He bent down to secure the padlock. “No more talking. No more stupid lies—” he began, but the sound of his phone cut him off. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the upper arm of his shirt, he dredged it from his pocket and turned away to answer.
She heard him make a few clipped replies, then hang up.
When he turned back to her, he seemed more at ease. He wiped the sweat from his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Almost over. Njerku is here. Soon, you can get out of the cage.” He bent over, looking her in the eye as a vicious grin cracked his face. “But trust me, you will want to be back in cage again.”
Terror welled in her chest. The one chance for freedom, and she’d blown it.
Now she had to wait. Crouched in that cage with her face aching and her head spinning, her body stiff to the point she could hardly move. Her face crumpled and she cursed herself again.
Then, for the first time in many years, she prayed to God to help her.
At the sound of a gentle knock at the freezer door, Fatso went up the stairs and she heard the jingle of keys, then the click of the padlock. It was followed by the sound of the door opening. Every beat of Laney’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of her chest. All she could see from this vantage point was a pair of shiny black loafers descending the stairs. They ambled casually across then rounded the cage until a man in a well-cut suit stood looking down at her.
He peeled off his suit jacket and handed it to Fatso, who folded it over his arm like a waiter. Then the man dropped into a crouch in front of her, elbows rested on his knees, hands dangling between. His dark hair looked expensively cut and slicked back. Green eyes fringed by long black lashes. Perfect cheekbones, flawless skin, and teeth so white and even, they couldn’t be natural. Diamond ring on his pinky. She didn’t even have to guess—Jerko, the guy Dorothy had told Pinky about.
His smile creased a dimple into both cheeks. “Miss Laney Donohue, I presume.” An American accent, she noted. Not from Boston, though. The grin widened. As if he were addressing an old friend. “My name isn’t important, but my friends here call me The Stepfather. We’re going to get to know each other a little better. Unfortunately, this won’t be a long-lasting relationship. Also unfortunately for you, it won’t be one you’ll enjoy.” He straightened and stepped back. “Get her out,” he told Fatso.
“With pleasure,” Fatso replied.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
DAY THREE—1:17 PM—LANEY
For the third time, Fatso dragged her out of the cage, scraping her knees over the bottom bar, only this time banging her head on the top of the cage, as well.
Didn’t matter. She was so terrified she hardly felt it. When she got to her feet, the Jerko guy sauntered across to a row of pegs and selected a heavy rubber apron hanging from one of them. He slipped the strap over his head and secured it at the back.
“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” he asked her. “I call this the Studio. I saw it in a movie once. I thought it was the perfect addition to our services here.”
When she didn’t reply, he moved across to a display wall of terrifying tools, running his hand over a selection of gadgets until he came to a heavy pair of cutters like a pair of pruning loppers. All she could feel was the pounding of her heart in her chest and the prickle of fear down her spine. All she could hear was her own shuddering breaths.
Testing the scissoring mechanism of the tool, he ambled across to her, paused, and smiled
She stood immobilized by terror as he reached out a gentle hand, using a crooked forefinger to lift her chin.
“You’re trembling,” he said widening the smile. “I like that.”
Gently, he ran the knuckle of his forefinger down her cheek, watching.
Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she react?
Why hadn’t she learned to fight in prison? All she ever did in there was pack gloves.
Gloves, huh!
Where did that ever get her? The image of the prison workroom flashed into her mind. The image of Jody’s bulging eyebrow after Valerie Spackmire had finished with her over the Fitbit debacle. At that, a well of deep-seated fear bubbled up into her throat, emerging in a fit of giggles that rapidly turned to violent sobs that racked the air from her lungs.
She sucked in a ragged breath and whimpered, “Please, please don’t.”
His hand dropped and his smiled widened.
The prison. Valerie Spackmire. That goddamn Fitbit—if you can’t fight clean…
Laney blinked the tears from her eyes. The guy was relaxed, exchanging knowing looks with Fatso, who was standing back, waiting for the show.
Dredging every morsel of hatred she could gather, she leapt, both hands going for Jerko’s face, but his right hand blocked her left hand while her right found its mark, her thumb driving hard into his eye. He snatched at her hand, tried to shake her off, but she stepped in to follow him, thumb driving even harder until he shoved her off and stepped back. Instantly, Jerko folded over, hands clapped over eyes squeezed shut, groaning in pain.
Fatso straightened aghast, mouth in a perfect O, not knowing whether to go help Jerko or grab Laney.
She didn’t waste a second. Shoving Jerko aside, she raced for the stairs, flew up, and slipped the loose padlock from the handle. She wrenched the door open and slipped out, just as Fatso hit the bottom step. Same padlock hole on the outside of the handle, but before she could lock it, the handle jerked—Fatso on the other side. She leaned her shoulder into the door, put her foot against it. He shoved from the other side but the second she felt him release for a second shove, she fed the arm of the padlock through and snapped it shut, just as he slammed into it from the other side.
Now she was free. But where? Corridors ran left and right, a maze of doors. It looked like a hotel.
Jerko had a cell phone. It wouldn’t take long for him to call for help, have his goons out searching for her. She had to get out.
She walked quickly to the first corner and peeped around. No one there. So she followed the hallway until she heard voices—urgent, calling out orders—so she swiveled on one foot and backtracked, heading the other way.
Man, Jerko was fast. She swung around the next corner but heard rapid movement up ahead. Nowhere to go, so she ducked into a room on her right, closing the door quietly, and stood with her ear to the wood until the voices passed.
As soon as they faded, she turned to check out the room she was in—and jumped when she saw someone staring at her. Then she realized it was a full-length mirror on the opposite wall that showed her gaping back in horror with one cheek bulging out, hair sticking out in all directions, and a terrified look in her eyes. Immediately, she folded over and let out the breath she had burning in her lungs.
“Oh, thank God, thank God.”
But now what? It wouldn’t take long for them to come looking for her. She had to move on; had to get out of here.
Sucking in a deep breath, she quietly cracked the door and peeked out. No one in sight, so she stepped out into the hallway.
Voices shouting from the direction she’d come. Armani’s voice.
Shit!
On tiptoes, so as not to make any noise, she trotted to the end of the corridor and was about to round the corner when the ding of an elevator sounded. She stopped short and ducked back, shoulder pressed hard to the wall, heard the doors open and more voices. Men, talking urgently in the same language. With her pulse pounding in her ears, she glanced behind her. Jerko was approaching from that direction. Panic flared in her chest until the voices ahead receded hurriedly around off in the other direction. As soon as they were gone, she made a beeline for the elevator, then realized if the door opened to a bunch of thugs, she’d have no chance. So instead, she opted for the door in the corner marked Stairs. She hauled it open, slipped into the stairway, and eased the door shut. Empty. Just the sound of her breathing echoing off the white-painted walls.
Stairways led both up and down. No number
ing. Just an arrow pointing up, indicating the roof.
Like it would be anywhere else, she thought.
She leaned over the railing and looked down. Miles of stairs wound down and down. So she crossed to a window on the landing.
Looking out, all she could see was a vast view across the city from about twenty stories up, if she had to guess. She hadn’t been in a basement at all. She was near the roof.
“What?”
She’d gone down two floors when the sound of a closing door echoed up from somewhere below. Then rapid footsteps clanging on the stairs. No telling if they were going up or down. But she couldn’t stay here.
Gently easing the landing door open, she stepped out into an empty corridor. Then she trotted down the carpeted corridor, passing hotel room doors and potted palms in huge urns, until she reached a corner. From somewhere down the next corridor came the sound of men’s voices, so she stopped short.
Shit!
She backed up a couple of feet, then spun on her heel. With the pressure of her heartbeat aching in her chest, she doubled back to the stairs at a run. Halfway along, the elevator up ahead dinged and she stopped. More voices. They were searching the whole floor.
Heading back down the same corridor, she tried door after door, finding every one locked until she came to one that opened. She shouldered her way in to find herself in some kind of storeroom, sheets and towels folded on shelves to the ceiling and a full laundry hamper on wheels at the back. Without thinking twice, she stepped up onto a crate and leapt into the hamper, and burrowed down, ass first, pulling sheets and towels from beneath her, nestling into the folds.
The stink of the sheets hit her nose in a fog of body odor and perfume. She shut her eyes, trying not to think of where they’d been. In the distance she could hear the voices approaching. Shouted orders in the same language were followed by the sound of opening and shutting doors.
When the door to the storeroom clicked open, she felt her throat tighten. She held her breath, felt the vein in her neck throb as footsteps slowly entered the room. Squeezing her eyes closed she sent out a silent prayer.
Silence.
He was still in the room. The two of them as still and silent as the crypt. All she could hear was the thumping of her heart in her temples. Then another man spoke from the doorway.
The one in the room replied. A gruff response, and the second man retreated.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the remaining man searching the shelves, the ceiling. Allowing herself a cautious breath, she opened her eyes, peering up as if she could see him through the layers of fabric.
Then she heard a sniff followed by footsteps, and the door closed.
Nothing but silence followed. Even the sound of closing doors in the hallway had faded.
Heaving out the breath swelling and biting into her lungs, she flung back the sheets and towels and took a big breath. Fresh air.
At the sight of the grinning face peering down at her, she gasped.
“I told you,” Fatso said. “You must think I am fool.”
In a snap, he grabbed her by the shirt front with both hands and wrenched her from the hamper. The hamper twisted on the spot, then toppled over, and she fell onto her forearm, but he lifted her again and threw her to the floor.
Then he pulled out his gun and aimed it straight at her head.
“This time, you are mine.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
DAY THREE—2:13 PM—ELIZABETH
Elizabeth had been sitting in Delaney’s cramped office for almost a half hour now. For the umpteenth time, she checked her watch against the grimy clock up on the wall over the line of battered black file cabinets. She was just beginning to think he wasn’t coming when the door opened and he bustled in, all apologies.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I was called out,” he said by way of explanation as he rounded his desk and sat. “What did you need to see me about?”
“The girl at the cemetery.”
He paused for a second, perhaps considering his response. Then said, “Okay.”
“I think the tattoo on her wrist could have been a barcode.”
The nod was almost imperceptible. “And why do you think that?”
“Because I spoke to one of the staff over at Sunny Springs who worked with Wendy O’Dell, and she said Wendy had a barcode for a tattoo. Across her wrist.”
“Well, thank you for that. I’ll keep it in mind.” He shifted a few files on his desk, then leaned on his elbows, fingers steepled at his mouth.
She drew a breath, then said, “Lance, I don’t believe it’s the same girl.”
“Neither do we.”
“No, I mean the girl at Sunny Springs calling herself Wendy O’Dell. It’s not the same Wendy O’Dell who went missing.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m saying, I think she could have stolen Wendy O’Dell’s identity.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The photograph you sent me. She’s a blue-eyed blonde. The person I spoke to said she was a green-eyed brunette.”
He nodded thoughtfully and drew a small notepad across, scribbled some illegible note on it, then looked up. “Thank you.”
Elizabeth couldn’t decide whether she’d just given him new information or whether he’d already known this.
“So, what do you think?”
His lower lip jutted and he looked away briefly. “I think you could be right.”
“So, maybe the girl in the cemetery is the same one who worked at Sunny Springs.”
“We don’t believe so.”
Which indicated the police knew more than he was letting on.
“But why would both these girls have the same tattoo?”
“We get all kinds come through here with tattoos. And not just the bad seeds. Barcode tattoos aren’t exactly original, either. Kids these days seem to think having a barcode tattoo symbolizes individuality. Or maybe conformity. I don’t know which.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Last thing I’d want is a product code permanently stamped on me.”
“So, it doesn’t seem strange to you that this girl calling herself Wendy and an unidentified corpse both have the same barcode tattoo?”
Again, he jutted his lip and shook his head. “Could just mean they went to the same tattoo artist.”
For a moment, Elizabeth felt like the one small light she’d had, had just been extinguished. Grasping at the only thread she now had, she said, “How’s the Velma Stanford case going?”
“Good.”
Blood from a stone, she thought.
“Are you any closer to finding who killed her?”
“We’re making progress.”
Exasperated, she said, “Oh, c’mon, Lance. Can’t you tell me more than that? Something. Anything?”
He spread his hands. “It’s too early, Elizabeth. We’re reaching out for potential witnesses, running fiber analyses, DNA tests—”
“I thought you didn’t need DNA tests.”
He gave her a long-suffering look. Like she’d implied he didn’t know his job. “We’re searching to see if anyone else was in the car at the time of her death.”
“And were they?”
“We don’t have the results back.” He sighed gently and turned his attention momentarily to the window. “Look, I get that you knew Mrs. Stanford. I get that your trust has been put under the spotlight—”
Her voice rose, aghast. “Under the spotlight? Lance, it was a bunch of lies.”
“But why are you so interested in this case?”
“Because whoever left bruises on Kimmy Donohue is up to their armpits in this. And Kimmy is my client. Someone I happen to have a great deal of responsibility for.”
“Then I’ll keep that in mind.”
After allowing the rising frustration to settle, she huffed. What was the point in yelling at him? He was doing his job. It wasn’t his duty to report to her.
“Thank you. I guess you’ve already got a handle on
this and I’ve just wasted your time.”
The creases in his cheeks deepened into a genuine smile. “You never waste my time. You know that.”
In return, she smiled, a little coy now. She was about to get up when he spoke.
“Oh, by the way, I got you another photograph.”
“Of what?”
He reached for his laptop, twisted it on the desk, and opened it. Without elaborating, he hit a couple of keys and the printer set on the desk next to the file cabinets whirred into life.
“Wendy O’Dell. It’s not the picture her mother gave us. It’s the one we distributed when we first began looking for her.” He got up and waited for the paper to roll out. When it did, he took it from the tray and handed it to Elizabeth while he waited for another.
“It was the most recent picture we had of her.”
The photograph showed the same pretty strawberry blonde with blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose. A palpable innocence radiated from the image, the expression conveying vitality and humor.
“She’s pretty.”
“And smart. She’s a linguist. Speaks seven languages fluently, plus a couple her mother said she can converse in.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded and lifted his head to view the photograph in her hands. “When I spoke to her she said she’d gotten tired of living in Cleveland and wanted to be in Boston. Once we had a positive ID, we left it at that.”
“And you’re sure she’s not the girl in the cemetery?”
“Positive.”
Elizabeth lent her attention to the photograph. “What could have gone so badly wrong?” Elizabeth asked quietly. “That a girl could just up and leave her mother without a word? Knowing it’s breaking her mother’s heart?” She looked up to find Delaney’s eyes soft with empathy. He’d known as well as any what Elizabeth had gone through to get her own daughter back.
“I guess we may never know.” He lifted the second photograph. “Oh, and here’s another one you may not have been able to find. It’s a photograph we got of Gate Westrum. It was taken not long before he died. We were in the throes of building a solid case against him when he was first brought in on money-laundering charges. Then he turned up dead.” He handed the photograph over.
[Elizabeth McClaine 03.0] A Stolen Woman Page 21
