by Dinah McCall
A short while later, the driver pulled up to the curb.
“That’ll be ten-fifty,” he said.
Foster peeled off two fives and a one and tossed them over the seat.
“Keep the change,” he said, and slammed the door behind him as he got out.
He heard the driver cursing but couldn’t have cared less. He would teach the little bastard to drive like that and then expect to get a good tip. He was still smirking as he turned around. At that point, the smirk died.
“What the hell?” he muttered, looking first up the street, then down, checking the addresses of the adjoining businesses to make sure that the driver had dropped him off at the right place.
When it hit him that the address was correct, his heart skipped a beat. A sick feeling grew in the pit of his stomach as the implications of what he was seeing sank in.
“No…it can’t be,” he mumbled, and then stumbled toward the building.
“Look out, mister,” a man said as Foster lurched against him.
“Oh. Sorry,” Foster said. “I didn’t see—”
“Whatever,” the man said, and kept walking.
Ordinarily the man’s attitude would have ticked Foster off, but not today. After twenty-five years of dreaming about this moment, his dreams had been dashed. As he’d expected, the restaurant was gone, but the building he’d known was also gone, and another had been built in its place.
He stood in the middle of the sidewalk while his mind kept racing. Even if this business had kept the foundation and made no use of the basement other than to house the heating and cooling equipment—and that was assuming they hadn’t gutted the basement and were using it for a vault—there was no way he was getting into it without going through these doors, and there was no way in hell he would be able to get down into the basement from inside this building unless he worked there—and for a man with a criminal record, that would never happen.
He looked up at the massive edifice and the words carved into the stone.
FIRST FEDERAL SAVINGS AND LOAN
If the situation hadn’t been so painful, he might have laughed. What better place to stash a million dollars than a fucking bank? Only, the money wasn’t in an account in his name. If it was still there, which he was beginning to doubt, it would be behind the north wall of the basement, near the west corner. Ten bricks up from where the boiler connected into the wall and eight bricks over from the corner.
“Son of a bitch.” Then he took a deep breath and said it again, slower and louder. “Son. Of. A. Bitch.”
“Well, I never!” a woman said.
Foster’s focus shifted to the woman who’d just exited the bank. She was glaring at him with disdain. He glared back.
“If you had, then you might be in a better mood,” he snapped, then strode past her and into the bank.
She hissed in dismay, but there was no one around to whom she could complain, so she stomped off down the street.
The guard looked at Foster as he entered the bank. Foster nodded pleasantly and kept on walking as if he had a destination in mind. He moved with purpose, and after a few moments of observation, took a seat in a waiting area near the busiest loan officer, which he figured would give him time for a good look around.
There were security cameras everywhere and at least two guards in plain sight, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others elsewhere in the building. There wasn’t one doorway that wasn’t blocked off from foot traffic by a desk or a counter. He was feeling sicker by the moment. Then a woman stopped where he was seated and spoke.
“Hello. My name is Pat Hart. Is there something I can do for you?”
He looked up, then blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“I…uh…I’m checking into your interest rates for small-business loans.”
She smiled. “Come with me. I’ll be happy to discuss them with you.”
He followed her into a small cubicle, then took a seat across from her desk. She put her elbows on the desktop as she leaned forward, and it occurred to Foster that if she knew who he was, she wouldn’t be smiling.
“Now. About your loan. How much were you interested in borrowing?” she asked.
Foster shook his head. “My partners and I are still in the planning stages for the restaurant. We’re just checking into interest rates at the moment. We’d like to limit the number of investors by getting the backing ourselves, but it all depends on payback rates, you know.”
“Of course,” she said, and swiveled her chair toward her computer. “Let me bring up the screen and see what we’ve got here.” As she was waiting for the computer to do its thing, she looked back at Foster. “So you’re going to open a restaurant? Are you a local?”
He shrugged. “I used to be, however, I’ve been on the West Coast for years.” He didn’t feel the need to mention that it had been in Lompoc Federal Prison. “You know…there used to be a good restaurant right here on this very spot. Of course, that was years ago…still, I wonder? Do you know what happened to it?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I grew up in Seattle and have only been here in Dallas for the past five years. But I know someone who would know.” She picked up her phone. “Ms. Shaw, would you come into my office for a moment?”
“My secretary,” she explained. “She’s a native of the city.”
Foster caught a glimpse of an older woman getting up from her desk, then coming their way.
“Yes, Ms. Hart?”
“Liz, this gentleman was mentioning that, years ago, there used to be a restaurant in this location. By any chance, do you remember it?”
“Oh yes,” the woman said. “The Lazy Days. It burned. Down to the ground and then some. It was such a shame, too.”
Foster reeled. He felt the blood leaving his head and thought for a moment he was going to pass out. Twenty-five years of expectations gone. Just like that.
“Burned?”
She nodded. “Completely.”
“Well then,” he mumbled. “I suppose that’s that.” He got up from his chair and stumbled toward the doorway.
The loans officer stood abruptly. “Sir? Wait. We haven’t discussed interest rates yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore,” he mumbled, and walked away.
7
Olivia was coming up on her exit. Still distraught about Nanna’s disturbing behavior, she didn’t see the approaching minivan until it suddenly appeared in her side-view mirror. She was thinking to herself that the driver was going too fast when the van accelerated and swerved almost into her lane. She had a brief glimpse of the driver’s face, as well as the gun he was aiming at her, before the window glass on her side of the door exploded.
She screamed—and the sound seemed to go on forever.
Before she knew it, she was off the freeway and over the guardrail. She felt the SUV go airborne, then the impact as it hit nose down. Her body lurched against the restraining seat belt as the air bag deployed, while at the same time, a terrible pain exploded in her shoulder. She thought she screamed out Trey’s name, and then the car started to roll. After that, everything went black.
It wasn’t until Dennis saw the SUV moving into the far right-hand lane that he realized the driver was going to exit. He’d been toying with the idea of abandoning his plan ever since he’d realized that it was Olivia Sealy, not Marcus, who was driving the SUV. Still, in his mind, since she bore the name, so she also bore the shame. Without giving himself time to change his mind, he accelerated, swerved quickly across two lanes of traffic and moved in behind her car. When the traffic cleared ahead of them, he drove out from behind and pulled up until he was almost even, got as close as he dared, picked up his gun from the seat and took aim. He fired rapidly into the front seat, then sped away.
In the rearview mirror, he saw the car swerve sharply, hit a guardrail, then go over the side. His eyes filled with tears of relief. Tonight he would sleep guilt free.
“Yes, Lord, it is done,” he said, an
d never looked back.
Trey was on his way home for the day when he heard the call about an accident with injury go out over the police radio. It made him think of how fragile life really was and how someone’s world had suddenly been altered. He said a silent prayer for their well-being, then let it go.
Truth was, he was still reeling from the morning he’d spent with Livvie. The banana split they’d shared had brought back a world of old memories. Memories of how sweet first love had been, and how painful it had been when it ended. Foolishly, for a time, he’d let himself consider the remote possibility of recapturing what had been between them, but the moment had been brief. It had cost him a lot more than ego to realize how little Livvie’s life had changed from when she was in school. She might be a grown woman, but she was still not the one in control of her life. And, as much as he might be attracted to her, he knew better than to go down that road again.
He made himself focus on the mundane and began considering whether to make dinner from what was left over in the refrigerator or to pick up some carry-out on his way home. Just as he was opting for carry-out chicken, his cell phone rang. He saw the caller ID and sighed. It was Lieutenant Warren, and the thought of being called back to work was not a pleasant one. For a few seconds he toyed with the notion of not answering; then he yanked himself in gear and did what he’d been hired to do.
“Hello.”
“Trey…where are you?”
Trey stifled a groan. This sounded like the buildup to a callback, and it served him right for answering.
“Almost home, sir…what’s up?”
“We’ve got trouble. Olivia Sealy was shot at on the bypass. She hit a guardrail, then went over it and rolled down an embankment. They’re taking her by ambulance to Dallas Memorial. Get down there fast. I’ve got Rodriguez and Sheets on the case, but since you’re something of a friend of the family, find out as much as you can and let Rodriguez know.”
“Shot? You said she’d been shot?”
“Shot at, for sure. First reports indicated she had a bullet wound besides her other injuries, but I can’t confirm that.”
“Other injuries?”
“Yes…”
In shock, Trey pulled over to the curb. He could hear Warren’s voice and knew the lieutenant was still talking, but none of the words made sense. All he could hear was the sound of Livvie’s laughter as she ate hot fudge off the banana split. For a second he couldn’t find the breath to talk. Then, when he did, everything came out in a rush.
“How bad is she hurt? Do they have the shooter in custody? Has Marcus Sealy been notified?”
“I don’t know her condition. The shooter’s still at large, and yes, Mr. Sealy is en route. Get there. Find out what you can. I have a gut feeling that this is all connected to the discovery of that suitcase and those bones, although for the life of me, I can’t imagine how.”
“I’m on my way,” Trey said, and dropped his cell phone into his pocket. He slapped his red light onto the dash, hit the siren, then made a U-turn and headed for the hospital.
Olivia smelled blood—tasted blood—felt blood. It had to be hers, but she didn’t know why. Fear warred with pain as she struggled to get up, only to discover she couldn’t move.
“Olivia? Olivia? Do you know where you are?” someone said, and laid a hand across Olivia’s forehead.
No, she thought she said, then realized she hadn’t answered aloud when the voice kept talking.
“You’re in the hospital. You had an accident on the freeway. Do you remember?”
Gun. Blue van. Screaming…someone is screaming… Oh, God, it’s me. “Help me,” she whispered.
“We are helping you, dear, but you need to lie still.”
“Grampy…tell Grampy,” she mumbled.
“Your family has been notified. Please, don’t move, dear.”
Cognizance shifted to a lesser state of being, leaving Olivia hovering in a sort of twilight. She felt pain—heard voices—but from a distance away, as if she were standing outside her body.
“Doctor! Her blood pressure is dropping!”
“The bullet nicked an artery!”
“Type and cross-match…”
“Bleeding out…”
“Stabilized for now…”
“Get her to surgery…”
Suddenly she was moving. She knew because she could see the fluorescent lights in the ceilings above her as if they were one long continuous stream of illumination.
Then, over the turmoil, she heard a deep, anxious voice calling her name, felt a hand against her cheek, heard footsteps running beside the bed to keep up as they wheeled her toward the operating room.
It was Trey.
Acknowledging his presence was, at the same time, a blessing and a pain. He’d come when she needed help most, but she wasn’t sure she could make him understand. As she struggled against the approaching darkness, she heard him beg.
“Livvie…Livvie…it’s Trey. You’ve got to stay strong for me, baby. Stay strong.”
Trey…I’m here. Need to tell you something. Something about the van. Oh God…the gun… He had a gun. But all she managed to mumble was, “Shot me.”
Trey wouldn’t let himself look at the blood on her face or the wide, spreading stain of red across her chest.
“I know, baby…I know. Did you see him? Do you know who it was?”
A nurse was pushing Trey aside as they neared the doors to the surgery.
“Detective… Sir… You need to get back.”
Olivia felt Trey’s hand on hers. With every ounce of energy she could focus, she curled her fingers around his and pulled.
Trey felt her tug, and when he saw her lips moving, immediately leaned down.
“What is it, Livvie? What are you trying to say?”
“Shooter…baby killer.”
“I don’t understand, honey. What do you mean?”
“That’s it,” the nurse said. “You have to leave. Now.”
The coppery scent of fresh blood was all over her. Trey could see her eyelids fluttering as she struggled to speak. But to delay would be risking her life, and he would willingly give up everything to make sure she survived.
“It’s okay, Livvie…it’s okay. You can tell me later.” His voice broke as he kissed the side of her cheek, then whispered softly against her ear, “Stay strong for me, Livvie. Don’t leave me again.”
Trey had seen plenty of gunshot victims since his career with the police department had begun, but he’d never known one as intimately as he knew Olivia Sealy. Standing on the far side of the doors as they whisked her away was quite possibly the most difficult thing he’d ever done. He felt rooted to the spot, knowing that this was the closest he would be to her until they brought her out of surgery. He wouldn’t let himself think about consequences other than catching the bastard responsible for her situation. He took a deep breath, then laid the flat of his hand against the door.
“Don’t you die on me, Livvie,” he said softly. When he turned around, Marcus Sealy was coming toward him on the run.
“Olivia! Olivia! Where is she?” he asked. “Is she all right?”
Trey saw the panic on Marcus’s face, as well as the gray tinge around his mouth. Instinctively, he grabbed the older man’s elbow and led him to a nearby chair.
“Mr. Sealy, let’s sit down. I’ll tell you what I know.”
Marcus was shaking so hard he could barely breathe.
“I didn’t come home for lunch. If I had, none of this would have happened,” he said, then covered his face with his hands. “I can’t lose her, too,” he moaned. “I just can’t.”
“First of all,” Trey said, “it’s not your fault. It’s not Livvie’s fault, either.”
Marcus lifted his head, and for the first time Trey saw past the money and power of Marcus Sealy’s world to the truth of what really mattered to him.
“Who did this?” Marcus asked. “Why would someone want to hurt Olivia? She’s been the victim in thi
s tragedy from the start. She lost her parents, and now her very identity is being threatened. Why would someone want her dead?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I promise you, we will find out.”
Marcus shuddered. “God…this is a nightmare.”
“Yes, sir, and then some,” Trey muttered.
Marcus looked up, realizing that the detective seemed as distraught as he felt himself. Then he vaguely remembered Bonney referring to Olivia as Livvie—a nickname that denoted familiarity. But how could that be, when they’d only just met?
“Did Olivia say anything to you about the man who shot her?” Marcus asked.
Trey frowned. “Nothing that made any sense. She said something about a—” Suddenly the expression on his face changed. “I’ll be damned.”
“What?” Marcus asked.
“I think I know what she was trying to say,” Trey said. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Wait! I have a right to know what—”
“If I’m right, you’ll be the first to know,” Trey said, and headed toward an exit. He had to call his lieutenant, and using a cell phone in this part of the hospital was not permitted.
Once outside, he made a call to headquarters and was patched through to Chia, who was still at the site, interviewing witnesses. She answered on the first ring.
“Rodriguez.”
“Chia…it’s Trey. I may have a lead for you.”
“I hope it’s better than the three witnesses we have. Two saw a black van, one thought it was blue. One said the driver was a man, one said she couldn’t tell, and the other was watching Sealy’s car go over the embankment. No one got a tag number, so talk to me.”
“You still got that friend down at KLPG?”
“Yeah, but what’s that got to do with—”
“Stay with me on this,” Trey said. “The media was all over the place when I took the Sealys to the crime lab this morning. It was nothing less than a small riot. They were trying to get film on the old man and his granddaughter, which I’m sure they did.”
