by Vicki Delany
“My sister.”
“Whatever. You know I’m a police officer. Kidnapping is a serious offence.”
“Shut up,” Burke said. “Or there’ll be a more serious offence here. The brat’s right in front of me, and you know I won’t hesitate to shoot him if you try anything funny. Right in the fat, bald head.”
“Jamie, I…”
“I’ve changed my mind. If we kill the kid now we won’t inherit a plugged nickel. Lucky Smith was supposed to be in the house with him—two dead birds with one stone, so to speak. No reason for anyone to think we were involved. But Lucky’ll remember me; she’ll give the police a good description. Even if we fight it—she can’t prove anything, all circumstantial—you can be sure that goddamned lawyer’ll turn heaven and earth to guarantee we’re cut out. End of all our expectations. Instead, I’ve decided to settle for a good chunk up front. Trade the kid for the money and split. New identities, a beach house in Rio, sun and sand, the good life. Not what we’ve been waiting for all these years, but it’ll do.”
“I don’t know.”
“For you, hookers on tap, flowing like hot water. Sound good, bro’?”
“Jamie, I don’t think…”
Burke turned her attention from Smith, but the gun was still held to Miller’s temple. “You weren’t put on this earth to think, Steve. Don’t you know that by now?”
He mumbled to the ground. “What about her?”
“That’s my boy. I knew you’d agree. We’ll throw her in as part of the deal, not that she’s worth much. You should see her house. What a dump.” Miller began to squirm in her arms. Burke was not holding him with much care.
“Put them in the model suite. No one comes there unless Nancy brings them. Nancy is well out of the way until this is finished, isn’t she? You managed that at least?”
“Several bottles of Veuve Clicquot, courtesy of my partner Frank, were delivered to the house this afternoon. A thank you for doing such a good job organizing the ad campaign party. She won’t be coming up for air anytime soon.”
“Good.”
Miller cried.
“He needs to be fed,” Smith said.
“He can wait.”
“No, he can’t. Babies are small, their stomachs don’t hold much. He’ll die if he isn’t fed regularly.”
“Not your concern. Steve, fetch some rope. I saw some earlier behind the secretary’s desk.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so, okay? Do it.”
Miller let out a full strength yell.
Steve ran into the trailer. Smith remembered him now: the Grizzly Resort’s new partner. She’d seen his picture in the paper, proud and beaming, shaking Frank Clemmins’ hand to seal the deal.
“I’m guessing you’re going to hold Miller in exchange for money. Not worth much if he’s dead. He needs to be fed.”
“With what? You got tits that work?”
“Stores in town sell bottles and formula. Buy some.”
“I’ll see.”
Steve ran down the trailer steps, carrying a length of thick rope. His face was flushed red, perhaps from the exertion, perhaps from the tension. He did not look happy at the direction events had taken.
“You should know that your sister’s not half as smart as she thinks she is,” Smith said to him. “Nothing could possibly have made my mom dig her heels in more than throwing her weight around and ordering her to give up Miller. If she’d just left things the hell alone, he would have been gone in a day or two.”
“Wrap her hands,” Burke said. “She’s making me nervous.”
Smith held her hands out in front of her, like a good obedient girl. As she hoped, Steve began wrapping rope around them. If she’d let him have the initiative, he probably would have turned her and tied her hands behind her back. Bad enough to be wrapped up like a Christmas parcel. But worse if her arms were behind her. She knew she could take him out in a moment. But his sister would have all the time she needed to shoot Miller. And then Smith.
Burke snorted. “You were so easy, cop. Too bad I don’t fancy women.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Eliza Winters hated being abandoned at a party. But tonight wasn’t the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last. The whole thing had been a dreadful bore, but she’d managed to make polite chit-chat with the wives-of, and the boss, and the underlings. She kicked off her shoes as she came through the door, and the cab kicked up gravel as it spun its wheels down the driveway.
Barb had insisted that ‘the girls’ take home leftovers. Eliza stuffed hastily-wrapped foil packages into the fridge. At least they’d have dinner for a few nights.
If John would be home to eat it.
She’d heard more of what was going on than he probably realized. His constable, the young Smith woman, was missing. Eliza hadn’t met Molly Smith, and didn’t particularly care if she ever did, but John did seem quite concerned. The party broke up very early. Officers returned to duty; spouses escorted home.
Home early. That was nice. She’d have time to do the week’s laundry and relax with a glass of wine.
Laundry! She’d forgotten to buy laundry detergent. It was Sunday evening; she could leave the wash until tomorrow, or go out now. No, tomorrow she was busy all day with preliminaries for the Grizzly shoot. And the plain white shirt she planned to wear was in the hamper.
She picked up her keys.
***
Meredith Morgenstern stepped out from behind a bush.
“Lots of activity tonight,” she said.
“Go away, Meredith.”
“Come on, Dave. I know this is Molly’s house. And you’re all over it like ants at a picnic. I know Molly can’t be found; her own mother told me that. This is serious stuff. The citizens of Trafalgar want to know.”
“The citizens of Trafalgar can…”
“Careful Dave. You don’t want to say anything you wouldn’t want to see in print.”
“Go away, Meredith.” Dave Evans, dressed in wildly patterned board shorts, sandals, and a T-Shirt announcing that it had been bought in San Celemente, California, walked away.
Sergeant Winters came out of the Smith kitchen. He pulled out his cell phone, and talked into it while looking into the woods at the back of the property.
Meredith walked up the driveway. If you act as if you belong, she’d been told by a famous reporter one drunken night, most people will assume you do. A heavy-set man she knew to be the RCMP forensic expert had his head in the back of his van. He straightened up and watched her pass, but said nothing.
Meredith marched up to the house. Shadows in the yard were long, the sky purple with the approach of night. The full moon stood over the dark mass of Koola Glacier. Lights were on in the kitchen, and through the uncurtained windows Meredith could see two people sitting at the table.
She opened the door and stepped into the house. “Hi, Lucky. You called me so I hurried over soon as I could. Hi, Chief.”
“Did you call Ms. Morgenstern?” Keller asked Lucky. Not a very polite greeting, in Meredith’s opinion.
Lucky’s eyes were unfocused, and she wasn’t listening closely to the CC. Just as well, or she’d throw Meredith out on her ass. She nodded.
He got to his feet. “I’ll leave you then. Need to find out what’s happening.” He headed for the door. His glance at Meredith was not friendly. “Phone Andy, Lucky,” he said, as he stepped out into the gathering night.
Keller had been sitting across the table from Lucky. Meredith pulled up a chair beside her.
“I can’t imagine,” she said, “what you must be going through.”
“I have to call my husband.” Lucky pushed herself out of her chair.
“Sure, you go right ahead. You need some support right now. What with the dog and the RCMP van and all those officers out there beating the bush. Looking for your daughter.”
Lucky fell back into her chair and swallowed a sob.
Meredith patted her hand. “What do you
think happened to Moonlight? What do the police think happened?”
***
At least her jail was nicely decorated.
She had been shoved onto a bed in what was apparently the model suite of the Grizzly Resort.
Steve hadn’t brought any more rope, causing Burke to scream at him for his incompetence. But, unfortunately for Molly Smith, he found a roll of duct tape in a drawer in the model suite’s kitchen. He wrapped the silver tape around her bound hands, securing her to a bed post. It was a nice bed, king sized, English country house four-poster type. The mattress was thick and soft, but not too soft. The wooden frame, posts, and large headboard were carved out of warm red wood. The duvet was blood red satin shot with silver threads, and the bed was piled high with matching pillows of all shapes and sizes.
Perfect for kinky games. And for securing a kidnapped police officer.
Burke threw Miller onto the bed at Smith’s feet. He bounced, and began, again, to cry.
“You want her to kill him?” Smith asked Steve Blacklock.
He glanced at Burke. Questioning, hesitant.
“He’s no good to us dead,” Burke admitted. “Go to town and get baby stuff.”
“This is going too far, Jamie,” he said. “Let’s just go. We can…”
She spun around. The gun was no longer pointing at Smith, or Miller, but at Blacklock.
“We can,” she said, “get what we’re owed. And that’s what we’re going to do. You will go into town, like I told you, right, Stevie?”
He swallowed heavily. “Yeah.”
“While you’re doing that I’ll make a couple of calls. I’ve got a plane standing by, and we’ll be out of here before anyone knows they’re missing.”
“You’ll let her go, the cop, right?”
“Sure. I’ll let the cop go. Now beat it.”
Steve scampered, like he’d been told. The bedroom door shut behind him.
Burke smiled at Smith, and winked.
***
Winters watched Tocek load the dog into the truck. Nothing, he’d said. Nothing. Ron Gavin had set up big lights and was photographing tire tracks on the driveway while his partner prepared to take casts. Even if he got good prints, they had nothing to match them with. Officers came out of the woods, shrugging their shoulders. Dave Evans was here, dressed like a surfer dude but helping out. Although it was in the middle of her days off, Dawn Solway had gone back to the station, to help Lopez work the phones.
Paul Keller stood on the kitchen porch. A flash of red light as he ignited a match and bent to light a cigarette.
Winters’ phone rang. He answered before the ring tone finished.
“John, I…”
“Sorry, Eliza, I have to keep this line clear.”
“I understand. But I have something you’ll be interested in.”
“What?”
“I went to the supermarket to buy laundry detergent.”
Why on earth she’d think he’d be interested in her shopping habits when he was in the middle of a case, he had no idea. “Get to the point,” he snapped.
“I’m doing just that. You remember Steve Blacklock, from the Grizzly resort?”
“So?”
“He was there, at Safeway. With a cart piled high with baby formula and diapers.”
His mind began to click into gear, to follow hers.
“And that would be…”
“Most unnatural for a man in his forties, whose wife told me they don’t have children.”
“Did she now.”
“And even if they do have grandchildren, by some circuitous route, Steve did not strike me as the type to be out buying diapers.”
“Nor me.”
“I heard a bit of what you were saying, John, on the phone at the party. About a missing baby. So I thought you’d be interested.”
“Did Blacklock see you?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t want to make mindless chit chat, so I darted down another aisle. Then I started thinking.”
“Thank you,” he said, hanging up.
He made another call. “Ray, I want everything you can find on Steven Blacklock. He’s the new partner at the Grizzly Resort. Dig, and dig deep.”
“I have to remind you, boss, again, that it’s Sunday night.”
“I’m working. You’re working. Get everyone else working. He’s not local, hasn’t been in town more than a few weeks, so he probably doesn’t have a Trafalgar address on file. But his partner, Frank Clemmins, should know where he’s staying. Send someone around. If Blacklock’s home tell them they’re to wait with him until I get there. What have you found on Burke?”
“Nothing. I’m waiting for some calls to be returned. I’ll let you know soon as I know.”
“Okay. In the meantime, I’m going to the Grizzly Resort, check out the situation. I’ll call you when I get there.”
Winters looked around. Evans was nearby, but he couldn’t help, not dressed like that. No uniform. No firepower. Gavin was pointing out something in the driveway to his partner. Paul Keller was standing on the doorstep, smoking, looking troubled.
Adam Tocek, the Mountie, the dog guy, walked toward him. Head down; steps heavy. Disappointed, Winters thought, at his dog’s inability to help.
“Want to come for a ride?” Winters asked.
“Where?”
“Probably nowhere, but I have a lead. Not much of one, but it’s something. We’ll take your car. Bring the dog. He might still be useful. I need to swing by my house first and pick up my equipment. It’s not far out of the way.” Badge, handcuffs, collapsible nightstick. Gun.
Someone had kidnapped a police officer, and Winters wasn’t going in unarmed.
***
“That was a waste of time. We should be out catching the bad guys, not letting rich men’s lawyers tell us how incompetent we are.” Al Jacobi tossed his empty coffee cup at the trash can. It missed and rolled under his partner’s desk.
Rachel Ferguson made a face. “Don’t bother trying out for the NBA.” Jacobi ignored her. He was a small man, short and lightly built. He’d spent a good part of his youth in the gym, trying to bulk up. He hadn’t been able to do anything about his height, and with all the weights he never managed to look like anything but a scrawny man with some muscles. Ferguson had known him when she was a rookie patrol officer and had not been happy to have him assigned years later as her partner when she joined homicide. But to her surprise, the man had mellowed and accepted himself and his body and had turned into an effective police officer and a good man.
“However, I was thinking on the way back,” he said.
“Thought I smelled something.”
“I still have my doubts about Jennifer being the killer, and as time goes by they’re getting stronger.”
“She was seen, Al, running from the scene. Carrying the baby. At least carrying something that was probably the baby. And seen not only by Jamie Blacklock but the neighbor’s gardener. And then she disappeared. Why would she disappear if she didn’t do it?”
“Jennifer had no reason to kill her sister, Rachel.”
“We don’t know that they were sisters. Mrs. Sanchez assumed they were because of a slight resemblance.” And Mrs. Sanchez, who’d finished work for the day at the time in question, tried so hard to be of help to the police, Ferguson suspected that she was making a lot of stuff up rather than admit that she didn’t know. “Anyway, people kill all the time, with no reason anyone one else can understand. Maybe Jennifer wanted a baby of her own without all the mess and bother of going the usual route.”
Jacobi didn’t look convinced. “I still have my eye on Jamie Blacklock, with or without her brother’s help.”
“Come on, Al. And as much as you might not like Jamie, your gut instinct just isn’t proof enough.”
“Where she’s these days anyway?”
“New York. Visiting friends. We can’t send the NYPD around knocking on the friend’s door to check that she made curfew just because y
ou’ve got a bad feeling about Jamie.”
“How do we know she hasn’t come back? Got on a plane with a fake ID and a false moustache? It would suit her.”
“We’ll know soon as she gets back to Seattle. She’ll be at the lawyer demanding something.”
“Speaking of the lawyer. What’d he say about Allenhart? The only thing keeping him alive is hope that he’ll see his son one more time.” Jacobi shook his head. “Not gonna happen. The kid’s at the bottom of the sound.”
“And until we can prove that, we keep on looking.” About the only thing Ferguson and Jacobi agreed upon was that the killing of Katie and the disappearance of her baby wasn’t done by a random intruder, the story they’d fed to the press.
“Wanna grab some supper?”
Ferguson thought about the remains of last night’s salad dinner she’d put in the office fridge. “Sure. Mickey D’s?”
Allenhart’s only sibling, a sister to whom he had apparently been close, had two children. She, the sister, died about thirty years ago. His sister’s two children, Jamie and Steven Blacklock had been his sole heirs. Until Katie popped.
The previous heirs, shoved out of the will in favor of the by-blow of a fledging hooker, put up a good front and chattered on about respecting their beloved uncle’s wishes. Jacobi didn’t trust either of them for a moment. But, no matter how hard he tried, he’d never been able to put them solidly in the frame. Steve had been in Canada for a business meeting. Jamie had found the body, but he couldn’t prove she’d had a hand in it.
Ferguson argued that the killer was more likely to be Katie’s supposed sister, Jennifer, who had recently become a regular visitor. But Jennifer had turned the corner at the bottom of the street and disappeared.
They bought Big Macs and milk shakes and ate at Ferguson’s desk, going over the story one more time.
The day before Allenhart’s stroke, his lawyer left on an extended vacation to Tuscany. The new will, changed just a week before leaving everything to Richard Junior, gave Jamie Blacklock power of attorney. Why Allenhart didn’t realize that might present a problem—from heir to half the fortune to babysitter—was hard to imagine. But Allenhart had always been very close, and very loyal, to the women in his life. Katie was provided for, more than adequately, but not left with any power over the estate.
