But before she could finish, the door behind her opened and Matt leaned in. “What the hell’s goin’ on? Why’s she yelling like that?”
Kelsey tucked the comforter up around the child, then turned. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
Matt regarded them both, and dropped his shoulders. Twenty-four years old, Matt was as good-looking as the day Kelsey met him—maybe better. Thick brown hair, strong white teeth, great body. He was the one who had planned all this. Right down to the last detail. He had covered bases no one else even thought of. Like mailing the ransom note out the day before so it got there at the perfect time. Kelsey would never have thought of that. She would have just called on the phone like you see in the movies. Matt told her the cops could track you down if you called on the phone. But how many people passed through a different part of town one day and were gone the next? So if you posted a letter from any particular part of town, how would the cops ever trace it? The rest was in the timing. That’s what he’d said.
Even now she still didn’t understand why they couldn’t just call on the phone. But there you had it. Matt was the smart one. Kelsey’s old man always said she was dumb as a sack of hammers. But she had enough clues to know smart when she saw it. And Matt’s ingenuity, his cleverness, his ability to make something out of any situation; those were the things she loved most about him. Though lately, he had so much on his mind he hardly seemed like the same guy.
He raked his fingers through his hair and said, “I’m going to get something to eat. You want something?”
“I’ll go,” she said.
“We’ll both go.”
“No,” she replied so sharply that he shot her a look. “I’m not leaving her with Lionel.”
“I don’t know why you don’t like him.”
“It’s not that,” she lied. “It’s just … what if he gets strung out? He can’t look after her if he’s out of it. Anyway, she needs some shit for her eyes. They’re all red and itchy. They’re driving her nuts.”
Matt spread his hands and let his gaze circle the room in exaggerated wonderment. “So, why’s that our problem? Why do we have to get it? Why can’t her rich parents shell out their money for it? It’s not like they can’t afford it.”
“Well, maybe they would. Only they’re not exactly here.”
He considered it. “Okay. You go. Don’t talk to anyone, keep your head down and stay low. Don’t go blowing this. We’ve come way too far to screw it up now.”
“Just keep an eye on her.”
Kelsey followed him to the door and looked back. Holly lay tucked under the covers, grinding her little fists into her eyes. “Just keep checking on her. Make sure she’s okay,” she said and pulled the door closed.
Downstairs Matt dug in his pocket and came up with ten dollars. “Quit worrying, will you? We’ll take good care of her.”
Matt was Kelsey’s world. She never trusted anyone like she trusted him. She’d trust him with her life. She wouldn’t trust Lionel to butter her toast. If she’d had the choice, she’d have taken Holly with her. That option wasn’t on the table. So she’d have to move fast.
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CHILD OF THE STATE
PROLOGUE
CARRINGWAY WOMEN’S PRISON, OHIO—AMY
Amy knew she should have gone to Stacy the second she’d opened the box. All night she’d lain there in her cot, listening to every sound, frightened they’d come after her, and wondering who else knew. Because somebody did.
Why she’d even gotten stuck in that stupid job was anybody’s guess. She’d applied for the prison sewing program. Would have helped if she knew how to sew, but others on the same work scheme didn’t know how to sew when they started, either. They got lessons.
Amy still couldn’t make a buttonhole worth a damn so she got stuck in dispatch, sending out boxes of garments in the truck that turned up twice a week. Her job was to pack the boxes, check the details on the packing slip, seal the boxes up. Most boring job on the planet—or it was until that particular box came back, returned from wherever and marked Attention Dispatch Department. The only person around with any authority to accept the box was Trish Tomes, the prison officer overseeing the project.
Amy had been going through the contents of the box, looking at every item. She was just holding a silk blouse up to the light, checking she wasn’t imagining things, when Officer Tomes appeared behind her. Amy just about peed her pants. She yelped and pressed the blouse to her chest to try and slow her heart down. The woman had the stealth of a cat. Didn’t matter how hard you listened, you’d turn around and there she was, standing right behind you.
Officer Tomes took the blouse from Amy, holding it up to the light while she looked it over. Then she dug through the box, frowning as she brought out other garments and checked them.
“I’ll take care of this,” she told Amy.
“But these are ours.”
“I said I’ll take care of it. Now go back, seal up the last of those boxes.” Her tone implied she wasn’t going to say it again. She gathered up the returned box and took it back to her office. When Amy looked up the next time, she could see her on the phone, talking to someone with that sour look on her face, every now and then glancing accusingly across at Amy.
But Amy wasn’t stupid. She’d already tucked one of blouses down the front of her prison jumpsuit, then slept all night with it tucked under her mattress. Now here she was standing in line for breakfast with the blouse down the front of her jumpsuit while she waited for Stacy. What she’d discovered was something big—she just knew it was, and Stacy was the only one in this joint Amy could trust. She was also the one who’d know exactly what to do.
After several minutes, the doors opened and Stacy’s crew entered, lining up for their breakfast trays, all chattering and checking out the tables to see whether anyone had been stupid enough to sit in their seat, then looking back down the line to see who they might be eating with. Amy fell into line with her heart jumping and her hands shaking. She waited until her oatmeal and juice box had been set on her tray, and when she turned, she caught Stacy’s eye, indicating for her to sit with her.
Soon as Stacy came over, slid her tray onto the table and sat down, Amy looked left and right, and said, “Gotta talk.”
Stacy dug her spoon into her oatmeal, screwed her face up in disgust as she stirred it around. “Sure. Go ahead.”
Amy leaned forward and hissed, “I’m talking real talk. In private.”
Stacy looked up from her tray, her expression grim. “Are you okay?”
Amy gave the adjacent tables another furtive once-over. Satisfied they weren’t being overheard she leaned forward again. “I found something.”
Stacy straightened in her seat, lifting her head and letting her gaze casually navigate the room before settling back on Amy. “Go on.”
Amy took another quick glance back over her shoulder. “Can’t. Have to show you. Bathroom.”
Stacy got up and returned her tray to the counter along with her uneaten oatmeal, and pushed through the swing doors, heading in the direction of the bathroom. No point in leaving the meal until she got back. You leave your food unattended in this place, you never knew what might have been added to it while you were gone. Amy followed, placing her food tray back with her breakfast untouched, giving the area another wary scan before following Stacy.
When she got to the bathroom, two stalls were closed. A toilet flushed and Nyla Guthrie stepped out and looked from Stacy to Amy and back. “What?” she said in an accusing tone.
“Nothin’,” said Amy.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,” Stacy told her.
Nyla gave Amy a sour once up and down, then pushed through the bathroom door going back to the dining room, leaving Stacy and Amy both watching the second stall.
Impatient, Stacy went across and
banged on the door with the side of her fist. “Hey, hurry it up, will ya?”
The toilet flushed and Cissy Pettameyer stepped out, a picture of ingratiating sweetness. “Good morning, ladies,” she said with a sly smile as she moved to the basin and washed her hands, checking her face in the mirror.
Neither of them spoke, just watched her.
“Be like that then,” Cissy told their reflections, and ran a smoothing finger along one eyebrow. “I’m just trying to be polite.”
Neither Amy nor Stacy was taken in. Cissy was a poisonous, two-faced gossip who spread stories at a rate that would make the black plague look slow.
Stacy stuck one hand on her hip and shifted her weight. “You done?”
Cissy turned and ran her eyes right down to Stacy’s prison issue shoes and back. “I guess.”
She jerked her head towards the door. “Then get out.”
After Cissy had gone, Stacy opened the door and peered out, then closed it, leaning against it so no one else could enter.
“So, what’s so important? Are you okay, Amy? Is someone giving you a hard time?”
“No, it’s not like that. I’m fine. But when I was working today, a box came, addressed to the prison, like they do sometimes. It had a Faulty Goods sticker on the side, so I figured it was just stuff coming back that had stitching problems with them or something.” She paused and dropped her voice to a whisper. “But this was in it.” She reached down into the front of her jumpsuit, pulled the blouse out, and handed it to Stacy.
“What is it?”
“You look,” Amy said, hugging herself and jerking her chin toward the blouse in Stacy’s hands. “I didn’t know else who to tell.”
Stacy checked the seams, the sleeves, the buttonholes and her eyes came back up to Amy, questioning.
“Keep lookin’,” she said.
Stacy turned the garment, checking the collar, then the neckline. Her jaw dropped and she looked up, eyes wide.
“Well, holy shit,” she said.
CHAPTER ONE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
DAY ONE: 1:56 AM—STACY
The car rounded the last bend into Becker Street and came to an abrupt halt. Right in front of them was a pack of reporters and TV crews surrounding the front gate and stretching halfway down the street. By the look of them, they must have had the place staked out since dawn. The instant the first person spotted the car, the crowd was in motion. In a matter of seconds the car was swamped, microphones and cameras pressed to the windows, reporters and news anchors pushing and elbowing each other and yelling questions while a couple of cops tried unsuccessfully to hold them back.
Stacy sat up in the back seat, peering out at the commotion. This was something she hadn’t expected. This could be a problem.
She twisted around, looking out the side and rear windows, watching the chaos outside while Mrs. McClaine, who was sitting next to her, leaned forward, directing the driver to pull in as close to the front gate as possible. Meanwhile, Penny Rickman, Mrs. McClaine’s secretary, got out of the car behind them and cut her way through the crowd, also pointing and yelling over the rabble, ordering security to push the media back, and to form a guard around the car while Stacy and Mrs. McClaine got out.
There was nothing like this when Stacy was sentenced three years ago. As she’d left the courthouse that day, a handful of supporters had lined up along the front steps, shouting and waving placards that said things like: “No mother should be in prison for wanting her child,” and “Where’s the justice in this country?”
Didn’t make one iota of difference because she’d already been tried and sentenced. Seventeen years old she was, and on her way to Carringway Women’s Correctional Facility for assaulting the social services lady who’d taken her baby away. And that was the last she’d seen of the outside world—would have been for the next two years, if it hadn’t been for the Governor’s new early release program.
Now, here she was free again—or at least, she would be if all these reporters weren’t surrounding the place.
The car door opened to a semi-circle of space made by a wall of security guards. Stacy flashed Mrs. McClaine a glance, and when she got the “okay” Stacy got out, head down, hand shielding her face from the flash of cameras. The security guards closed in, forming one compact unit, and together they moved in through the front gate, up the front steps, and onto the porch.
While Mrs. McClaine turned to answer questions and pose for the cameras, Stacy took a second to ease the tension out of her shoulders, look the place over. Seemed kind of ironic that after all these years, here she was back at the very house she’d run away from.
Gayleen Charms, never would have made Mother of the Year. Child Services knew the house better than the mailman. Having a child at fifteen might have been the best thing that ever happened to Stacy, but being a teen mom hadn’t been top of Gayleen’s list of career choices. Gayleen had wanted to be a dancer. She wanted to live in the big city under the bright lights.
From the minute Stacy was born she knew she’d been the biggest mistake Gayleen ever made, that she’d ruined her mother’s life. Fourteen years of being made to feel like trash finally made life on the streets a way more attractive prospect. Which was why Stacy had run away.
Standing here now, the place looked no different—same crappy house with the same dirty white paintwork, same clutter all over the front porch, same broken railing her mother still hadn’t fixed in all the time she’d lived here. One of the conditions of Stacy’s release was that she must live at this address for a minimum period of six months.
Like hell.
Stacy didn’t intend staying six minutes.
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Last Seen Leaving
PROLOGUE
AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND
The Mercedes SL Coupe was the first thing Frank saw as he stepped into the motel lobby. He’d just checked his airline ticket, looked up and there it was, sitting across the street all shiny and sleek and black with windows tinted up to here, and a V12 motor rumbling like distant thunder. In a crappy little motel in a crappy little South Auckland neighborhood, a car like that was hard to miss.
Frank would have bet his six-figure salary it was the same one he’d seen in the rear-view mirror earlier that day. The same one that had been shadowing him for weeks.
The girl behind the reception counter looked up from her magazine and gave him a toothy grin as he closed the office door. “Hi, Mr. Spinelli. What can I do for you?”
Frank dropped his bag on the floor, fished his credit card out of his pocket and slid it across the counter while he checked over his shoulder again. “I’m checking out. Don’t worry about the receipt.”
“We’ll be sorry to see you go,” she said as she keyed a password into the computer and found his account. She stabbed a series of keys and put his card through while he glanced back at the window again. It was 8 p.m. and dark. All he could see was himself and the girl reflected in the glass.
“Thank you, Mr. Spinelli,” she said, ripping the receipt from the printer and casting it into the waste paper basket. “I hope you had a nice stay in New Zealand. I s’pose you’re off back to New York again.”
“Yeah,” he said absently and tucked his card back into his pocket. “Listen, that car out front …”
“Out where?” she said and leaned to look around him.
“The black SL coupe.”
Her expression clouded over.
“The black one out there—the little sports car. It’s been parked out front for an hour or so.”
“Oh, that one. Yeah, I saw it earlier. That’s a really nice car.”
“You know who it belongs to?”
She frowned and shook her head. “Sorry. You want me to ask around?”
“No, don’t worry about it.” He took his car keys from his jacket pocket and picked up his bag.
Outsi
de, the road was clear, streetlights showing an empty space where the Mercedes SL Coupe had been. He walked across the lot to the Toyota he had rented two weeks ago, unlocked the door and tossed his bag in the back. Just as he went to get in, the Mercedes reappeared, cruising slowly past the entrance to the lot with the engine purring like a big cat.
Frank’s pulse picked up a notch. He got into the car, hit the ignition and locked all the doors. When he checked the rear-view mirror, the car was back. He watched the headlights sweep across the road as it swerved in a U-turn. The driver hit the gas with a squeal of tires and the car took off like a scalded panther.
“Shit,” Frank said. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
The only reason he’d come to New Zealand was a mothballed A-4 Skyhawk. Was it his life’s ambition to own the thing? Not exactly. Frank had no intention of buying a plane. He was a software engineer who happened to be an enthusiast. Russ Newbold from Warbirds Forever had called him up, told him the plane was the opportunity of a lifetime. Told him the museum needed this plane. It was one of seventeen McDonnell Douglas A-4 Skyhawk fighter planes being sold by the New Zealand Government, and all of a sudden, Frank had to see it for himself.
It wasn’t until he arrived in New Zealand and saw it that he knew he was in love. Standing right there under the nose, he knew he had to buy it.
But that wasn’t the end of the love affair. Seemed like it just got better and better. Just before the disassembly crew arrived to pack it into the shipping containers to send back to the States, he spotted something in the cockpit, tucked down by the pilot’s seat.
Anyone else might have missed it. Hell, he might have missed it. But the instant he’d opened it out, he knew what he was looking at. All of a sudden, dollar bills were flashing across his line of vision. When he realized the sales agent was staring at him, Frank rolled up the papers and tucked them into his brief case. After a final inspection of the contract and a few veiled questions, he was convinced he was the only one who knew about the papers, the only one who knew the potential they held. Potential only someone like Frank could build on.
[Elizabeth McClaine 03.0] A Stolen Woman Page 32
