“At least you’ve still got your sense of humor.” He shot me a tight smile. “Give me a minute, will you? I need to think.”
Stephen rose from the chair, walked over to the shuttered window and stood there a long moment, peering out.
When he was done contemplating, he extracted his cell phone from the pocket of his tweed jacket and excused himself from the room.
I glanced at Cissy, who seemed not at all disturbed by his behavior, but instead continued sipping her tea, pinky extended in the manner of well-bred ladies.
I caught my hands between my knees, determined to rein in my impatience, wanting to remind them both that the clock was ticking.
It was nearly noon, and I had but another twelve hours to figure out what to do or Brian might not live to see tomorrow.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood, and still I stayed cool, didn’t scream, ignored the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the noise infinitely magnified.
Just when I thought I couldn’t stand another moment more, Stephen reappeared in the den, closing the door behind him. He came around the sofa and paused across the coffee table from where I sat.
“I think I know how we can handle this without anyone getting hurt,” he said. “I’ve got a few things to take care of with an old buddy who used to be a Treasury man, so give me an hour or two, and I’ll be back. These people—whoever they are—don’t sound like seasoned criminals, or else they’d be asking for wire transfers to accounts in the Caymans, not cash.” He rubbed his jaw. “They also wouldn’t ask for ‘Benjamins,’ Andy. That’s Hollywood’s idea of a ransom. The denomination’s too large. They sound like greedy SOBs who spotted an opportunity and figured they’d bleed a local heiress for a chunk of her trust fund without anyone getting hurt.”
Seasoned criminals or not, they had my boyfriend and weren’t going to let him go until I paid them off. Which meant I had to get my hands on a lot of greenbacks. Local heiress that I was, I still didn’t have 212,000 bucks at home in my cookie jar.
“So what about the money?” I asked him, thinking maybe I should get my portfolio manager on the horn and order him to dump some stocks pronto.
“I’ve got that covered, Andy. Trust me.”
“Where’ll you get that kind of cash?” Had the caffeine in the Earl Grey made him dizzy? “You plan on breaking into the Treasury?”
I was joking, but Stephen didn’t laugh.
“Something like that,” he said, like a man with a secret.
“Hang tight until I’m back. Can you do that?”
Like I had the strength left to fight.
I sighed and told him, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Really, what choice did I have?
Chapter 15
Stephen left the house soon after, telling us only that he needed to work out his part of the
plan, and his part had to be the most difficult, by far, though my job—waiting for the next phone call—
sounded a lot easier than it was.
Before he split, Mother’s beau did his best to calm my nerves, telling me not to worry about the cash, to concentrate on the phone call and anything I could remember about it.
I wondered if we could tape the next conversation, or trace it, but Stephen had explained that without some kind of spy gear to pick up the signal, there wasn’t much chance of recording anything; and if they used another pay phone, it wouldn’t give us much to go on anyway. So I was to pay attention, write down any instructions they gave me, and stay put at Cissy’s until he returned from his mission.
I didn’t argue with him, though we did have a brief debate about getting the police involved. Stephen was of the notion that the cops could handle such a situation discreetly, but I didn’t have the same kind of faith, not after the morning’s session with Starsky and Hutch. They were foaming at the mouth in their eagerness to interrogate Brian about Trayla’s death. They hadn’t listened to me then, so why should I think they’d believe me about this?
They’d likely assume I was trying to distract them from looking at Brian as a murder suspect.
Besides, the voice on the phone had said “no cops,” and I wasn’t going to cross the bad guys, whoever they were.
So far as I was concerned, this was all too real, and I wasn’t even thinking in terms of a hoax.
I mean, seriously, who was warped enough to pretend to have kidnapped someone? Weren’t there easier ways to get money? Say, robbing a bank? Hooking a chain around an ATM and dragging it from the bumper of a rusty pickup truck?
I was doing my best to ponder the “who” part of the equation, as in who would have taken Brian? And why?
Unless it had always been about the ransom. But, if it were, why had they waited more than a day to call?
Stephen had surmised that the kidnappers were well aware of who I was and the fact that I hadn’t exactly sprung from impoverished roots. “My God, Andy, anyone who Googles your name will see the word ‘heiress’ pop up over and over,” he’d said. “It’s not a secret that you come from privilege.”
Yet another black mark against my being raised in “the bubble” of Highland Park. If I’d come from po’ folks, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
“But why not take me instead?” I’d asked, jerking my chin toward Cissy. “Mother would’ve paid far more than two hundred thousand to get me back. They could’ve asked for fifty million, and she would’ve ponied up.” I met her eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”
Pregnant pause.
“Mother?”
“Of course I would, sweetheart, whatever they wanted,” she’d assured me, after my heart skipped a beat as she hesitated, like she’d needed the chance to stop and consider it.
It was great to know where I stood.
Yeesh.
“There’d be less press interest with grabbing Malone,” Stephen had explained. “And he’s the perfect form of leverage. The man you love. Someone could have been following you and Brian for a while, figuring out a time to nick him when he was alone.”
Like when he’d taken off backstage after Trayla?
Which had me pretty well convinced she’d been the bait that had gotten him snagged. Though why had he chased her in the first place? Okay, she was pretty enough, from what I’d glimpsed in the snapshot taped to her dressing room mirror, and she was plenty stacked. But it’s not like pretty girls weren’t a dime a dozen in Big D, and most of them didn’t take off their clothes for cash.
There was something big I was missing, and I hadn’t an inkling what that was.
Besides, why would they kill Trayla if she was part of the scheme? Because it didn’t sound like a logical ending.
Unless she’d flubbed up somehow or had threatened to go to the cops. Was she behind his call to me? But why the fictional breakup message? To make sure I was really his girl? To confirm it was my number?
Something about that felt wrong, but I wasn’t sure what.
I still had too many questions and was sorely lacking in the answer department.
“If they wanted to keep the press out of it, they’re doing a piss-poor job,” I’d suggested to Stephen, “what with the police finding his car parked at Love Field with a dead girl in the trunk.”
I cringed as the image of a figure wrapped in tarp flashed into my head.
“Probably why they contacted you when they did, Andy. Somehow, they screwed up and the girl was killed, so they covered their butts by pointing the finger at Brian, only now the police are looking for him, too. Whoever snatched him must’ve realized they’d better do the cash exchange pronto, hoping you’d be compliant and they could grab the money and clear out before they attracted the attention of the boys in blue.”
Okay, I’d buy that.
It was as good a reason as any, I supposed. Though I couldn’t say I felt better, knowing the bad guys had taken Brian instead of me. Malone was a great guy. I couldn’t imagine him harming a flea, much
less a human being, so it drove a knife in my heart, thinking he was afraid or even injured.
How could anyone do anything so awful as to kidnap another human being?
I just didn’t get it.
But I’d grown up in a sheltered world, one pretty much devoid of ugliness, so I was having trouble grasping the situation.
I felt a little like I had when my father died, as though someone had pushed the Pause button on my life, and I couldn’t see past the hurt of the moment. I couldn’t laugh, couldn’t smile, because inside I was numb, too stunned to do much of anything.
Maybe that was how we dealt with pain and grief, by temporarily suspending our emotions and our daily routine, by zoning out so that our minds and hearts didn’t have to process the devastation and fear. Otherwise, how could we go on?
“Andy.”
A soft voice drew me out of my maudlin meanderings.
“Please, child, you have to eat something,” Sandy Beck, my fairy godmother, urged, as I hadn’t touched the tuna sandwich she’d made me for lunch.
“I’m trying,” I told her, and forced myself to take a nibble as Mother watched with her eagle eyes from across the table.
Tuna was normally a favorite of mine—despite my dislike for most fish—but I had little appetite at the moment.
It was difficult to eat and think at the same time when I had so much on my mind.
There was something I needed to do, and I’d been avoiding it. I had the address book I’d taken from Malone’s desk, opened to the page with his parents’ phone information on it, and I had Mother’s portable phone in hand, only I had to work myself up to it, because I had no earthly idea what
I’d say.
Had the police called them already? Were they packing their bags and heading to the airport to fly from St. Louis to Dallas?
Or would I be their first-alert, the alarm bell that caused their hearts to stop when I told them their son was in serious trouble?
I couldn’t decide which was worse.
“If it were me, would you want Malone to call you?” I asked Cissy, and told her what I aimed to do.
“Yes,” she said. “I would.”
Which gave me a much needed nudge, although I still wasn’t all-fired certain what I’d say.
I sucked it up and dialed the ten-digit number for Chesterfield, Missouri, holding my breath as I counted one ring then two.
When I caught the click of the line being picked up, I braced myself for a motherly tone, chirping, “Hello, Malone residence.”
But I quickly realized I had their voice mail, and it wasn’t a woman but a soothing male voice that delivered the message:
“Sorry we can’t take your call, but we’re on a retreat.
No TV, no laptops, no phones, just a lot of love and heavy petting. If you need to reach us, Pam’s holding the fort at the office and she’ll help you till we’re back. Until then, woof-woof and ciao.”
Woof-woof and ciao? Love and heavy petting?
What was going on there in the St. Louis suburbs?
Sounded kinky enough for Maury Povich.
I guess I could’ve written down the office number delivered after the greeting, but I didn’t. Instead, I hung up as fast as I could, relieved that my first communication with Malone’s parents wouldn’t be about his dire circumstances.
My mother gave me a look. “Well?” she said.
“They’re out of town,” I told her. “On some kind of retreat with no phones, TVs, or laptops.”
“Maybe it’s for the best.”
I nodded, hoping Malone would return, clear things up with the cops, and get his life back in order before his parents came back from their trip and learned that anything had ever been wrong.
“Would you like a piece of pie, Andy?” Sandy asked, getting up from the table and clearing our plates, though no one had done much eating. “I’ve got some apple left from one I baked this weekend.”
“No, but thanks.” What I needed was something Sandy couldn’t warm up in the oven.
I had my cell phone on the table, and I stared at it, my concentration so intense I jumped out of my skin when it actually rang.
Cissy let out an audible gasp, pushing a pad of paper and pencil in my direction as I snatched up my cell and flipped it open, my pulse pounding ferociously. I didn’t bother to catch the number on the screen, knowing in my bones it was them, the bad guys. I could sense the evil emanating through the receiver as I breathed a wary, “Hello?”
“Kendricks? Where the hell are you? ’Cuz you’re obviously not home.”
Damn.
It was evil all right, just not the kind I’d expected.
“No, Allie, I’m not home,” I said, my anxiety rerouting in another direction entirely. “I’m at my mother’s. What do you want, and make it fast. I’m waiting for another call, and it’s important.”
I shook my head, and Mother settled back into her chair. Sandy went over to the sink to rinse dishes.
“I went by your condo during my lunch hour, and Channel 8 is on to you, Nancy Drew. Their van has your place staked out, and it probably won’t be long until others show up on your doorstep. The helmet-haired reporter was interviewing some woman in curlers and fuzzy slippers.”
“Crap,” I let slip, knowing exactly who that was. My upstairs neighbor Penny George, better known as Cissy’s snitch. I was sure she’d donned her best velour warm-up suit for the occasion and could hardly contain her giddiness as she’d confessed to all that she often saw Malone’s red Acura—in which the dead stripper had been found—parked in front of my place.
Could I hope that she rotted in Hell, even if she went to Bible study with my mother? Or was that an offense punishable by a lightning strike?
I groaned, wishing the reporter had talked to Charlie Tompkins, my next door neighbor instead. He was a good ol’ Texas boy, loyal to a fault. He would’ve lied if he’d thought it would help me or Brian.
“I didn’t see your Jeep,” Allie continued, seemingly oblivious to any noises I made. “So I figured you were hiding out somewhere quieter.”
“I’m not hiding out. I just didn’t want to be alone.
There’s—” I hesitated, not certain of how much I felt like sharing. “—a lot going on.”
“I’ll say,” she piped up. “Your condo’s not the only hot zone. Don’t you want to know the latest from ARGH?”
“I’m kind of busy here,” I told her, wanting to get her off the line, though I did have call waiting. Still, I was hardly in the mood for chitchat with Attila the Blonde, despite our strange bonding of late.
“You’re not curious about the fresh scoop on Malonegate?”
Malonegate?
This mess had a nickname?
“Go on.” I rubbed my forehead.
“Abramawitz is on to the missing docs,” she said without waiting for my answer. “For the Oleksiy case,” she explained, in case I’d forgotten, which I had. “I tried to cover for Brian, apologized to Old Abe and mumbled about leaving them at home. I called the prosecutor’s office to get another copy of the updated witness list after I got bawled out big-time, but it’s better than Bri getting fired.
Guess he thought he’d have it back by this morning before anyone noticed, though he didn’t quite make it, did he?
Goes to prove your theory, doesn’t it?”
“Which theory was that?” I’d come up with several variations on the “Malone is missing” theme, so I had no idea which she meant.
“Duh, that Brian’s an innocent bystander in this ballooning disaster.” She sounded impatient, which seemed pretty much her usual tone of voice. “Look, I know he didn’t have anything to do with that woman’s death. When we were together, he used to scoop up spiders in Kleenex and deposit
them outside, because he couldn’t stand to squash them.
No way could he hurt a woman, much less bean her to death with a golf club. Particularly with
one of his golf clubs. I know how he loves his precious set of Calloways.”
The cockles of my heart felt suddenly warm and toasty, despite her reference to homicide.
“You believe me?”
“My source at the DPD said the woman found in Brian’s trunk wasn’t just clobbered with a Big Bertha, her skull was fractured and her face was beaten so badly it looked like pulp. Someone didn’t just want her dead, Andy. This was superpersonal.”
“My God.”
I was truly thankful that I hadn’t eaten the tuna sandwich.
My stomach curdled at the thought of such violence, of anyone being brutalized like that, though it convinced me like never before that Malone had nothing to do with the woman’s death.
“I take back everything bad I said about Brian,” Allie went on, and I could do little more than listen and blink. “I can’t sit on the sidelines. Hell, this has gone too far already.
I need to prove Malone’s not a killer.”
“You’re serious?” Wow. I was stunned, but oddly grateful.
I would take all the help I could get, considering the sum total of my posse was my mother and her boyfriend.
Not exactly the A-Team, was it?
“I want to peek into Brian’s office, though I have to wait until the coast is clear, as it’s the center of attention right now. I have to tell you, Kendricks, the more I think about what Brian was doing on Friday, the more I wonder if whatever he’s caught up in is somehow related to Oleksiy.
Only, I don’t know the connection yet. Give me some time, and I’ll figure it out.”
Time?
It was less than twelve hours until midnight.
I didn’t have much to spare.
I glanced at my mother, reminded of her remarks from hours earlier: Surely he’s dealt with his share of lowlifes . . . Murderers, killers, rapists, kidnappers, embezzlers, and child molesters. Could be that one of them wasn’t happy with his work.
“So you think this might have to do with the witness list?” I asked, to get it clear in my mind.
“Could be.”
“You think someone on it wanted to hurt Brian?” The words popped out of my mouth before I could censor them. “Why?”
Night of the Living Deb Page 15
