“I love you, too, Mommy.”
Standing there, gazing down at Holly, Elizabeth wondered how she’d ever live without this child. When Holly was born with Down’s syndrome and a cleft lip, Elizabeth thought her world had come to an end.
How foolish could she have been? She’d only learned how precious her daughter was when she almost lost her six years ago. How could she lose her again? Even to the McClaines? What knife-edge would she have to walk to ensure that never happened? Then again, how long could she dance to Charles McClaine’s tune? And what would she have to do to keep the status quo? After all, she had to be able to get up and look herself in the mirror each morning.
Elizabeth kissed Holly firmly on the cheek. “You stay here, and stay warm until Katie comes, okay?”
“When will you come home?”
“Soon as I can.”
Holly snuggled back down among the layers of Elizabeth’s bed once more. “Okay, Mommy.”
No sooner had Elizabeth gotten ready than the doorbell chimed through the house.
“I’ll get it,” she called to Katie, her housekeeper, who was now bustling in the kitchen making Holly’s breakfast.
As soon as she opened the door, Penny pushed in past her with a newspaper under her arm, looking her over.
“You’re up early.”
Elizabeth checked her watch. “You’re here early.” She closed the door and followed Penny into the kitchen while Penny talked over her shoulder. “Seen this morning’s papers? Morning, Katie.”
“Good morning, Miss Rickman. Coffee?” Katie replied.
“You speak my language,” Penny said and slapped the paper on the table.
“Don’t tell me,” Elizabeth said. “More news stories?”
“Yeah, but thankfully, only what we already know—that Velma Stanford was shot dead in her car.” She unfolded the paper and twisted the front page towards Elizabeth, who gave the article a brief glance.
“Y’know, I had a thought,” Penny said. “I lay awake all night thinking about how all this crap started and how it’s escalated to the point where you’re getting threats from your own family.”
Elizabeth shrugged into her coat, adjusting it as she listened. “Uh-huh.”
“And I think you’re right.”
“Oh, just for a change?”
“Yeah, okay, don’t get all holier-than-thou on me.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I’m sorry. Go on, I’m listening.”
“Well, I was thinking—it’s like, everywhere you go, this guy Gate Westrum’s name keeps popping up, but no one seems to know anything about him. All we know is he’s some property broker who got himself murdered. For what? Why does his name keep coming up. So, I’m thinking: who’s the one person who seems to know the most about this Gate Westrum guy? And who’s the person who brought his name into it in the first place?”
“It was actually you,” Elizabeth said. “But I know what you mean. Jennifer Reels seems to have all the inside info.”
Penny nodded once in agreement. “Exactly. So, then I started thinking, why don’t you go see her? Why don’t you ask her what she knows about him? And, I mean, why wouldn’t she tell you? The guy is dead. It’s not like he’s going to sue her.”
“Two steps ahead of you, Sweetie,” Elizabeth told her as she hoisted her purse under her arm and brushed down the gray box-pleat skirt she’d chosen for the meeting. “I’ve got a meeting with her in twelve minutes.”
“Oh, so you weren’t planning on telling me this? And my rushing over here was a total waste of time?” Penny said, a little put out.
“Not a bit,” Elizabeth told her with a smile. “Holly’s been asking when she’ll see you again. She misses you. I thought maybe you two could spend a bit of girl-time together over breakfast. Then maybe you could do me a huge favor and take her to school.”
Penny’s face lit up. “Well, as a matter of fact, I think I could manage that.”
***
The Associate
Word came back almost immediately—they had her. Through the bad English and the background echo, one of the Man’s braindead goons had called, telling him that Gordana had done exactly as he’d requested. She’d taken her to the other house, straight into the trap.
Turned out her name was Laney Donohue. The sister of the young woman Katarina had been caring for at Sunny Springs. And now they had her. In the Studio, he’d said.
The Studio. It sounded like something artistic. That couldn’t be further from the truth. It was merely a torture chamber. The first time he’d seen it, he couldn’t understand how anyone could subject another human being to such atrocities. He’d nodded around during the tour, then gotten out of there as fast as he could.
Now, here was this Albanian thug asking if he should dispose of Laney Donohue in that place.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see her giving him that hand signal as she escaped the last basement she was in. That smug look of determination in her eye. She’d seen him; could identify him.
He could not let her escape a second time. The only way she was getting out of this one was wrapped in a roll of heavy-duty black plastic.
He dragged his mind back and swallowed back the bile that had risen. The thought of what they’d done to Dijana made him sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to think about that ever happening to anyone else. But right now, it was her, or it was him.
Then, in one of those blinding flashes of inspiration, he realized something: this could be the opportunity he’d been waiting for. The fact that this nuisance girl had followed the trail this far; the fact that she could have led him to where they were holding Katarina—that had planted a seed in his mind. Already it was germinating into a plan.
He told the thug on the phone to hold the Donohue girl, that he didn’t care what they did as long as she was still capable of answering questions when he got there. Then he told him to call Njerku, the boss—the asshole who’d been holding a gun to his head for too long now. He told the thug that this Laney Donohue had important information that Njerku would have to hear in the girl’s own words.
The dopey thug’s confusion echoed down the phoneline. In fact, even to him, the explanation didn’t make sense. That didn’t matter. It was the only way he could set his plan up.
As soon as he was sure the Albanian idiot understood what he had to do, he hung up and checked the airlines. If he hurried, he’d catch the next flight out to Boston.
He closed down his computer, snatched his coat from the stand, and called his wife as he left the building. He told her he’d been called away on business, that he’d be back tomorrow. Just in case it was the last time he ever spoke to her, he told her he loved her, then went straight to his car.
If he played this situation correctly, if he got his timing just right, and the gods were with him, he’d not only free himself of this nuisance girl, but he’d finally rid himself of his cold fish of a wife, and that sadistic Albanian thug. All in one clean swoop.
And finally, he could save Katarina.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DAY THREE—9:24 AM—ELIZABETH
Jennifer Reels was at the same table in the same café when Elizabeth arrived. Her hair was pressed flat on one side as though she’d slept on it, and her makeup had settled into the creases on her face like a topographical roadmap. In stark contrast, the deepened lines and bags under her eyes made her look as though she hadn’t slept in a week.
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. McClaine,” Jennifer Reels said in a flat tone. Both hands were wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee as if it were a life-line.
“We keep meeting like this, they’re gonna start charging us rent,” she said, watching Elizabeth pull out the chair opposite. Despite the warmth of the café, she shrugged into her jacket as if she was cold.
Elizabeth perched on the seat and signaled the waitress. “Cappuccino, thank you,” she told the waitress who approached; then she switched her attention back to the reporter. “You look ti
red.”
“Oh, really? You get me out of bed this hour of the morning and you think I look tired? Color me shocked.” She took a sip of her coffee and set it down again, hands still cradling the cup.
“I think you probably know why I’m here.”
Her bloodshot eyes lifted to meet Elizabeth’s in amusement. “Why don’t you tell me? Just in case I missed a memo.”
“Gate Westrum.”
Her eyes flickered in surprise. “Gate Westrum? What’s he got to do with the price of fish?”
Elizabeth’s coffee arrived. She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat while the waitress set it down. Both women waited in silence until the waitress had retreated before continuing the conversation.
Elizabeth leaned in, voice lowered. “Who was he?”
“What makes you think I’d know?”
“The article you ran four months ago makes me think you’d know. From what I read, it didn’t paint a particularly flattering picture of the deceased.”
Jennifer lifted a world-weary gaze to the ceiling before releasing a tired sigh and meeting Elizabeth’s gaze again.
“Gate Westrum was a psychopathic property developer who got himself killed trying to outmaneuver the wrong guy. He was a swindler and a thief who got what he deserved. What else do you need to know?”
After that description, what didn’t she want to know?
She started with: “Who was the guy he was trying to outmaneuver and how?”
“I don’t understand. What’s Gate Westrum got to do with anything?” Jennifer asked again.
“It just seems strange to me that you did the same hatchet job on him as you did on me. I took a look at the article on my phone just before I left. It felt…” She lifted both shoulders briefly. “I don’t know…personal. Intentional. That’s the feeling I got with both articles.”
“So, I’m assuming you’ve read everything I’ve written?”
Elizabeth smiled. “I’m sure I’ve missed some literary greats penned by you, Miss Reels, but no, I’m sorry, I haven’t.” She gave it a moment, then said, “Look, why don’t we quit the dance of the seven swords here and get straight to the point? Who was it put the target on my forehead and set you out to do your worst?”
Jennifer Reels sniggered and lifted her cup, grinning across at her.
“Whoa. That’s a bunch of interesting mental images you just conjured up for me, Mrs. McClaine.”
“And yet…?” Elizabeth spread her hands.
Again, Jennifer sighed and placed her cup down. She propped both elbows on the table, stubby, ring-encrusted fingers clasped at her chin, steely eyes on Elizabeth.
“Mrs. McClaine, I told you once that I don’t give out the identities of my sources. That’s the truth. You may think me a little low on scruples, but it goes against every fiber of my being. In this case, I decided to meet you here because I’m making an exception. You wanna know why?”
Elizabeth angled her head in suspicion. “I can’t even guess.”
“Because I want you to get to the bottom of who shot my sister in the face. I want you to hunt that bastard down and make him pay. That’s why.”
The shock hit Elizabeth like a rock. “Velma Stanford was your sister?”
“And my information source. She’s the one who called me. She didn’t want you sniffing around Sunny Springs. She wanted you out of there.”
The news had Elizabeth reeling with even more questions as the implications hit her one after the other. “So, she’s the one who gave you the paperwork on my clients?”
“Some of it. She got the rest from someone else. And before you ask, I don’t know who. I think Velma was in some kind of trouble. I asked her. I said, ‘Whatever it is, this can’t be the answer.’” A shake of the head. “I don’t know what the hell she’d gotten herself into, but she didn’t intend confiding in me.”
“And the story about Gate Westrum? She put you up to that as well?”
“She did. First, I thought it was a great story. Young, snappy, up-and-coming property developer hits the big-time, pisses off the wrong person, ends up dead. A real eyeball-grabber. I thanked her with a decent-sized check.”
“But she never let on why she gave it to you?”
“Not a word. You have to understand, Mrs. McClaine, my sister and I were never close. But last year, her husband went into the hospital and came out with cancer and a use-by date. She was looking at debt that’d make your eyes water: doctors, nurses, medication lists as long as your arm, the whole kit and caboodle. That’s why I came back here to Cleveland—to see what I could do to help her. Time I got here, she’d booked him into Fair-Skies, the elderly care facility. He’s in the hospital unit there.”
“Fair-Skies? That’s the new state-of-the-art facility overlooking the lake, isn’t it?”
“That’s the one. All privately run. The fees are horrendous. I wondered where she got the money. One point, I even asked her. She said she was doing okay. Said she was using their savings.”
“You didn’t believe her?”
“Pfft. They didn’t have savings. Or if they did, it wouldn’t have been enough to pay for that level of care. At the time, I figured she’d borrowed the cash and was too ashamed to say so.”
“And then she was struggling to pay it back,” Elizabeth surmised, now feeling dreadful for the way she’d spoken to the woman.
“Or not,” said Jennifer. When Elizabeth’s eyebrows went up, Jennifer added, “You know who owns the place, I assume.”
She waited with her brows raised until the penny dropped.
“Aden Falls,” Elizabeth said like it had been punched out of her.
“Same owners as Sunny Springs.”
“So, where does Gate Westrum come into it?”
“I have no idea. When Velma first called me in, I did a ton of research on Gate Westrum. There was no stone I left unturned. And yet I could not find one thing on the guy before he turned up in Boston four years ago. A guy who just appears out of nowhere, and yet my sister seemed to know him inside out. There’s something dirty going on at Sunny Springs. I can smell it. Velma knew what it was. I think someone was paying her husband’s care to keep her mouth shut.”
“Someone at Aden Falls?”
“It would seem so.”
For a moment, Elizabeth let the information run around her head. Yes, she’d already suspected something was going on at Sunny Springs. Hadn’t she said that all along? But what was so bad that someone would pay the care of Velma Stanford’s husband, then murder her? And what did it have to do with the young woman Laney was searching for? If anything.
“What do you know about the young woman who disappeared from Sunny Springs—the nurse aid?”
“Only that her name was Wendy O’Dell. That she disappeared and hasn’t contacted her mother in over a year. That Mrs. O’Dell’s a mess over it.”
“You visited her?”
“No point. Yeah, Wendy O’Dell worked at Sunny Springs. And no, she didn’t bother telling her mother where she was. Families have fall-outs. Shit happens. But how could that have anything to do with Velma’s murder?”
“Have you told all this to the police?” Elizabeth asked.
“Not yet. Oh, they’ll come see me. Sure as God made little apples. But if the secret of Sunny Springs is dirty enough to murder for, and well-hidden enough that even I couldn’t get to the bottom of it, you can bet the cops are gonna meet a brick wall.”
The image of Delaney popped into her mind. That rugged determination. How hard he’d worked to find Holly when she was taken. “The police here are pretty good.”
Jennifer let that smirk slide across one side of her face again. “Only if they know what they’re looking for. And even I couldn’t figure that out.”
“Then why are you telling me all this? What makes you think I can do any better than the police?”
“Because when you started asking questions, you hit a nerve. Because you rattled someone enough to have my sister call me
in. Whether you’re aware of it or not, Mrs. McClaine, you’re right at the epicenter of this shit storm. When you started asking about Gate Westrum, you frightened someone enough to murder my sister. And I sure as hell don’t want to be next.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DAY THREE—9:24 AM—LANEY
Laney had no idea where she was when she awoke. Sometime in the night she’d felt the pinch of a needle in her arm. Since then she’d wafted in and out of consciousness until she found herself lying on her side in a fetal position, enclosed in what looked like a small dog cage, dim light all around. With her head still spinning, she levered herself up on one arm and blinked back the haze to clear her vision to take in her surroundings. Screwing up her face, she licked her parched lips.
She was in what looked like another basement—windows blacked out all around, stairs leading up to what looked like a steel freezer door at the top with a padlock looped through the handle. But this wasn’t a basement like the last one. This one sent a chill of terror down her spine.
All around a pale blue light glinted off white tiled walls and floor. Icy air blowing from an AC unit on the wall next to her had dropped the temperature to a chilly 45 degrees, according to the LED figures on the gauge. A steel surgical table sat center-stage, same wispy blue light picking out a white, five-drawer medical trolley standing alongside.
Over on the wall were hung a line of black rubber suits—like diving suits. Next to them, three sets of manacles dangled from where they’d been bolted into the surgically clean white of the tiles. A variety of whips and studded collars, were displayed along with instruments, the uses of which she couldn’t even begin to guess. Even the air smelled of antiseptic. Like a surgical theater. Next to her were two other crates, both the same size as the one she was in.
“What the hell…?”
In such a confined space, she could barely move. Holding her knees in tight, chin tucked in, she managed to swivel herself around onto her butt. Working her arm down to her feet, she reached for the bars and rattled the cage door. Then she spotted the padlock down there. On the outside. Which she should have expected.
[Elizabeth McClaine 03.0] A Stolen Woman Page 18
