Alias

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Could Porche have already decided to take a long vacation, or move, and the timing had been just right?

  Damn. This was not looking good. “But did she get off the jet?”

  “I don’t know. I guess they confirmed that. Wouldn’t they?”

  “Yes, they would. But if all evidence points to her wanting some time alone, then why pursue further?” People were allowed to disappear.

  “Because this is just not like her.”

  “I’m inclined to believe that odd behavior for someone who was so analytical is cause for question,” Darcy said.

  “Yeah, ditto.”

  Darcy glanced at her notes. “Had she mentioned closing her business to you before?”

  “No, she hadn’t. That’s what struck me as so strange.”

  “Where did she go the night before she left?”

  “She didn’t say, but there was that deal with Steele.”

  “What did she think of Maurice Steele?”

  Marianna’s voice lowered. “She didn’t care for him. She dealt with him because he paid through the nose in finance fees. See, the film had to show a profit on the first day, because that was where her cut came from. Pay the talent and the actual making of the film with the loan, and from the box-office sales, pay the finance charge, which was Porche’s money, then the loan and get your share. So the pressure was on him. The rates would jump if the box-office sales didn’t bring in enough to pay out early.”

  “Sounds like loan sharking.”

  “Yeah, doesn’t it?” Marianna snickered. “But it’s all legal. Steele cofinanced half himself, so that put him in deeper. Film companies only want the money for a year or so, for filming and production, till the release date. So short-term, high-interest loans are best. By reputation, Steele’s films pay off in the first few weeks. But the last couple had pulled only a few million, which in this day is a bomb. The lead actor wasn’t the public’s version of an action star, either. So, for the rest of the money, I’d say half, Steele had to come to Porche. Getting the money was his job.”

  Darcy knew that. Maurice had used his stellar reputation to back films that were destined for late-night television, and she remembered him losing money on a couple and how agitated it had made him.

  The fax finally printed and Darcy snatched it up. “Tell me one thing. Has Miss Fairchild contacted you at all in the last three years?”

  “No. But she paid me my last month’s pay and a decent severance bonus. I guess she forgot about the deal we’d made that if she went out of business, I’d be the first she’d sell it to.”

  “She didn’t offer?”

  “No, not that I could have afforded to buy her out, anyway.”

  “Miss Vasquez, could you fax me some information, some of her papers?”

  “I don’t know….”

  “I think you might be on to something about her disappearance.” Make her feel like the hero, Darcy thought. Because she just might be. “I can’t find anyone who has laid eyes on her—and I’ve got great resources.”

  “Listen, Ms. Daniels. I liked Porche, she was bright, and sharp and she had a great sense of humor. She was good to me, very good. I’d like to see her again, and if what you’re saying is true, that means someone hurt her.”

  “Yes, that’s a very viable possibility.”

  There was a stretch of silence, then, “Thank God someone thinks so.” Darcy heard the long, tired breath through the phone. “No one believed me, and just because she worked in the Hollywood crowd, they cast her sudden disappearance off as movie weirdness. Not me. This woman spent Christmas with me and my little girl.” Her voice fractured and Darcy realized that Marianna loved Porche. “We were close.”

  How close she wasn’t going to get into now.

  “I’m going to send you that last file by fax,” Marianna said. “You can call me later. Since the police didn’t suspect foul play, I have a lot of her papers. But I really have to get off the phone and go back to work. This boss isn’t nearly as sympathetic as Porche was.”

  “Thank you, I understand. And, Ms. Vasquez?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep this to yourself. We don’t want to tip our hand to anyone.”

  “You got it.”

  Darcy hung up, relaxing back in the chair as the fax spit out pages of old contracts. It would take her a couple days to go through them. But she would.

  How exactly she was going to present this to the authorities without putting herself in danger or losing Charlie was still a mystery. A parental kidnapper didn’t have much clout.

  She rubbed her face, her mind crowded with too many thoughts and concerns. Her unlisted cell phone rang and she looked around, trying to remember where she’d left it. She made a dive for her purse and hit send.

  The voice on the other end was low and scratchy, as if too much drinking and smoking had worn out the vocal cords. Yet when the man spoke, Darcy’s heart dropped.

  “You the one looking for stuff on a surrogate?”

  Chapter 9

  T his has to be the sleaziest place in town, Darcy thought, stepping into the Match Lite Bar on the edge of Phoenix, Arizona. Far outside the edge. And from the looks of the clientele, the local gene pool needed a filter. Or at least some bleach.

  Dressed in faded, worn, low-riding jeans and a red top that revealed just enough flesh to distract, Darcy popped gum in her mouth and walked deeper into the dimly lit bar. The bartender spotted her and, leaving the customer he was chatting with, he moved down toward her.

  He was bald, beefy, looked sorta like Mr. Clean, and had forgotten to use a razor this morning. He gave her the once-over, a little grin showing his approval, and she returned the stare.

  “What’ll you have, sweet thing?”

  “Bourbon, neat.”

  That seemed to please him and when he brought it back, she leaned over, showing enough breast to keep him interested, and said, “I’m looking for Tony Feeley.”

  “Touchy?”

  Touchy Feeley? Good God. That was a name? “Yeah.” Tony Feeley was supposed to meet her outside the Match Lite. When he hadn’t shown, the roughnecks on the street forced her inside.

  “You one of his girls?”

  She frowned, sipping the liquor. “I have better taste than that.”

  “Then what’s a pretty little thing like you want with that pimp?”

  Great, she thought, keeping her features impassive. The man that had answered her ad for information on surrogates, saying all the right things, pandered women. Her fingers tightened on the glass.

  “He’s got my sister’s kid, and I aim to get her back.”

  He scoffed rudely. “Fat chance, honey.”

  Leaning forward on the bar, her forearms braced, she said, “You’d be surprised what I can do, handsome.” She popped her gum, looking him over as if he was double-chocolate cake. “Describe him for me, will you, baby? I wanna see him before he sees me.”

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”

  She hopped back, opening her jacket, showing the knife sheathed at her hip and the fake navel ring. Instead of a wig, she’d put a red henna rinse on her hair and clipped it up at odd angles in tiny girly barrettes. “Do I look like cop material?”

  He was practically licking his lips. “You look like dessert.”

  She leaned over the scarred wood bar again, her voice low and breathy. “But we ain’t had dinner yet.”

  He grinned, glancing around to make certain no one was within earshot. “He’s skinny, black hair, goatee, squirrelly little eyes. Wears a long brown leather coat, pointed-toe boots. He kicks with them.”

  “Like a girl?”

  The bartender snickered. “Yeah.” He inclined his head toward a side door. “Most days you can find him in the alley.”

  “Real entrepreneur, huh?”

  “Just be careful.”

  She was kind of touched that the hard-ball bartender would even care. “Thanks, honey,” she said, then tossed back the bo
urbon, paid, and left through the front door.

  Outside, she glanced around. There were a lot of derelicts and foot traffic. For two blocks the streets were lit with neon signs advertising booze, lap dancing and sex shows. Cars cruised, hydraulic shocks bouncing them down the street. The curbs reeked of urine and vomit.

  Darcy wished she had a gun. She didn’t want to get close enough to anyone to use her knife. Walking toward the alley, she stopped at the edge. A single lightbulb shone down on the filth, lighting the huge trash container outside the bar’s side door. Opposite that, there were side entrances to the neighboring building, a couple drunks lounging on the thresholds and teens making deals or just smoking weed. They didn’t spare her a glance.

  Darcy said a quick prayer, pulled her jacket to conceal her knife and started walking, wanting to hold her nose. Instead, she breathed through her mouth. It wasn’t much better.

  “You looking for Touchy?” came in slurred words.

  She spun, knife out. The drunk in the doorway snickered and tipped his bottle to his lips, unmoved.

  “Where is he?”

  He gave her a one-eyed stare. “He just took off with someone. Well…they was draggin’ him off.” The drunk gestured with the bottle and Darcy moved fast, rounding the edge of the building. There were a couple warehouses a block away, an abandoned building separated by a parking lot with junk cars and a group of people hovering around the flames in a barrel. More than half were passed out on the ground under cut-open cardboard boxes.

  She scanned the area and in the distance, saw a man being thrown back against a black car. He fit the bartender’s description. A big blonde delivered a crushing blow to the man’s middle, then backhanded him before pressing a gun to his forehead.

  Oh hell.

  Even from this far, she knew it had to be Feeley.

  Darcy bolted, running hard.

  Feeley was her only lead, and leaving him to be worked over by two men in dark biker clothes wasn’t in her plans. Fake bikers, she thought, running. The neat haircuts were a dead giveaway. Money, polished—hired muscle.

  She headed right for them, and when they heard her, the men turned.

  Feeley looked at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

  Darcy stopped short. The men ogled her with open sexual interest, easing their grip.

  “Help me,” Feeley said.

  “Shut up, asshole,” one man, a Latino, said, holding Feeley against the car. The other man, the blonde, turned the gun on her. “Get outta here.”

  Darcy stilled, fear jolting up her spine as she circled, making them follow her, making them turn from Feeley.

  “I just want to talk to him for a second, guys,” she said. “Nothing big.”

  “This ain’t your business. Get outta here, bitch.”

  She gave them her best affronted look. “You talk to your mama with that mouth?”

  “Shut up.” The Latino inclined his head to the other. His blond partner headed toward her.

  “Stay out of this, lady,” Blondie said.

  “Probably good advice.”

  Blondie moved toward her, smiling. Not seeing her as a threat. When he got close, Darcy executed a high double kick that connected with his jaw, the first snapping his head back, the second dropping blond babe to the ground. Latino guy pointed the weapon at her and fired. But he was way off target because Feeley struggled and Darcy was already diving for the ground, out of the path, rolling and coming up close enough to knock the gun aside, spin, then slam her elbow into his face. He howled, falling back and shaking his head.

  Blood shot out like sputters from a dying sprinkler. Feeley took off as she plowed her fist into the guy’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. The jolt rang up her arm. Oh, that hurt. The guy’s wearing a Kevlar vest. Jeez.

  Darcy stepped back as Blondie struggled for air, pushing himself up. Feeley was moving fast down the alley and she let out an irritated sigh, kicked the gun into the high grass, then glanced around for something to do some damage. Rushing to the right, she grabbed a rusted pipe off the ground. When the blonde tried to get to his feet, Darcy brought it down on the back of his head. Hard. He dropped, motionless.

  Latino came after her, bloody and pissed.

  But Darcy was just as ticked off. Three years’ worth of anger and frustration came out when he lunged for her. She swiped the pipe like a sword, smacking his arm. The bone cracked. Latino dropped to his knees, howling and holding his arm. Darcy swung again, knocking him in the head, and he went over like a sinking ship. Alive, but out for now. She threw down the pipe, then chased after Feeley.

  The little weasel wasn’t getting away. As far as she was concerned, Tony “Touchy” Feeley owed her his life. She pushed herself hard, that shot of liquor magnifying her determination to reach Tony before he disappeared into a town she didn’t know.

  She knocked over a crate, leaped a discarded bumper and gained on him. His long coat was stylin’, but the impractical boots were slowing him down. He glanced back and Darcy was on him, diving for his back and knocking him to the ground. He scrambled to get up and she latched on to his boot, and pulled out her knife.

  “Move and I cut the pretty-boy boots.”

  He snapped a look at her, small eyes narrowing. “Get off, bitch.” He kicked out. Darcy ducked and put the blade’s edge to the boots.

  “I can just as easily give you back to the men in black.”

  His eyes flared and Darcy felt triumph coming. Keeping a hold of his boot, she crouched to her knees. “What’d they want, Feeley, bad debt, territory?”

  “They were going to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “To keep me from talking to you.”

  It was Darcy’s turn to look stunned. They must have seen the ad. How did they know she was coming? She’d covered her tracks, driving the few hours from Comanche. She shoved off and stood, replacing her knife and waiting till Feeley got to his feet. Then she slammed him against the alley wall.

  “It’s not nice to make a deal, then renege on it, Feeley. Bad for the pimp reputation, you know?”

  “Are you nuts, lady? They were going to kill me!”

  “You said that. So considering you’re still breathing, you owe me, huh?”

  “I ain’t saying nothin’.”

  When he moved, no doubt to get a weapon, Darcy braced her arm against his throat, cutting off his air supply and searching him. She found a stiletto in a slim pocket inside his coat. She kept it, patting him down for more and found brass knuckles and a blackjack. Tough-guy equipment, and she could only imagine how often he used them on women. She pocketed them all.

  “What? No gun?”

  “They took it.”

  Darcy glanced to the right, checking to see if Biker Boys had roused enough to hunt her. She had to hurry. “You answered the ad, Touchy. Talk. Why didn’t those men want you to talk to me?”

  “Hell if I know! You gonna give me some air?”

  She pushed harder. “Tell me what you know!”

  “Why should I?” He shifted his leg to kick and Darcy whipped out her knife, pressing the point to his groin.

  “Because, Mr. Feeley, if you don’t, the men in black will have no reason to kill you. Tell and they can come after me.”

  Darcy wasn’t letting that happen. This wasn’t like the rescues with Jack. She didn’t have a safety net and had risked her life too much tonight already. She was damn lucky she’d gotten the jump on those guys, and she wasn’t pressing it further.

  “You’re just a chick.”

  “At the moment that hardly matters, does it? Tell me why you answered my ad.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I saw it and remembered I had a girl a long time ago. She was into some surrogate deal. You don’t forget someone who’d have a baby for strangers, you dig? They were gonna pay her fifty grand to push out a kid. She promised to give me a cut for her time off.”

  The woman must have been desperate, she thought. “She tricked for you.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah. She wanted out, but owed me for her crib, essentials and the time off. Nine months.” He smirked.

  “She was willing to have a baby to pay you off? Sounds like an honorable woman.”

  “She was a fucking whore.”

  “And that makes you what, Touchy?”

  His nose actually tipped the air. “Her man, her protection. Her keeper. She owed me!”

  This guy was unbelievable, and as far as Darcy was concerned, he was no better than an abusive husband. A slave trader. And she wasn’t ready to believe everything he said. But then at this point, why lie? “Did she have the baby?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Didn’t you collect her debt to you?”

  “She split. I didn’t need the money that bad.”

  She shoved him into the threshold of a side door. “You’re lying. Someone tell you to leave her alone?”

  Feeley just stared back, unmoved.

  “What did you tell those guys?” She inclined her head in their general direction.

  “Nothin’. They seemed to know what I knew already.”

  Great, Darcy thought, she had a trail. “Where’s this woman now?”

  “Christ, you want me to draw you a map?” She put pressure on his windpipe. “Last I heard she was in Vegas, dancing or something.” He cleared his throat. “Always was a better dancer than she was a whore.”

  Darcy stared, wondering what made people like this. “Your level of humanity is remarkable.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Blow me.”

  Darcy released him. He shook his jacket into place, smoothed his oily black hair and gave her a smirk.

  He stepped toward her, maliciousness in his ugly face, and she moved in his path. “Don’t try it.” She caught her knife by the tip and eyed his boots. “I won’t be so kind.”

  “I told you what you wanted. What the fuck else do you want?”

  “A name.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Why do you care?”