by Carolyn Hart
Heavy footsteps clumped over the matting. Annie felt an iron grip on her arm.
Emma’s deep-as-a-cavern voice barked, “This isn’t doing Max any good.”
Slowly Annie opened her eyes, looked up into Emma’s scowling square face, corrugated as ill-set cement. Do Max good? What could possibly make any difference now? He’d been missing for more than twenty-four hours….
Emma loosed her grip on Annie. “I’ve got information.” Emma patted the huge woven purse hanging over her shoulder. “There’s enough here to convince me they’ll find Max and find him alive. More about that in a minute. Now, here’s what I’ve done. For starters, I’ve called that good-looking young trial lawyer over in Chastain, the one who’s won all those malpractice suits. He takes high-profile criminal cases, too. He’s becoming a legend in his own time and richer than a courtroom of CEOs. Butter won’t melt, but he’s tougher than rawhide. Handler Jones, that’s his name. He’s on his way. Max is going to need him. And I have some photos of the victim.”
“Alive? You think Max is alive?” Annie came to her feet. “Emma, what have you got?”
Emma nodded approval. “That’s better. Get your dander up. All right, here’s how I see it. We know Max didn’t kill that girl. Right?” She was Emma at her most assured.
Annie sat bolt upright, eyes now wide and determined. “Of course we know that.”
Emma’s smile was satisfied. “Exactly. Since he’s innocent, he had no reason to run away. If he was going to be killed, there would be no point in taking him somewhere else. Say it was supposed to look like murder-suicide—”
Annie’s insides lurched.
“—he’d be dead in that cabin. So, he wasn’t killed. What happened to him? The fact that he disappeared means the murderer took him somewhere. Why?” Her heavy shoulders lifted and fell. “Obviously, the intent is to make Max the scapegoat. Therefore, Max will be found. He has to turn up for that plan to work.”
Emma’s bald pronouncement was like a jolt of pure oxygen, whistling through Annie’s mind with electrifying speed and effect. Max was alive. Of course he was alive. If his death had been planned, his body would have been found in his car or in that cabin. Max didn’t commit murder, so he hadn’t run away. That meant he’d been taken away. But how could…Annie’s eyes widened. “Billy said Max was drunk when he and that girl left Dooley’s Mine. I knew that was crazy. But now I see. He must have been drugged.”
“Yesss!” The word cracked like a dragon smacking his tail. “That fits right in. Maybe he had a beer and someone dropped Ecstasy or one of those other street drugs in it. That would make him appear drunk. If he passed out, he could be hauled away. And”—Emma glowed with self-approval—“I’ve got more proof. Gilt-edged. Incontrovertible. “She rustled in her bag, found a notepad, flipped over several pages. “I talked to Mavis. Bloodhounds searched the vicinity of the crime scene tonight after smelling one of Max’s T-shirts.” Emma’s blue eyes glinted with satisfaction. “I scrounged around your house and found a T-shirt in the laundry hamper. I gave it to Mavis. I knew it was the thing to do. Here’s the payoff. The dogs found no trace of a trail from Max’s car to the cabin and no trail leaving the clearing. That means Max was never in the cabin and he left in a car. Whose car?” The last was almost a purr.
Annie reached out, clutched a strong, stubby hand. “Emma, you’re wonderful.”
Emma was never modest. She nodded in agreement, gave Annie’s hand a squeeze, pulled free. “I simply thought it through just as Marigold would have. Now—”
Annie had always been irritated by Emma’s habit of referring to her mystery sleuth Marigold Rembrandt as if she were alive. At this moment, Annie didn’t care. All she cared about was the path that Emma had chopped through the impossible thicket of facts: Max and a woman, the woman dead, Max gone, Max’s tire tool the probable murder weapon.
“—we have to get to work. There are going to be dark days ahead. So, when did you eat?”
Annie was startled by the unexpected demand. “A while ago.”
“Not recently enough obviously.” Once again Emma delved into her bag, brought out a sack, handed it to Annie. “Sit at the table.” It was an order.
Annie found herself at the kitchen table. The sack was warm in her hand. In a moment, she was unfolding the wrapper from a fried flounder sandwich heavy on tartar sauce, one of the specials at Parotti’s Bar and Grill. It was a feast, the sandwich on crusty French bread, sides of cole slaw, baked beans, and corn pudding. Annie realized she was ravenous. Max alive…She took a huge bite and nothing had ever tasted better than the succulent white fish in just the right amount of crispy batter.
Emma bustled to the refrigerator. “I’ll bet Ingrid stocked the fridge. Ah, here we are.” Emma brought two cans of Pepsi to the table, settled opposite Annie.
Annie picked up a napkin to wipe away a dollop of tartar sauce and saw a scrawl in pencil: Annie, We’re looking everywhere. Ben and Jolene.
She felt a quick sheen of tears, happy tears. As she ate, she felt strength returning, born of food and hope and friendship.
Emma pulled several folders from her oversize purse. “I went by the Gazette.” She reached into her purse, brought out her cell phone, placed it on the table. “Vince will call us when they find Max. Vince got the victim ID from Billy. Here are some printouts of the pix and story.” She pushed the computer sheets toward Annie. “Her name’s Vanessa Taylor. Twenty-three years old. Secretary to—”
Annie looked at the photographs as Emma talked. The first was a studio portrait, dark sultry eyes and high cheekbones and richly red lips in an oval face framed by shoulder-length hair dark and shiny as crow feathers. Thinks she’s a hottie. Annie’s judgment was swift and cold. The thought was followed by a sickening twist of remorse. Vanessa was dead. The promise of passion so evident in that photograph was forever lost. Annie shouldn’t be judgmental. The retort in her mind was swift. Oh yes she should. She had to know everything about Vanessa Taylor: what she’d wanted from life, what she’d taken, what she’d given. Somewhere in Vanessa’s past lay the answer to Vanessa’s murder and Max’s disappearance.
“—Lillian Dodd. You may know her. She’s been president of the Iris Society and she’s on the board of—”
Annie looked at more pictures. A snapshot on a tennis court caught Vanessa as she raised her racquet for an overhead smash. She looked intent, strong and athletic. Her tennis dress fit a little too snugly, emphasizing a voluptuous body. In a photograph of a garden, Vanessa stood next to a distinguished-looking older woman. Vanessa wore a lovely yellow linen sleeveless dress with a scalloped neck. Annie checked the caption. …philanthropist Lillian Dodd and her secretary Vanessa Taylor at the ribbon-cutting ceremony… Lillian Dodd’s long, elegant face had a look of pleasant command. Her violet silk dress had the aura of style and wealth.
“—of several charities.”
Annie shook her head. “I’ve heard of Lillian Dodd. I don’t know her.”
“How about Vanessa?” Emma’s gaze was intent.
“No. We didn’t know her.” We. She and Max. The two of them. Billy Cameron thought Max was on a date. How could Billy believe that? Max had gone out to help a client. Max, where are you? What happened to you? Annie’s mind teetered on the edge of the black abyss of despair that had claimed her until Emma had come, insistent that Max was alive. Oh God, please let him be alive….
Every step was an effort. Max strained to see. He was on the road but it was dark as a closet. Only an occasional shaft of moonlight found a break in the canopy of the trees. His legs were wobbly and occasionally he stopped to shake. Sick. He still felt sick. Mosquitoes whined. He swatted no-see-ums, heard rustling in the undergrowth. There might be a fox or cougar. One foot after another…
The darkness and his wretched awakening in the strange cabin, the blood on his shirt and the hot night—it was all a nightmare that didn’t end. He didn’t know where he was or what had happened to him, but he was caught up in somethi
ng dreadful. He had to find Annie. When he found Annie, everything would be all right. If he kept on going, surely there would be some habitation. He could ask for help.
Suddenly he stopped to listen and realized dully that he’d been hearing a yelp of dogs for some time, and muffled shouts. The sounds came nearer and louder. The baying of hounds reached a crescendo.
Running feet thudded. Flashlight beams stabbed through the night, pointing high and low, swinging back and forth, coming together in a blaze of light to converge on him. Before, there had been darkness. Now a brilliant circle surrounded him.
Blinded by the stark beams, Max squinted, shielded his eyes with one hand, took a step back before the onslaught. Hounds yelped and snuffled around him. Shouts rose. “That’s him…Max Darling…that’s him.”
“Hands up,” came a shrill cry. “Police officer. You are wanted on suspicion of murder.”
Billy Cameron’s face crinkled in surprise and relief. “You got him?” He listened. “No shirt, just a tee?…Where’d you find him?…Yeah. Straight here.” He clicked off the phone. Strange as hell. None of it made sense. First thing would be to talk to Max, get his story. The lights flickered on his phone like fireflies. He didn’t have to check caller ID to identify the callers. The mayor. The media. First things first. Maybe Max could come up with an explanation. But the tire tool and the girl hanging onto him…Billy sighed. He stood, squared his shoulders.
“…by tomorrow we’ll have dossiers on Vanessa and all the people she knew. From what I’ve discovered at this point—”
“Beer Barrel Polka” blared from Emma’s shapeless purse. She reached inside, pulled out her cell phone. She glanced at the caller ID number.
Somehow Annie knew. She felt as if there were nothing anywhere but the blue-eyed woman holding a cell phone, taking a call that might spell the end to happiness and love and dreams.
Emma held the phone for a frozen instant, long enough for another bar of raucous music to sound, long enough for Annie to put out a hand as if to catch herself from tumbling into emptiness.
Emma clicked on the cell.
Annie waited without breath, without movement, her world hanging in the balance.
Emma’s face split in a triumphant smile. She covered the mouthpiece, “Max is alive! Vince just got word from one of the search parties.” She listened, nodded. “Where are they taking him?”
Annie felt as if she’d stepped from the depths of darkness to a pinnacle of light. Her heart sang. She jumped to her feet, grabbed her cell, punched automatic dial for Laurel, and started for the door.
Wrists manacled, Max jolted in the back of the police car as it sped, lurching around curves, siren blaring. Murder? He’d thought the nightmare couldn’t worsen. And there’d been no answer when he demanded to know what had happened. Whose murder? Where? Nausea swelled in his throat as he remembered pink staining his fingers and the sticky patch on his shirt and the smell of blood. Oh God, what had happened during the dark hours he couldn’t remember?
“The street’s jammed.” Not even Emma’s Rolls-Royce could make headway in the gridlock near the harbor. “I’d say the word’s out and every news outlet from here to L.A. is on hand. We’ll never get through.”
“I’ll get through.” Nothing was going to stand in Annie’s way. Not now. Max was safe. She didn’t give a thought to Vince’s report that Max was being taken to the police station for questioning. It only mattered that Max was alive. To see him, she’d fight her way through any crowd, brave the hordes of media, bang against the door of the police station, do what she had to do.
“…the back way. You don’t want them to get pictures of you.”
Annie reached for the handle. “I don’t care.”
Emma reached out and grabbed Annie. “Yes you do. The media will come up with pix of you, one way or another. That can’t be avoided. But we don’t want video that will make you easy to identify. Since you and Max didn’t know the victim, there’s a chance the murderer’s never met you or heard you speak. That could be an advantage for us.”
Annie wanted to tear herself away and find Max, but Emma’s crisp, cool pronouncement kept her in the car. …an advantage for us. Annie stared into Emma’s blue eyes, eyes that gleamed with a cold intelligence. Annie sank back into the seat and Emma released her grip. Annie wanted to bang out of the Rolls, run like the wind to the station, find Max, but she understood on a gut level that she had to listen to Emma.
“Max is in custody. I don’t know if he’s been arrested yet, but the evidence against him is staggering.” Emma was calm but emphatic.
Annie wanted to shout that an accusation against Max was absurd. He’d taken on an assignment, been caught up in something not of his making, but she remembered Billy’s grim gaze and the abandoned Jag with the bloodied tire tool in the open trunk. “Once he tells us what happened—”
Emma flapped a stubby hand in dismissal. “Perps always have a story. Cops look at evidence. That’s why he’ll likely be taken before a circuit court judge and charged with murder. I’m afraid it may be up to us to prove he’s innocent. Find out what Max knows. Call me on your cell when you leave the station. Here’s how you can get inside….”
Blinding lights from the television crews illuminated the front steps of the Broward’s Rock Police Station. Despite Lou Pirelli’s shouts through a bullhorn, a crowd of media and tourists attracted by the excitement jammed the sidewalk, overflowed onto the front lawn.
“Keep the walk clear. Back off.” Despite Lou’s roar, his voice was scarcely heard above the din of shouted questions, the shuffle of shoes on the street, and car horns. “Clear the walk.”
Annie was at the far edge of the crowd near a line of palmettos that screened the fenced area behind the station. Beyond the glare of the television, the crowd was a dark mass in the shadows. The only other illumination came from streetlamps spaced along the harbor-front and light spilling across the water from boat cabins. Annie edged behind the palms, intending to slip through the darkness to the back door. A rising murmur of expectation from the crowd kept her in place. A patrol car, red light whirling, turned the corner. The siren shrilled in short bursts and cars moved out of the way.
Annie watched, her heart thudding. The car stopped, lights still flashing. Someone in the crowd shouted, “He’s in the back seat.”
“Make way,” Lou’s voice boomed. Lou moved down the walk, gesturing for the onlookers to move back. At the curb, he opened the back door, reached inside.
Max came out of the seat, Lou’s hand firmly on his elbow. Flashlights flared. Max’s hair was tangled, his face unshaven. He looked exhausted and bewildered. His T-shirt and khakis were wrinkled and dirty. His hands were manacled in front.
Reporters surged forward, pressed around Lou and his prisoner. Harsh quick questions came from every side: “Did you kill her, Darling?” “What happened? Lovers’ quarrel?” “Who is she?” “How did you meet her?” “Were you drunk?”
“Max…” Annie mouthed his name. She balled her hands into tight fists. His pallor and the slight unsteadiness as he walked frightened her. His face was sunken. What had they done to him? She tried to move into the crowd, found the way barred by bulky stubborn bodies. She had to reach him.
“Out of the way,” Lou roared. “Get back or be arrested for interfering with officers in discharge of their duty.”
Max stared out at the crowd, eyes squinting against the harsh lights. The thin redheaded policewoman was at one side, Lou at the other.
Annie felt sick and furious. Damn them. Damn them all.
The reporters’ shouted questions were louder. “Why’d you kill her? Was she trying to blackmail you?” “Was she trying to break up with you?” “Where’d you hide?”
Annie felt crushed by sweaty bodies pressing toward the sidewalk. She shouldn’t have tried to get through. Emma had told her what to do. Annie struggled to turn around. She jabbed and poked, ignoring startled cries, and reached the outskirts of the crowd. She dar
ted across the uneven ground to the palmettos and ducked behind them. No one paid attention to her. Every eye looked toward the front steps of the station. Annie ran, sweating in the hot August night. She fell once, tumbling over a palm frond lying on the ground.
She stayed in the shadow of the palms when she reached the rear of the building. A huge light illuminated the back door and the narrow concrete porch. She looked toward the Sound. Once she neared the steps, she would be as visible as a moth impaled on a pin. Anyone on a boat would be able to see her. But it was her only chance.
Emma’s instructions had been precise. “Go in the back entrance. Act like you belong.”
Annie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. She walked briskly up the sidewalk as if she were staff and on her way to work. She felt neon conspicuous in the apple green cotton sweater and white capri pants she’d put on without thought this morning. She hardly looked official. But who would care about someone entering the back with a captive Max on view to the world on the front steps? The circus always drew the crowd, and the circus was in front of the station. Fragments of thought roiled in her mind…. Max looked awful…How had Emma gotten the code to the keypad on the back door? Did
she get the right code? Would it work? If it worked and Annie got inside, what was she going to do? Oh, Max, Max…
Annie climbed the steps, punched the numbers: one-three-five-seven. She grabbed the metal handle, pulled. The door swung out. Annie slipped inside, shut it behind her. She rested against the cold metal panel, drawing in deep gulps of air. She stood in a cement-floored corridor between two empty cells. Dim lights burned high in each cell. Each unoccupied windowless cell contained a metal bunk with a thin mattress, a toilet, and a washbasin. No sound penetrated the thick walls. Silence surrounded her, an oppressive silence compounded by the dim lighting, stale air, and waiting cells. Ahead was another steel door like the one behind her. Both doors were controlled by keypads.
