Lost But Not Forgotten

by Roz Denny Fox

  “We shouldn’t’ve put her suitcase in the trunk. The key’s gotta be there. Why else would she and that crippled cop take it to their fancy mountain hideout?”

  Gillian rallied again. “Daryl did not give me a key. In fact, I was going to leave the suitcase with the FBI agents in the parking lot. I intended to have them pass the word that I wanted to speak to your boss. I’m no threat to his operation. I don’t know anything about it, and I have no key.”

  Although she shook throughout her speech, Gillian enunciated the last words loudly and clearly.

  She heard the man in the front seat, the one driving the car—Foss Turpin, she assumed—turn swiftly.

  “Whadidshesay, Lenny? Those weren’t local fuzz taking pot shots at us back there?”

  Capputo reached down with stubby fingers and yanked Gillian up by the front of her jacket. Regan’s jacket, she thought hysterically, hearing the material rip. She found herself worrying about the most trivial things—like replacing Regan’s clothing once these men freed her. Because she couldn’t, wouldn’t, think about the alternative: not getting out of this predicament alive.

  “Foss asked you a question. How many Fibbies? Who called the feds? That cop you shacked up with?”

  Terrified, Gillian wondered how much to tell them. When Lenny shook her hard and she felt a button pop off Regan’s jacket, she decided to give them the truth. She reasoned that if they had the connections Patrick Malone thought they had, it’d be a simple matter for them to check out everything she knew, anyway.

  “There were two agents keeping watch in the parking lot. Apparently another one followed you from Desert City. The FBI showed up when your lawyers bailed you out. They’d been watching the dealings of your attorneys.”

  The man in the front seat swore roundly. “Those bird-brains don’t give up easy. Now we gotta change our plan. Lenny, get on the horn and call Jimmy up in Flagstaff. Tell him to warm up a plane.”

  “You know I hate flying,” Lenny whined.

  “Tough shit. I’m not too happy about losing my best car, either. Look at it this way, the sooner we dump her in the boss’s lap, the faster we get our dough.”

  Gillian saw Lenny Capputo brighten at the prospect of collecting money for dumping her. She shivered involuntarily. These men were the dregs of society. She could only imagine the ruthlessness of the person or persons at the top.

  They dropped one bit of information she found somewhat cheering. Turpin insinuated that the agents would probably follow them. Which might or might not mean Mitch would, too. If all the shooting had roused him from sleep, she knew in her heart that he’d try to rescue her. Cold spread in her stomach. This entire debacle had come about through her efforts to spare him. God, she was already to blame for Patrick Malone’s beating. Now the blood of any agent injured in the recent shooting would also be on her conscience. She slumped back into her uncomfortable position the minute Lenny Capputo let go of her.

  There she lay in a shaking, miserable heap until they stopped and roughly transferred her like so much freight into the cabin of a small airplane. Feeling the framework of the craft jiggle and bounce during engine warmup, Gillian was inclined to agree with Lenny on one point. She’d never flown in a light plane, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to like it.

  AGENT HALL roared right onto the tarmac of the Flagstaff airport. He’d heeded Mitch’s urge to step on the gas. Luckily other agents had paved the way and men dressed in dark suits were stationed at intervals, waving him on toward a hangar where Mitch saw a border patrol plane warming up.

  He and Hall catapulted from both sides of the car. A dark-skinned man whose suit jacket and tie flapped wildly in a wind whipped up by the plane’s turbo engines stabbed an index finger toward the sky.

  Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, Mitch saw a small plane winging its way toward the eastern horizon.

  “What in hell happened?” Bob shouted at the man.

  “It took time to check all the newly filed flight plans. This is a busy airport, Bob.”

  “I know. Sorry for taking your head off, Bayless. It’s damn frustrating to be this close and still lose the SOBs. Mitch, this is Cal Bayless. He works out of our Northern Arizona office. Cal, Mitch Valetti, formerly Desert City P.D. Mitch is a friend of the kidnapped woman.”

  Mitch shook hands. “Did you get their flight plan?” he asked Cal.

  “Headed for Louisiana, but these guys are no dummies. They reserved the right to change their minds on where they might land to refuel—any one of three airports. Their final destination is also questionable. Shreveport, Baton Rouge or New Orleans were named as possible termination points.”

  “That’s a no-brainer,” Mitch said. “Gilly’s from New Orleans. That’s where her ex had his CPA firm.”

  “Speaking of his firm,” Bob interjected, “any news, Cal, from our men in the field? I shipped them some coded data en route. I said I was headed here, and they should let you know if they got lucky.”

  “No reports so far, Bob. We heard from Kevin Eloy. He’s settled with the condo owners on an amount for property damage from your fire fight. The local police are giving us their full cooperation.”

  “That’s something,” Bob grumbled. “I hate citizen uprisings. Especially when all we’re trying to do is rid the world of scum. When will our flight be checked out and ready to roll?” he asked abruptly.

  “You can board. Elerson’s piloting. He’s into the countdown now. He told me we have priority clearance with the tower to take off whenever you’re set.”

  “Your plane is larger than theirs,” Mitch noted. “Can we beat them to New Orleans?”

  “You’ll have to ask the pilot,” Cal said with a shrug.

  “Let’s go, Valetti. I don’t like using civilians, but your game plan sounds workable. I’d deal with the devil himself to shut this operation down.”

  Forcing his bad leg to cooperate, Mitch jogged toward the plane.

  “Damn,” Bob wheezed, struggling to keep abreast. “I didn’t ask Cal to tell us who that plane’s registered to.”

  “Too late now,” Mitch informed him. He’d already bounded into the craft. Glancing back, he’d seen Cal Bayless wave and climb into the automobile Bob had left running.

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll find out before they land somewhere. I hope you’re right about them going to New Orleans. Hell, I hope you’re right about a lot of things, Valetti.”

  “Not half as much as I do,” he murmured. “When I think of Gilly in the hands of a clown who has more to gain by killing her than letting her walk free…”

  “He could off her if he finds out she really doesn’t know where the key is—or where to find McGrath’s list. Now that guy was a dummy. Why didn’t he contact us from the get-go? Or ship his information to the nearest agency?”

  “That is curious,” Mitch agreed. “Especially when he had the wherewithal to contact Patrick Malone.”

  Hall shrugged. “Folks in trouble often spill their guts to someone they trust. Maybe McGrath still had feelings for his ex. He might’ve figured if Malone couldn’t take care of her, he’d put her in touch with someone who could.”

  Mitch looked bleak. “Yeah. We’ll never know what course of action Gilly’s ex might’ve taken if he’d given her the code outright—or hadn’t been struck down so quickly.”

  “For all of Daryl McGrath’s cleverness, this organization has the resources to outsmart him every step of the way. Except for actually laying their hands on Daryl’s key.”

  “So, you think it’s bigger than a money-laundering scheme? Gilly said that’s what Daryl told Malone he’d uncovered. Ethan and I thought it might be someone channeling local gambling funds. I’ve only been to New Orleans once, but I noticed a lot of cash changing hands in clubs down on Bourbon Street.”

  “Son, there’s not a big city in the U.S. of A. that doesn’t have its own illegal crap going on.”

  “I’ve policed big and small towns. You don’t have to tel
l me about the amount of sleaze in the world.” He frowned and raised his hand in a helpless gesture. “I’m worried about Gillian. I just wish to hell I could be sure that she realizes there’s no honor among thieves,” he said as they buckled in for the flight.

  “Thieves and worse,” Bob lamented.

  The men drifted into silence as the six-seater plane taxied down the runway and lifted off. Once they were airborne and cleared to use electronic devices, Hall flipped open a laptop computer he’d grabbed before they left the car.

  “What are you doing?” Mitch asked with mild curiosity.

  “Trying to get someone at headquarters to complete a trace on ownership of that Cessna. I’m not holding my breath, mind you. Guys like we’re dealing with are too clever to own anything easily traceable. Sometimes we get lucky, though, and manage to track something back through a chain of phony corporations.”

  “Won’t that take a long time?”

  Bob smiled genuinely for the first time in their association. “The more powerful our computer programs become, the less clever these criminals seem. Dirty money buys a lot of muscle, but so far the white hats are still ahead. We have honor and integrity on our side,” he said smugly, “not to mention a higher level of education.”

  Mitch made a sound in his throat. “The longer I worked the streets as a cop, the harder I found that is to believe. Look how fast those slick lawyers sprung Turpin and Capputo. If the good guys are so smart, why does evil like that still walk?”

  “I didn’t say our system was perfect. But you gotta keep believing we’ll win more times than we fail.”

  Mitch linked his hands between his knees and brooded. “I’ll tell you right now, Hall, I’m not giving up until I get Gilly back. Anything I can do to accomplish that, I will. Even if it means sinking to their level.”

  “Bingo!” Hall shouted excitedly, grinning from ear to ear.

  Mitch caught his excitement. “You figured out who owns the plane? That was fast.”

  “Better, Valetti. One of our men uncovered Daryl McGrath’s safe. At his house. It turned up when an agent sat on the raised hearth and felt the slab of flagstone move. The safe was there all along. Right under the slab. And your idea paid off, so I owe you one. Bunch of notebooks inside.”

  “What do they say? Who are these bastards?”

  “Whoa. We’re good, but his notebooks are coded and deciphering them will take time. Duffy, my contact, says it looks as if Daryl detailed every move the organization made since the sailing of the Mayflower. But he’s written it all in number codes. Even worse, each page seems to have a different formula.”

  “Good old Daryl,” Mitch groaned. “Gilly told me he was obsessive. How long will it take to get answers, does Duffy think? Soon enough to round up these guys before that plane lands?” Mitch chewed worriedly on his bottom lip.

  “You’re wanting miracles, boy.”

  “Damn right. I want Gilly back in one piece, and I don’t want her falling into the hands of anyone who’ll use her as a bargaining chip.”

  “Huh. I’d like to promise you that, Valetti. Only I quit believing in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy a long time ago.”

  Mitch slumped in his seat. He’d hate to be the one who’d handed the authorities the key, only to find out he’d put Gilly in greater danger.

  “Hold on,” Bob mumbled. “My office is forwarding some tracking information on that airplane.”

  Again Mitch sat on pins and needles as he anxiously awaited the new facts.

  “Like I thought. A web of dummy companies. A nonexistent law firm leases the plane from a flight school that isn’t recorded as legit in any state. The flight school supposedly has the craft on loan from an East Indian rug dealer. He’s a real person, at least. He has a passport.”

  “So, you’re saying this ring is international?”

  “Not necessarily. Shoot, the rug dealer’s another blind. He’s in Attica doing ten to twenty for bringing more than rugs into the country.”

  “Jeez, Hall. I can see I’ve never appreciated the FBI nearly enough. Pretty impressive how you’ve filtered through all those facts. Layer after layer of ’em.”

  “Ah, another convert. Wait, hold the presses, I’m getting more data. The rug dealer fronted for a consortium headquartered in Turkey.”

  Mitch snorted disgustedly. “Don’t tell me anymore. The mud only gets deeper. Somehow it all flows back to New Orleans. We know that because Daryl McGrath did the books dealing with huge sums of money being washed through a phony carpet company. Hmm. Maybe it’s not phony. Did anyone look into that?”

  “It’s phony all right. We may finally have scraped off enough layers. The money for the plane originated with a bank draft drawn on a Swiss bank. An account set up by an American firm. Supposedly, the funds are used for the purpose of facilitating faster trading in antiques. The firm’s officers aren’t listed with the bank in Switzerland. It’s called Antiques and More. I’ll just bet if we can run that business to ground, we’ll be knocking at the door of our wheeler-dealers.”

  “Antiques,” Mitch murmured. “Antiques. Damn, there’s something Gilly said about antiques. I can’t remember. It’s there, but out of reach.” He doubled his fists, then ran both hands over a jaw in need of a shave. “Give me a minute to collect my thoughts, Hall, and I’ll try to come up with what she said.”

  “Hurry up, okay? So far, it appears that our source has dried up.”

  “Oh man, oh man, oh man. I’ve got it.” Mitch nearly vaulted from his seat. “I’ll hand it to you on a platter, Hall. Only if I’m right this time, Gilly’s in more danger than my worst nightmare. So, I want a second deal up-front. I want your word that you’ll hold off picking up this guy until you give me one clear shot at rescuing her.”

  “I can force you to tell me, Valetti. You can’t withhold information from the FBI. I’ll toss your sorry ass in the slammer until you cooperate.”

  Mitch’s eyes were cold and serious. “Yeah, you can do that.”

  “Dammit, Valetti! Give me what you have.”

  “So we have a deal? Your word?” Mitch held out his hand to the agent.

  Hall took it, reluctance showing. But he did shake.

  ONCE THE INITIAL queasiness associated with the small plane’s liftoff had passed, Gillian forced herself to relax. If she was quiet and listened to as much as possible, maybe she’d overhear something useful.

  Her nerves were jumpy again. And her stomach, which had been on the verge of embarrassing her since the outset of this ordeal. Was it possible that she might be in the early stages of pregnancy? The joyous thought gave her something beyond her immediate plight to concentrate on.

  Through no fault of her own, she’d lost one baby. Surely God wouldn’t be so cruel as to take another from her.

  Turpin and Capputo didn’t talk much. They seemed edgy, staring out the windows on either side of the small craft. No one paid attention to Gillian, who lay on the floor, bound hand and foot.

  After what felt like hours, Gillian felt her stomach reacting adversely to another shift in atmospheric pressure. She moaned and gagged, blinking morosely up at Lenny Capputo. “Are we there?” she asked weakly.

  “None of your business.”

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Gillian said, sliding up against the bulkhead.

  Turpin started to unwind the tape from her ankles. “Can you hold off puking for five minutes? We’re landing to take on fuel. An old melon farmer in Brady—one of us—owns this airstrip. If you keep your trap shut, I’ll ask if you can use his john.”

  “Yes,” Gilly murmured, fighting off the waves of nausea. “I won’t say a word if Mr. Brady lets me use his facilities.”

  “His name isn’t Brady. That’s the town. Brady, Texas, you stupid broad,” Lenny Capputo snapped.

  Foss Turpin cut him off with a glare.

  “What do we care if she knows where we stop to refuel, Foss? Like she’s going to whisper our secret to a cantaloupe? Give me a break
. We’ll have her delivered safe and sound and we’ll be hoisting a brew years before the feds figure out where we’ve gone.”

  “Shut up, Lenny. This is the last job I’m doing with you. One of these days your mouth will get you sent upriver. I ain’t about to be on the raft with you.”

  “Screw you. Think you’re so smart? Well, brains won’t get you jackshit without me. Because you’re too squeamish to ice anyone.” He pulled a glinting steel weapon from the back of his belt and ran the tip of the barrel along Gillian’s cheek. “If the boss wants the chick done like her old man, I say you don’t have the guts.”

  Gilly struggled to keep from fainting. She’d suspected these men had killed Daryl. Until now, she hadn’t known for sure.

  “I do my share,” Turpin argued. “All I ask is that you zip your lip until this is over and we have our cash in hand. I got a bad feeling, Lenny, about those feds getting on our tail so fast. I’ll take the woman to the house to use the facilities,” he mimicked Gillian. “You see about refueling.”

  “As long as you keep an eye on her. She shouldn’t’ve taken so long to find. Her cop boyfriend’s to blame. I hope he is on our tail. I’d like to pay him back for the night we spent in that jerkwater jail.”

  As Gilly stumbled off the plane, she grasped at one hope. That Mitch was following, and by some miracle, he’d find a way to save her.

  Then in the next breath, she prayed he wouldn’t come within a country mile of the boss. Whoever he was, he had to be even worse than these men. Maybe a lot worse.

  Barely lasting until they entered the run-down house, and the gnarled old farmer showed Foss where to take her, Gilly emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. She felt immediately better. The faint hope that she might truly be pregnant with Mitch’s baby jump-started her heart again.

  After splashing water on her hands and face and patting herself dry with a towel the old fellow offered, Gillian thanked him for his kindness.

  “Airsick?” he inquired sympathetically.

  She glanced up and discovered that Foss had gone inside the bathroom to use it himself. He’d momentarily closed the door. “I think I’m pregnant,” she whispered to the farmer, drawing his attention to her bound hands. It struck Gillian that this man might be her last link to anyone—to Mitch, in particular. “I know Mr. Turpin said you were one of them. But I suspect the baby’s father might be following us. If a dark-haired cowboy-type shows up here asking questions, would you please tell him I may be carrying his child?”