Victor nodded, assessing Lucas’ tone of voice. Neutral, not friendly but not hostile like Rizzo. He decided to push it. “What’d you find out about the mugger? Was anyone able to identify him? Did you check at the homeless shelter or the Lincoln Center to see if they’d treated anyone with cat scratches?”
“You were a Master at Arms in the Navy, I understand, and you’ve done your own fair share of detective work,” Lucas said. “So you know not to mess with another agency’s active investigation. Too many cooks spoil the soup, and all that.”
“I can’t just do nothing. If Layla’s still alive, she’s wounded. Probably badly from all the blood at the scene. And she needs her insulin. Time is critical.”
“Yes, we understand that. Time is always critical in a kidnapping.” When Victor didn’t reply, Lucas said, “You’re a civilian now. Go home. Let us do our job.”
Victor stepped away from the back door and headed toward his truck. He didn’t need to turn around to know Lucas was watching him. But if Lucas thought he was going home and do nothing, the man wasn’t much of a detective.
* * *
To my relief, I see Victor trotting down the sidewalk, heading toward the police car. Okay, this is going to be fun. With a quick leap, and a press of the right switch, I turn the siren on. Victor spins around to stare at the vehicle—along with several others. I jump up on the top of the headrest, press my face against the window, and scratch the glass.
For once Victor understands exactly what to do. In a cracking good move, he races to the car, tries the door, finds it’s unlocked—thanks to my earlier actions—and opens it. I hop out, give him a very hasty leg rub, and take off at a fast clip. I doubt Rizzo and Kelly will be amused about the siren, so I think it best that Victor and I both be gone in case the detectives become mad as a bag of wet ferrets over the whole escapade.
* * *
Victor and Trouble raced down the sidewalk, away from the empty patrol car. The siren was still blaring, and no doubt Rizzo and Lucas would be hot-footing it back to their vehicle. Victor turned a corner and ducked down a narrow side street, Trouble keeping pace beside him. The cat looked supremely proud of himself, and Victor laughed.
“So that’s where you’ve been.” Victor didn’t pause to pet the cat as he hurried. He didn’t want Lucas accusing him of turning on the siren, and no one would believe the cat did it. Victor didn’t quite believe that himself.
Once they were out of range of the detectives, Victor bent down and petted Trouble. “You know I looked all over the neighborhood for you. And there you were, cruising with Rizzo and Kelly.” He should be fussing at the cat, but instead he found he was glad for Trouble’s company. And he was still amazed and amused at Trouble for somehow turning the siren on.
Trouble purred, and looked at Victor with something like a grin.
“All right, buddy, you’re with me now, but let me tell Abby I’ve got you safe and sound. Then into my house for you until Abby can come get you. No more wandering around.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Just a quick visit. Nothing important.” Abby didn’t drop her gaze as Detective Kelly studied her with an intense, cross-examination glare. She had called him about Jennifer’s visit, and he had rushed right over to the law firm.
“Did you hear what they said? If not, how do you know it wasn’t important?” The detective pushed an inch closer to Abby, invading her personal space to the point she stepped back from him.
“I think you’d have to ask Jennifer. I really don’t know.” Abby stopped retreating and squared her shoulders, but all she wanted to do was go home and develop a plan for finding Layla—with Victor’s help, of course.
“When exactly was this visit?” The man wasn’t letting go.
Abby frowned, trying to remember exactly. “Around 8:30 or so.”
“The night Layla disappeared?”
“Yes.”
Detective Kelly narrowed his eyes as if puzzling through the information or preparing for further cross-examination. “And you didn’t tell me about this because…why?”
Abby gave up any pretense of having just forgotten. “I promised Layla I wouldn’t tell.”
The detective scribbled something in his notebook and stared once more at Abby. “Anything else you forgot…or promised not to tell?”
“No. Really. Detective Kelly, that’s all.” Abby felt embarrassed and ashamed. She’d broken a promise, and she’d probably made herself look more like a suspect than before.
“Call me Lucas.” He tapped his pen against the notebook, a slight frown on his face. “You wouldn’t happen to know Layla’s password on Facebook? Or her email?”
“Of course not.” Abby frowned. Hadn’t she mentioned several times that she and Layla were not close friends?
The office door opened a crack. “Abby?”
She recognized the sweet voice of Phillip’s administrative assistant, Mary, a lovely older woman with a gentle grandmotherly look and voice, but with a memory just short of Guinness Book of Records.
Before Abby even answered the woman, Mary said—in a tone of voice clearly an order—“Mr. Draper wants to see you. Right now.”
Sighing, Abby nodded at Lucas.
“We’re done, for now,” the detective said.
A moment later, Abby followed Mary down the hallway to Phillip’s palatial office with its classic men’s club decor. Abby stopped the moment her feet hit the edge of the thick Persian rug. She caught herself just before she gasped at Phillip. His head was bowed, his tie was askew, and his shoulders slumped. When Mary announced Abby—as if Phillip somehow hadn’t heard them come in—he looked up. His face was drawn and his eyes raw.
Abby had never seen him look anything but polished and assured.
“What am I going to do?” He looked at Abby as if sincerely seeking an answer, but she didn’t understand the question.
Mary pulled a carafe out of the small refrigerator and poured Phillip a glass of something clear. She didn’t offer Abby any. Mineral water or vodka, the liquid could have been either.
Phillip sipped.
Mary turned to Abby and explained. “Miss Freemont’s parents were scheduled to fly in today, but something came up at his office.” She paused, her expression a thinly disguised look of disgust. “They’re not coming.”
“They’re not coming to—” Abby stopped before she said something rude about Layla’s parents. Victor had told her that Layla hadn’t been close to either her mother or father. But still, this was their daughter and she’d been kidnapped or worse.
“Thank you, Mary.” Phillip set his glass down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—a gesture Abby couldn’t imagine her refined, appearance-conscious employer making.
Taking the hint, Mary left, closing the door gently behind her.
“I need your help.” Phillip looked at Abby with desperation in his eyes. “Since you and Layla are such close friends, perhaps she told you something, anything that might help us find her.” His voice had a slight quiver in it.
Abby shook her head. “Layla and I weren’t that close. It was just that a week or two in a hotel while they fixed her apartment sounded so unpleasant and I had a spare bedroom. It was just a spur of the moment thing that I invited her to—”
“So, she didn’t confide in you?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t know anything helpful about Layla. I didn’t even know she came from a wealthy family until this morning.”
Phillip leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Abby waited.
Just as it seemed Phillip had forgotten she was there, he spoke. “Her father and I were friends growing up and as young men. We’re still friends. As boys, both of us were….” He paused, opened his eyes, and sipped again from the clear liquid. “Well, you aren’t interested in my boyhood reminiscences.”
Actually, Abby was. This was all news to her that Layla’s father and Phillip had a strong connection. Perhaps that explained wh
y Layla had—what was Delphine’s word?—a “lock” on being hired as an associate. Emmett had never had a chance of being hired if that was the case.
But another thought pushed its way into Abby’s head. Victor said Abby’s father was in the oil industry in Houston. Phillip and Abby were working with Phillip’s oil company client on something about offshore drilling. Even Pam Bondi and the governor had mentioned something about offshore oil drilling.
Had Layla learned something she wasn’t supposed to know about oil and gas exploration in Florida? Could it in some way be connected to her father’s business?
“I’d like to hear about you and Layla’s family,” Abby said, trying to sound kind-hearted instead of rabidly curious.
Phillip gave her a feeble smile. She could see he was trying to pull himself together into the polished, controlled man she’d always known.
“Sometime when this ordeal is over, you, Layla, Jennifer, and I will all go for a quiet dinner and I’ll regale you all with stories of her father and me when we were just wild young fellows.” He hesitated, as if reluctant to speak further.
“I’d like that, sir.”
Phillip murmured, “Layla is my goddaughter. I can’t let anything happen to her.”
“Your goddaughter?” Abby tried to stifle the surprise in her voice.
“I shouldn’t have told you that. I need to keep that a secret. You understand? The others would think there is favoritism involved with her position at the firm.” Phillip gave Abby a penetrating look.
“Yes sir, it’s our secret.”
“Good then. I’ll trust you.” Once more Phillip sipped from the clear liquid Mary had poured him. “As you know, Jennifer and I were only blessed with our sons. Layla’s become like a real daughter to me. And…sadly, her own parents didn’t care much about her. They preferred their boys. They found her…defective. Because of the diabetes, and they —” Phillip stopped talking as he surely realized he shouldn’t be telling all this to Abby. He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a curt look.
Abby wanted to ask more, but she read his body language and kept quiet.
“Well now, if you don’t know anything that will help us find Layla, I guess we better get back to work.” Phillip’s voice had lost its earlier quiver.
Realizing he was dismissing her, Abby said her goodbyes and left.
As she stood in the hallway outside his door, she wondered what the odds were of finding any of Layla’s files. If she only had Layla’s laptop, but the police had succeeded in getting a warrant and seizing it.
Ah, but Layla saved everything to her pink flash drives. She’d been compulsive about it. All Abby had to do was find Layla’s stash of flash drives.
How hard could that be?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Victor drove cautiously. It would never do to get caught in a traffic stop reeking of beer and dressed like a homeless man, especially since he’d stuffed his best switchblade in his pocket for protection. He was satisfied with his disguise—dirty yard-work clothes and an old, smelly hoodie, topped off by splashing beer over his undershirt and squishing enough in his mouth that he smelled like he’d been doing some serious drinking. He’d stuffed his other pocket with ten dollar bills.
Of course, the dang cat had escaped while Victor had been perfecting his homeless person disguise, but the animal had proven he was street savvy. No doubt by now, Trouble was back at Abby’s lapping up cream. Victor vowed not to worry about Trouble, but to find the man who had mugged Layla.
Once near the homeless shelter in west Tallahassee, Victor parked several blocks away so he could wander among the raggedy men and women who roamed the streets near the shelter. The first man he approached was sitting on a curb, drinking from a soft drink can, and watching Victor approach with slitted, hostile eyes.
“Hey.” Victor reminded himself to slur his words. “I’m …looking for a…my buddy. Got himself scratched up by a cat, real bad. I owe him some money.”
“Your buddy got a name?”
“Yeah, but I…we were drinking. I forget.”
The man on the curb snorted and waved Victor off.
Victor approached several others, improving his questions as he went. But no one on the street knew anything about a homeless man with cat scratches on his face. Not ready to quit, Victor walked inside the shelter. Trying to blend in, he asked several others residents of the shelter. He even gave away a few of the tens, only to get answers that were useless.
Disappointed, he finally gave up and started back toward where he’d parked. Night was coming on, and the darkness only made Victor feel more desperate. How long could Layla last without her insulin? Had she already bled out from whatever wounds she’d endured? Or, had she simply been murdered there in the library basement and her body removed?
He was almost to his truck when he heard heavy footsteps approaching. Victor turned to the sound and saw a large man jogging toward him. Behind him, a smaller man huffed to keep up. Instinctively Victor reached down into his pocket for the switchblade, closing his fingers around the handle but keeping his hand inside the pocket. He stood still, allowing the two men to reach him.
“What you want with Dogman?” The shorter man’s voice was demanding and hostile.
“Praise be to the Lord,” the larger man said. “They call me Preacher.” His voice was pleasant. “Some of the brethren back at the shelter told me you were looking for an acquaintance of ours. Might we ask the nature of your concern?”
“I owe him some money.”
The little man pushed in front of Preacher and advanced on Victor. “You ain’t fooling me. You ain’t no homeless.”
Victor eased his fingers out his pocket. He sensed no danger from either man. For the moment, he wondered if the truth would work best. Often, it did.
“If Dogman is who I’m looking for, he mugged my friend the night before last, and now she’s been kidnapped. I want to ask him about the mugging. She’s got diabetes and I’ve got to find her quick or she’ll die.”
“Dogman ain’t no mugger and he damn sure ain’t no kidnapper. Man used to be a shoes salesman till the recession and drinking done him in.” The smaller man shook his head.
“As my friend here gave witness to, Dogman is not a bad person.” Preacher rocked back on his heels and raised his head to the night sky as if in prayer. Then he lowered his head until he stared Victor right in his eyes. “Dogman wouldn’t hurt your friend and he most assuredly wouldn’t kidnap her. His fondness for drink and street drugs was his undoing.”
“I still need to find him.” Victor reached into his pocket intending to pull out his last two ten-dollar bills. The gesture set off the shorter of the two men, and he jumped back and pulled out his own switchblade.
“Just wanted to offer you this for your time.” Victor pulled the bills free of his pocket with care and thrust the money at the men. “And if you’ll tell me more about Dogman. You saw scratches on his face?”
Snatching the money with his left hand, the little man never let down his guard or the knife. “Badass scratches. Said he got ‘em fighting with an old alley cat. That was yesterday morning. He ain’t been around since then. Stays most nights on the street cause the shelter spooks him. I don’t know his real name. Call him Dogman cause he used to own him some fancy kind of big dog and he talked about that dog all the time.”
“Do you know where he stays? I mean, on the street?”
Preacher eased closer to Victor as if he did not wish to be overheard. “He prefers to spend his days in the park over by the library. By night, he has a spot under a low-hanging bottlebrush tree by a dumpster in the parking lot by the big Methodist Church near the library. Sometimes the good people at the church buy him food and he reads a lot of magazines at the library. But he doesn’t have your girl, I can tell you. Man doesn’t have any real meanness in him.”
Victor figured this was all the info he was likely to get, and he thanked Preacher. For a moment he was sorry he didn�
�t have more money to offer, but handouts wouldn’t cure anything. Whatever had brought this man, with his obvious education, to living on the streets wouldn’t be solved by a couple of ten-dollar bills.
Victor drove to the library in downtown Tallahassee and parked. He scrambled out of the truck and hurried uphill to the big Methodist Church, eyeing the benches and ground as he walked. The city street lights kept the area lit, if only in a kind of hazy way.
In no time at all, he found the dumpster behind the church in a parking lot half covered by a thick, low hanging bottlebrush tree. The place smelled rank, probably from the garbage in the dumpster. But even with the offensive odor, it would be a good place for urban camping, shaded in the day with good protective cover and out of the eyesight of casual observers.
“Dogman!” Victor kept his voice low and his fingers on his switchblade still in his pocket. “I know you’re here. I just want to talk to you.”
Pausing to give the man a chance to come out—or wake up—Victor kept quiet. When no one spoke and he heard nothing, he stepped into the dark shadow of the bottlebrush branches and looked around. Scattered piles of clothes and a large cardboard box suggested someone was living here. Easing into the spot, squinting now that the tree blocked the streetlight, he spotted a pizza box half covered by a towel with a dark stain on it. Victor kicked the towel off and nudged the box open. A whole pizza was inside the box, covered with ants and roaches.
Immediately on red alert, Victor stepped back into better light and wished for his flashlight. He edged closer to the dumpster, his eyes darting around for any danger or any sign of Dogman. Sniffing, Victor picked up the scent of far worse than spoiling garbage. “Damn it,” he whispered.
He flung open the dumpster lid.
Even in the shadowy light he could see the body of a man only half covered in trash. As he reached for his cell phone, concentrating on the body in the dumpster and his certainty it was Dogman, he let his caution lapse.
A Box Full of Trouble Page 47
