  He welcomed the additional work. If he kept busy, he’d soon forget all about Lisa what’s-her-name.

  *

  In the early morning, Lisa heard people moving through the hospital corridor. She’d been placed in a double room, but the bed next to hers lay empty.

  Her body felt bruised but her mind prickled with a warning that she shouldn’t be lying here. Someone might have tried to kill her, wasn’t that what the officer had said? He’d questioned her briefly the previous night. She wasn’t sure he’d believed that she had amnesia, but the nurse had intervened when he tried to press her.

  He’d seemed more concerned about her forged papers than about her safety. But if someone had tried to kill her once, it might happen again. Who would want to hurt her, and why?

  Until she recovered her memory, Lisa, or whatever her real name was, had no way of knowing, but a rising restlessness refused to let her doze. Stiffly, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  Her head swam and her stomach twisted. She sat motionless until her equilibrium returned. From beneath a bandage on her arm, a tube connected her to a hanging container of clear fluid. Even though she couldn’t remember her name, somehow she knew that it contained nutrients and medicine. It was vital to keep her mind clear, not fogged with painkillers.

  With slow, painful movements, Lisa opened a drawer in the bedside table and found a wad of cotton and a roll of adhesive tape. Awkwardly, she unwrapped her arm, pulled out the needle at the end of the tube, and firmly applied the cotton ball to stop the blood. After taping it in place, she pushed the intravenous tube away.

  Rising sluggishly, she pressed a hand against the edge of the bed to offset the dizziness. Keeping going. Don’t stop.

  A small door led into a bathroom. Pulling the skimpy hospital gown around her, Lisa shuffled toward it. Inside, she flicked on a light and turned to wash her face. That was when she saw the strange woman in the mirror. Could this be her?

  A white bandage clung to the side of her head like a misshapen cloche hat. From beneath it, long black hair straggled limply. The bruised face belonged to a stranger.

  Panic surged through Lisa. I don’t even recognize myself. How can I know who to trust? Where can I go?

  Gripping the edge of the sink, she struggled to remember what the doctor had told her. Amnesia following a head injury wasn’t uncommon. Her memory would probably return soon.

  In the meantime, it was no wonder she failed to recognize a face purple with bruises. Lisa washed as best she could. Although her body urged her to return to bed, her mind rebelled. She refused to leave her fate in the hands of others.

  Stiffly, Lisa eased out of the bathroom and surveyed the room. The main door to the corridor stood slightly ajar. To her right was a large cabinet. Inside, she found a dark blue suitcase and a gray purse. They must be hers, although she didn’t recognize them.

  With trembling hands she opened the pocketbook and poked through its contents. The small silver comb and brush showed exquisite workmanship. She was grateful for the makeup kit, and the vial of perfume smelled vaguely familiar.

  The police must have taken the phony driver’s license and the phone, but to her relief had left her several thousand dollars and some Euros. Shouldn’t those have been put away for safekeeping? Well, she was grateful they hadn’t been. To her disappointment, there were no photographs or anything else that might awaken memories.

  In the suitcase, she found neatly folded clothing, good quality and probably expensive, Lisa guessed. She chose dark slacks, a multic
olored sweater, and a ski cap to cover her bandaged head. In the mirror, she applied foundation to minimize the bruises. The fuzziness in her brain metamorphosed into a pounding headache. Only an overriding sense of urgency kept her moving.

  In her pocket, her hand touched a business card. Scarcely daring to hope, she pulled it out and read: “Ryder Kelly Investigations. We specialize in missing persons.” There was a Los Angeles address and phone number. The back was blank.

  Had she been trying to find a missing person? Had she contacted this investigator? If so, he might hold a precious clue to her past.

  In the hallway outside, carts rattled and voices spoke in crisp tones. Any minute, someone would barge in and order her to bed. Yet her instincts screamed that it was too dangerous to stay.

  When the noise abated, she peered into the hall. No one around. Towing her suitcase, Lisa scooted out and headed for the elevator.

  On the ground floor, she’d nearly made her escape when a woman in a security uniform stopped her. “Are you okay, miss?” the woman said. “You’re in pretty bad shape.”

  “I can’t stay.” Since the guard hadn’t immediately raised the alarm and was regarding her sympathetically, Lisa decided to take a chance. Recalling what the policeman had said, she blurted, “I’m illegal.”

  Either she’d just sealed her fate, or the woman might help.

  “I was kind of wondering. I mean, given your coloring, and how scared you seem,” she said. “Do you have family around here?”

  “In LA.”

  “That’s a long ways.”

  Lisa’s memory, so resistant to revealing her identity, brought up the information that she couldn’t board a flight without ID. “I might be able to pay for a bus. If there are any that don’t require papers.”

  The guard glance toward the lobby. Nearly empty at this early hour. “I might know people who can help. What’s your name?”

  “Lisa,” she said.

  “I’m Estella. I was about to go on break,” the guard said. “I’ll call a friend of mine. We’ll see what we can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lisa didn’t care how uncomfortable the bus might be, or even if she had to ride in the back of a truck. Once she reached LA, she would contact this detective named Ryder Kelly.

  If anyone could straighten out the chaos in her life, it had to be him.

  Chapter Eight

  She had vanished. Walked out right under the noses of the police and the hospital staff. Standing in the living room of his hotel suite, Boris aimed a string of curses at his hapless associate, ending with, “It was your job to prevent this, you cretin!”

  Lothaire lit a cigarette off the dying ember of his last one, tossed the butt aside and ground it into the carpet with his heel. “It wasn’t easy to learn where they had taken her. By the time I arrived, Miss De La Pena had made her exit.”

  “How could a woman with a serious head injury walk out of a hospital?” Boris fumed. “Carrying a suitcase!”

  “This is New York. Nobody pays attention to anybody else.” Nevertheless, Lothaire looked displeased with himself. At least the young man had turned up again promptly. He could have sneaked away and kept going, especially since his replacement paycheck had also bounced.

  “What about our filmmaker friend?” Boris demanded. “Has his girlfriend heard anything from Annalisa?”

  “He doesn’t know,” Lothaire said.

  “Why not?” Boris snapped. “She’s either made contact or she hasn’t!”

  “His girlfriend wouldn’t approve of his selling information to us. He has to spy on her.”

  “He should beat it out of her!”

  “Then, obviously, she would leave, and he would learn nothing.” Lothaire’s upper lip began to curl, but he got it under control. “Did I mention an interesting twist? According to hospital gossip, the mystery woman developed amnesia.”

  “You mean she doesn’t know who she is?” Boris found that hard to believe.

  “That’s what people generally mean by ‘amnesia. ’ ” The young man’s voice had a caustic note. From tension, no doubt.

  “She could be wandering in the street?” Millions of Euros might be traipsing through a major city, vulnerable to any opportunist.

  “It took planning to sneak out of there undetected, so I do not believe she is mentally incompetent. Who knows where she might go?”

  That was when the brilliant idea struck Boris. It bathed him in the expansive warmth he felt when he was winning at cards or besting another businessman on a deal. “You are sure she hasn’t gone home?”

  “Definitely not,” said Lothaire. “I have contacted the maid. Also, our heiress has aroused the suspicions of the police by sneaking away, and they have alerted the airlines to watch for her.”

  “The police have no idea who she is?”

  “None,” confirmed Lothaire. “And neither does she, apparently.”

  Boris experienced an excited quiver.

  “Her memory may return at any time,” continued his aide. “That is an unknown element, I admit.”

  Boris refused to worry about that. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “When she does not return as promised, her parents will be worried.” Seeing no response from his associate, he added, “The more time passes, the more frantic they will become.”

  Lothaire regarded him assessingly. “It could be several days. Even weeks.”

  “A week should be long enough,” said Boris.

  “Long enough for what?”

  What a pleasure to see his assistant in the dark, for a change. “Long enough for me to get my hands on a large amount of money immediately, without having to wait for the wedding.”

  The young man slanted him a look of grudging admiration. “You intend to seek a ransom?”

  “When they do not hear from her and they receive my message, it should not be hard for them to believe that she has been kidnapped.”

  “They might call the authorities.”

  Why was his associate finding flaws in his brilliant plan? “We will threaten to kill the girl unless the kidnapping is kept hush-hush. The best part,” Boris added with a chuckle, “is that when she turns up safe and sound and Schuyler Schmidt realizes he was conned, he will be too embarrassed to report it.”

  “You may be right,” Lothaire conceded. “He will not want his trading partners to believe he is easily cheated.”

  Matters were improving, Boris reflected as sat down to rough out a message for his assistant to send—via the back channels known to skilled hackers like Lothaire—to the De La Penas. He could net a fabulous ransom and still claim Annalisa as his bride after she returned.

  All she had to do was to stay lost a little while longer.

  *

  Ryder was having one of those days that he’d just as soon forget. Awakened at 3 a.m. by seductive images of Lisa undulating through his brain, he struggled to focus instead on a burning urge to tell her exactly what he thought of her. Since she wasn’t around to vent his wrath on, he lay awake, fuming, for two hours, until he arose at 5 a.m.

  After working out at the gym, he arrived at the office early and spent an hour video consulting with a potential client from the East Coast. The man plied him with questions about his techniques, then waffled about engaging his services. Just another lookie-loo in search of free information, Ryder concluded in annoyance.

  The morning was spent interviewing Ginger Callas’s teenage friends. He received only one solid tip: she liked to hang out at the beach. In Beachside, to be specific.

  The resort community had the advantage of being a mere half-dozen miles from Ryder’s apartment. Too bad this week marked spring vacation for many schools, which meant the area would be swarming with kids. Seaside apartments rented by the week, and youthful tenants often let strays sleep in their living rooms. Finding Ginger during spring break would be like trying to locate one particular grain of sand. Plus, Ryder no doubt looked too much like an authority figure to inspire trust among ado
lescents.

  He couldn’t afford to muff this case. Not only was Anthony Callas paying well, but Ryder had been working to establish a reputation within the entertainment industry. It would mean more affluent clients, more interesting cases and less effort wasted on elusive bail jumpers.

  After a fast lunch, he returned to the office to discover that Zizi had taken the afternoon off to audition for a game show. Her note didn’t specify whether she was applying as a contestant or seeking a job as the host’s assistant.

  Grumpily, Ryder put in a call to Biff Connor, a buddy from the gym. Biff owned a surf shop in Beachside, and Ryder figured maybe he could pass out advertising as an excuse to circulate on the beach.

  “Sorry, but I have to close up for a few days and drive to Phoenix,” Biff said. “My mom just got out of the hospital and asked me to stay with her. I hate to lose the sales, but I’m alone here. Of course, if you’d like to run the store, you’re welcome to it.”

  “I’m not much of a shopkeeper. Besides, I have to be out on the beach, talking to people.” From courtesy, he added, “I hope your mom feels better.”

  “So do I,” Biff said, and clicked off.

  Bells jangled in the outer office. Ryder sprang to full alert, as always when Zizi was absent. Might be a client. A solicitor. Or a drug-crazed robber, although he’d never encountered one so far.

  A whiff of perfume reached him even before he entered the front room. Subtle, teasing, painfully familiar perfume.

  No sense indulging in fantasies, Ryder thought as he moved around a file cabinet to face the newcomer. No doubt a lot of women used that scent. “May I help...”” He stopped.

  The woman standing in front of the desk was Lisa. A sadly changed Lisa. The green eyes peered from a puffy, discolored face. Black hair straggled from beneath a lumpy ski cap, and her shoulders hunched as if in pain.

  “Are you Ryder Kelly?” she asked uncertainly.

  What the hell is this? Ryder narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening with unspoken caustic responses. Martial arts training had taught him that whoever attached first yielded the advantage, so he waited, wondering what her game was.