by Debra Webb
She knelt down to peer under the sink, and the lights went out. Biting back a startled scream, she scrambled to her feet and reached for the door handle. It locked under her hand. She was trapped in the dark, half expecting some monster to lunge out of the shower stall, when the deep, altered voice carried through the closed door.
“Time to talk, Ms. Wallace.” He was in the safe room, having made his move when he knew she couldn’t attack.
She pounded on the door. “Lawton, is that you?”
“No.”
It had to be. “Prove it.” She hammered another fist on the door. “Let me out.”
“In good time. I need some information.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth to smother the weak plea that nearly promised him anything in exchange for her freedom. Becca Wallace did not beg.
“If you cooperate—”
“Oh, stop with the threats and get to the point,” she snapped, somehow keeping her voice steady.
“Your show has a good reputation.”
What? She bit back a sharp retort. Maybe it was her awful date. Surely Lawton was smart enough to know he couldn’t win her over with ridiculous, mild compliments. “Good? We win awards, thank you very much.”
“How do you decide on ideas for the show?”
The question threw her off. Lawton or the dumb date? “I can assure you we don’t let kidnappers dictate our topics.”
“Walk me through it,” he insisted.
She decided to play along. It was the only way to get clues about her captor. Turning slightly into the door, she tried to imagine the person on the other side. “My reporters usually pitch the ideas. We discuss them in meetings, looking for a fresh angle on newsworthy events.”
“How much time to get from idea to broadcast?”
“It varies.” Although the device altered his voice, she could tell the sound was originating from a point a few inches above her. More potential proof she was dealing with a man, since she was only a couple inches under six feet tall herself.
Her mind reviewed the men she could remember from the gala, starting with her date and Lawton when he’d been at her apartment door. Her date had been a smidge shorter than Lawton.
“Ms. Wallace?”
“What?” Lost in thought, she hadn’t heard the question.
“I asked you how the show handles anonymous tips.”
Her opinion swung back to pinning this on Lawton, though if she called him out, he’d only deny it. She had to give him enough rope to hang himself. “Depends on whether the tip is legitimate.”
Practicing the same diligence they used on a story, she mentally flipped through the topics and features of their recent broadcasts. One of those had started anonymously, over six months ago. The research and legwork on that one had been grueling, but she’d refused to take the easy and obvious route simply for the sensation factor and ratings. The segment had aired last week with a fresh, objective perspective on a hot-button issue regarding energy costs.
“Is this some convoluted attempt to pitch me a show?” she asked.
“No.”
The single word held a sharp edge that had her easing back from the door. Although he’d been polite so far, she had the sense that pushing him too hard and too soon would be a big mistake.
“How do you determine the validity of an anonymous tip?” he said in that same edgy tone.
“I’m not going to reveal my sources,” she stated. “You can accept that right now.” What if something for an upcoming show had leaked or one of her reporters had rattled the wrong cage? She had to confirm who she was dealing with, and fast.
“Isn’t that a protection limited to reporters?” he asked.
“You know we could swing by a court and ask a judge,” she suggested. Through the door she heard him sigh. She gave herself a point on her imaginary scoreboard. “What? Aren’t you ready to accept the consequences of kidnapping me?”
“Tell me what happens when you get an anonymous tip for a story,” he demanded.
“If the story is interesting, we spend long days tracking down confirmations of the allegations. We have plenty of days banging our heads against walls, stalled out when people won’t talk to us. Invariably we spend a ridiculous amount of time speculating and hoping for a break. Anonymous sources can be big time and energy drains while we search. Most of the time we ignore them,” she finished, hoping he’d believe it.
“If you don’t get the break?”
“Without confirmation, my show doesn’t tell the story. It sits in a potential idea file until additional and indisputable information comes through.”
“Sounds like a strange way to run a news program.”
She bristled. “You’re a producer now as well as a kidnapping scumbag? Haven’t you seen the show? For your information, we deliver content designed to engage and enlighten our audience. My team doesn’t chase the daily or weekly news cycle. We choose to delve deep into the issues that matter, the situations—good and bad—that have a lasting impact on our community as a whole.”
Silence was the only answer to her outburst. She was getting tired of him going mute. Long minutes of silence combined with the dark surrounding her made her sympathize with claustrophobics. Was he still out there? She pressed her ear to the seam of the door. Only more of that empty silence, not even the sound of his breathing. Maybe he’d left and was just being a jerk about the lights. She twisted the door handle, swearing to find it remained locked. As she’d given him a piece of her mind, he made his complete control of the situation, and of her, crystal clear.
“Let me out of here!” She pounded her fists against the door. “I will flood this room,” she threatened.
“You can’t,” he replied. “I control the water supply.”
Of course he did. The idea made her mad and she clung to the anger rather than admit to even a shred of relief that he was still in the safe room with her. “Let me go. You’re making a huge mistake. People will be looking for me. Let me go and I won’t press charges.”
“Have you ever been wrong, Ms. Wallace?”
The question, asked so calmly, interrupted the chaotic cycle of despair and fear. “Yes.” She’d been wrong to go to the gala, for starters.
“Have you ever been wrong about a story?” he pressed.
There were too many ways to answer that question, and she refused to have him twist her words around. For all she knew, he was recording this conversation to use against her and the network. “I stand by the finished product of every broadcast,” she replied.
“Do you ever identify the anonymous sources?”
Almost always, usually by the process of elimination or when the person had a change of heart. “Sometimes.”
“Before or after you run the story?”
This was Lawton. Had to be. She tried to take comfort in the fact that with Lawton as her captor she wasn’t at the mercy of a psychopath or pervert or a flat-out madman. Only a thief bent on hiding the truth. Money and power did strange things to people. Even respected, stand-up-guy kinds of people.
“Ms. Wallace?”
“Rebecca,” she said. According to the psych classes she took in college, a first name established a more personal bond. Anything for him to see her as a person rather than a useful tool.
“Rebecca.” Her name, altered by the device and muffled by the door, sounded so strange. Goose bumps raced along her skin and she was grateful he couldn’t see her hands shaking.
“Before or after the story?” he asked again.
“Rarely before the story airs,” she admitted. “Some sources are better at disguising themselves.” It was so obvious he wanted to know who’d sent the tip about the gold theft. She had her suspicions, but no proof. Just as she suspected it was Lawton on the other side of this door and
couldn’t yet prove it.
“In what way?”
Would he never give up? “Very few people can resist their fifteen minutes of fame. Aside from that, the bigger the story is, the more options there are for the source. Usually, though, with sensitive information, only a few people have access and we can figure it out, if only by process of elimination. I prefer...” She didn’t finish the sentence as her temper flared to life again. She preferred a normal interview style. She preferred having civilized conversations.
“You prefer what?”
“My preference is to have all of our sources sign a statement with the network, under the agreement that we will never expose them. In my opinion, that choice gives them more credibility.”
“Thank you.”
“Does that mean I’m free to go?”
“In due time,” he said. “I’ve done all I can to make your stay pleasant. You’ll find a meal in the kitchen. Feel free to make use of the Murphy bed.”
“Wait. I don’t want to stay.” She gripped the door handle in both hands and tugged mightily, willing it to move. “Wait!” she cried again. “I won’t tell anyone about this,” she pleaded. “Please, let me go.”
He didn’t answer. A moment later the computerized voice announced the safe room was secure.
“Yippee.” The bathroom door was still locked. She dropped her forehead to the door and debated the pros and cons of crying again. Would he see that as a ploy or a weakness?
Before she could decide if she had any tears left to cry, the lock clicked and the door opened when she turned the handle. She stepped out into the room and found herself alone. The homey aroma of pancakes and bacon wafted through the space. Was it really morning, or was he messing with her idea of time? She forgot the food when she saw the small black suitcase in front of the love seat. She reminded herself that although it looked familiar, most black suitcases did.
Becca walked over and flipped the tag and felt another spike of fear. The luggage tag sporting the network logo was hers. And on the other side of the handle she found the white daisy sticker she applied to make her black suitcase stand out from all the others.
Her brain slid into a panicked loop that she was in more trouble than she realized. It didn’t matter if it was Lawton or someone else. Her captor had too much access. He’d not only been to her apartment, he’d been through it. He’d gone into her closet and found her suitcase and presumably packed it with her belongings. As if being held against her will wasn’t enough of a violation.
Becca backed up and sat down in the chair, as far from the suitcase as she could get without returning to the bathroom. She didn’t want anything he’d touched. The little black dress would do just fine for now. Forever, she added, glaring at the suitcase. And that was a dumb idea. If she cooperated, maybe he would relax his protocols. She had to make him think he was winning.
Resisting the sensation of complete helplessness, she finally unzipped her suitcase. He’d been careful here too, as if he knew how a woman’s mind worked when she was cornered. He wanted to make her stay pleasant? Well, she didn’t have any intention of staying a moment longer than necessary.
There were jeans, T-shirts, pajamas, bras and panties, socks, tennis shoes and a zip-up sweatshirt. Her travel bag of toiletries and makeup was tucked in place as well. He’d touched it all. While she was grateful to have her own things, she couldn’t shake the feeling it was all tainted by the man who’d rooted through her home, her most private and personal spaces. She rubbed the chill from her arms. This situation was unpleasant, not impossible. He’d promised not to hurt her. She hadn’t made the same pledge.
Shifting to block the view of the camera perched in the corner near the door, she quickly opened the pocket of her suitcase where she kept a multitool stashed. Since she always had to leave the one in her purse at home when traveling, she’d purchased an extra and kept it in her suitcase. The pocket where she stowed it was empty. He’d thought of everything.
She sat back on her heels, reluctant to admit defeat. “I’ll find a way out,” she whispered to herself. “I am strong and smart.” Her voice cracked on the affirmation, so she repeated it until she believed it.
Chapter Four
Friday, October 15, 8:00 a.m.
At precisely eight o’clock Friday morning, Parker turned in his room key at the front desk and walked out of the midpriced motel in the Mission District. He hadn’t slept more than an hour in the last twenty-four, and he was running on adrenaline and strong coffee.
Couldn’t be helped.
Until he had a handle on this situation, he wouldn’t go home again or stay more than one night in the same place. Likewise he didn’t want to bring attention to Rebecca’s location by staying too long at that property. Before he’d left the motel room, he’d checked the app to confirm she was still well at the safe room. He’d spent the last hour answering emails for her so no one at her office would ask questions too soon.
With the strap of his duffel slung across his chest and a worn briefcase in the old army digital camouflage pattern packed with Rebecca’s cell phone and tablet as well as his devices, he stood at the valet stand and waited for his ride.
He owned three cars and stored them in various locations around town. Hours ago, he’d called in a favor and moved the Spyder away from prying eyes to the safety of Sam Bellemere’s garage. The cofounder of Gray Box owned an entire building and had devoted one parking level to his car collection. Though driving on his own would be more convenient, Parker didn’t want to make things too easy for whoever had set this mess into motion.
When the driver arrived, Parker climbed in and gave the address for the Gray Box offices. He figured it was the safest place in town to stow the personal belongings without undue questions. Then it would be time to meet Detective Baird at the Bayview station to discuss any progress on Theo’s murder.
“I’ll only be a minute or two,” he said when the driver pulled to a stop in front of the building. He handed over the fare and a hefty tip. “Wait for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
True to his word, Parker returned to the car without the bags within five minutes. His friend Rush Grayson, founder and namesake of Gray Box, had no problem stowing the gear for any length of time. Aside from the men Parker had served with, Rush and Sam were the only people Parker counted as friends and trusted implicitly. The pair had been instrumental in helping Parker manage a surprise windfall inheritance while Parker had been serving overseas and they’d worked on several projects together since Parker opened his security firm.
Armed only with his phone, Parker used the security app to check on Rebecca again. Switching up the camera access, he checked the street outside the building as well for any signs of trouble. Thankfully, everything remained clear for now.
For a man known for making reliable, intelligent choices even in the heat of a gunfight, he kept doing everything wrong this time. Rebecca wasn’t afraid of him. She hadn’t called him by name yet, though he had to be at the top of her suspect list. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have walked into the safe room and asked her outright about her source and her plans for the gold theft story. Then, assuming she hadn’t attacked him, he could have persuaded her to stay in the safe room and out of danger while he went after the culprit.
Sorrow and lack of sleep weren’t good enough reasons for his flawed decisions. Saving her from the real kidnapper last night was fine, but until he identified the man and the threat, he could hardly use that moment as evidence of cause and sound reasoning for keeping her locked up.
At the Bayview Police Station, he thanked the driver and tipped generously again. Logically, he knew life’s scorecard rarely balanced, and even if it did, Parker knew it would take far more than a couple big tips to offset holding Rebecca Wallace against her will.
He pushed back against a fresh w
ave of guilt as he walked into the station to speak with the homicide detective who’d caught Theo’s case.
Detective Calvin Baird was tall and lean, with ebony skin and close-cropped hair going gray at the temples. He shook hands with a firm economy of motion and encouraged Parker to have a seat in the chair by his desk.
“How are you holding up?” Baird asked.
“Theo was a good friend of mine,” Parker began. “We served together in Iraq,” he added. “Both of us grew up in and around San Francisco, but we didn’t meet until the army introduced us.”
“Small world,” Baird said, nodding. “We have a fairly clear picture of what happened last night. No suspects so far. I assure you we will be digging deeper, interviewing witnesses and such. I’m sorry you lost a friend.”
“Me too.” Parker sat forward. “What do you know?”
“According to his coworkers, he planned to meet someone at a diner a few blocks from Pier 80. His shift ran late and he decided to walk it. After that, it appears someone came up behind him, shot him twice in the back of the head and pushed or dragged his body into the alley.”
“Theo never had a chance?” That didn’t make any sense.
“That’s how it looks right now. We’re still processing evidence and creating a timeline.”
Parker could see the question in his eyes. “I wasn’t anywhere close to that neighborhood yesterday.” He pulled out his phone and sent a text to the office. “I’ll have the office send over my itinerary so you can corroborate.”
“I didn’t ask,” Baird pointed out.
Parker shrugged. “Gotta cross the t’s and dot the i’s, right?”
“Right.” Baird leaned back. “Were you aware he was on his way to meet with a reporter at that diner?”
“No,” Parker replied. “Was the reporter the other phone number on Theo’s call history?”
Baird nodded slowly, his dark gaze inscrutable.
