Phantom Limb

by Dennis Palumbo

  “Hey, what the—?!”

  The impact pushed the air out of my lungs. At the same time, I felt thin plastic restraints pulled tightly around my wrists behind my back.

  “Mike!” Drake shouted. “What are you doing—?”

  Payton’s hands had already begun snaking under my suit jacket. Up and under my armpits.

  “You bother to frisk the son of a bitch, Arthur? Let me take a wild guess—no, you didn’t.”

  “Because I would never have thought it necessary. Moreover, I prefer to leave the Dirty Harry tactics to you.”

  Payton growled. “I’m Mr. Harland’s head of security. And I don’t know this guy. The only thing I know about the Doc here is that he let the boss’ wife get grabbed. So why take chances?”

  He finished running his hands up and down my pants legs and rose to his full height, pushing his jaw next to my face.

  “I’m right, aren’t I, pal? Lisa got herself kidnapped on your watch…?”

  “Why don’t you untie my wrists and we can discuss it.”

  A dark laugh. “Right. Listen, Doc, you don’t want to give me an excuse to kick your ass.”

  Drake spoke up again. “Mike, for God’s sake, stop this! Release Dr. Rinaldi at once. Mr. Harland is anxious to meet with him.”

  By now, enough breath had returned to my body to fuel a rising anger. The rough treatment I’d received had started my head wound throbbing again. During the long drive here, it had thankfully quieted to a dull ache.

  Meanwhile, Mike Payton was undoing the plastic constraints. When I turned around again, he was calmly coiling them and putting them in his pants pocket.

  Then, surprisingly, he held out his hand.

  “Mike Payton. Nothing personal. Okay?”

  “Fuck you. Totally personal. Okay?”

  A childish retort, I knew. A knee-jerk response to being manhandled by this macho idiot. In lieu of slugging him.

  On the other hand, at least one thing was clear. The guy who hit me outside my office was a good head taller than Mike Payton. Leaner, too. Though this didn’t necessarily rule out Payton as a suspect. If he were behind the kidnapping, the taller man might be his accomplice. As I’d learned from my work with the police, the crime was rarely a one-man job.

  Then, rubbing my chafed wrists, I glanced over at Trevor. Amazingly, our driver had stayed where he was while Payton frisked me. Perhaps in case his help was needed in subduing me. Or maybe just because he found it entertaining. God knows, there were no clues in his smooth, stoic expression.

  Drake cleared his throat. “Okay, Mike. Now that you and Dr. Rinaldi have exchanged pleasantries, is there any news about Lisa? Has the kidnapper contacted Charles again?”

  “No. There was just the one call, to Mr. Harland’s business line. He was working in the study, alone, when it came in.”

  Drake sighed. “I should have been there. Unfortunately, I was in town for dinner with my ex-wife and the kids. They were both home from college for spring break.”

  “Hey, you get to have a life, too.” Payton tried on a grin. It didn’t take. “Anyway, the guy said he had Lisa and wanted five million dollars in bearer bonds for her safe return.”

  I stirred. “What are bearer bonds?”

  “Negotiable currency,” Drake said, “that has the dubious benefit of being both transferable and anonymous.”

  “Kind of like travelers’ checks on steroids,” Payton added.

  “But how do we know if Lisa’s even alive?” I said. “Did the guy put her on the phone with Harland?”

  “No,” Payton replied. “But he said he’d call again with more instructions. Then he warned Mr. Harland not to contact the police. After that, the guy hung up and Mr. Harland called me into the study. At first, he wanted to obey the kidnapper’s warning. Luckily, though, the boss listened to reason and I got him to call Chief Logan. Get the cops involved from the get-go.”

  Drake shook his head. “Poor Charles. He must be beside himself with worry.”

  The security man shrugged. “Hey, you know the boss. When in doubt, take action. He made a call to the president of his bank in Harrisburg. Pulled him out of some fancy dinner party. An armored van will be delivering the bearer bonds any time now.”

  With that, Payton turned and headed toward the broad steps leading to the front entrance. Drake and I followed. Behind us, Trevor had finally returned to the driver’s seat and was pulling the limo into a garage just off the circular drive.

  I also noticed four other vehicles parked there, two of which were easily recognizable under the blazing fluorescents as unmarked sedans. Over the years, I’d spent enough time in cars like those to understand what they meant.

  Official “unofficial” vehicles. Either cops or the Feds.

  Or both.

  ***

  As it turned out, I would be greeted by one of each. Though I’m not sure “greeted” is exactly the right word.

  After entering the house, Payton had led Drake and me across a high-ceilinged foyer, our footsteps clicking on the polished marble. Various art objects and wall hangings were arrayed on either side, individually lit, their museum-like display obviously meant to both impress and intimidate.

  Drake paused at the foyer’s other end, looked around.

  “Where are the servants?” he asked Payton.

  “Daytime help have all been sent home. I asked the three live-in staff to stay put in the service wing. I figured the best way to keep this thing contained is to limit the number of people involved. A lot better, too, security-wise.”

  The lawyer nodded, then gestured for us to keep moving. Again, Payton took the lead.

  After passing through two more spacious, similarly appointed rooms, we followed him down a long hallway to a set of wooden double-doors. He opened them without knocking.

  We entered a large, well-lit study. Aggressively male. Oak-paneled. Stuffed leather chairs and sectional couch. Brass fixtures. Huge mahogany desk. Pool table.

  An unaccountable breath of wind made me turn. Along the entire length of one side of the room was a floor-to-ceiling window, intersected by opened glass sliding doors that led onto a broad, pine-planked porch. Dimly lit by hidden sconces, girded by an ornate wrought-iron railing, its deck extended to the edge of a vast stand of ancient, night-shrouded trees.

  But then my gaze was drawn back to the room’s remaining three walls. Hanging on each of them, handsomely framed and mounted, were lobby posters of some of Lisa Campbell’s old movies. In pristine condition, the garish, full-color posters featured lurid images of a scantily clad, provocatively posed Lisa. Her back arched, full breasts half-exposed. Most depicted her with her hand over her mouth, screaming, as some knife-wielding rapist or bloody-fanged alien monster advanced on her.

  I glanced back in surprise at Drake, who merely smiled.

  “Mr. Harland enjoys seeing the looks on visitors’ faces when they see the posters. Like the look on yours, for example.”

  This brought a short laugh from Mike Payton.

  “Yeah, the boss likes to tweak politicians and other ass-kissers who come around wanting a handout. I have to admit, it’s fun watching them try not to stare at the pictures.”

  By then, I’d crossed the room to take a second look at Harland’s massive desk. An array of digital equipment surrounded the elaborate cordless phone console on the leather blotter.

  Payton joined me there. Pointed.

  “The Feds set that up. For when the kidnapper calls again. It’s got a wireless patch into their com lab on the South Side.”

  “To trace the call. Get a fix on the location.”

  “Right. Their tech guy was manning it, but said he had to run out to his car to get something. Be right back.”

  “Speaking of which,” Drake said, “has Donna returned? Or at least called in?”

 
“Nope. Nobody’s seen her since this morning, when she drove off on some errand. I’ve tried her cell. Even called her sister in Penn Hills. Nobody’s heard from her.”

  Drake clucked his tongue. “Of all times…”

  “Who’s Donna?” Hearing the irritation in my own voice. I realized I was getting tired of playing catch-up.

  “Donna Swanson,” Payton answered. “Mr. Harland’s live-in nurse. Been with him since his former wife died, years ago.”

  He scooped up a file folder on the far end of the blotter.

  “The cop in charge here said her disappearance might be connected to the kidnapping, though the boss thinks that’s just crazy. I happen to agree. Donna’s devoted to Mr. Harland. But the cop asked to see her personnel file anyway. Then he detailed some uniforms to go out looking for her.”

  He flipped open the folder, bent it toward me. Along with the standard forms, there was a photo of Donna Swanson. Fifty-three, according to the file, though her careworn Nordic face made her look older. Sullen dark eyes contrasted with her faded blond hair, worn pulled up in a tight bun.

  Drake stroked his chin. “At least on this point we can agree, Mike. The thought that Donna might be involved somehow in all this is ludicrous.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But if not, her being missing right now is a hell of a coincidence.”

  Just then, a young man in a bulky sweater and jeans came in through the same doors we’d used. He wore severe, tortoiseshell glasses and carried a small briefcase.

  “There you are.” Payton waited till the young man strolled over to the digital console on Harland’s desk. “Where’d you have to go, Radio Shack?”

  “Old memory card was fried. I knew I had another one in the trunk. Couldn’t find the damned thing.”

  The kid casually swung the briefcase onto the desk and snapped it open. Payton turned to Drake and myself.

  “Mr. Drake, Dr. Rinaldi. This is Barney. FBI tech.”

  Barney barely acknowledged the lawyer and me, except for dutifully flashing his Bureau ID badge. Then he pulled on some surgical gloves and started working on the console.

  Suddenly, I heard another set of footsteps. Two people had entered from an adjoining room, both of whom I recognized. Lieutenant Stu Biegler was the first of the pair to reach me.

  “Glad you could make it, Rinaldi.” Planting his feet, arms folded. “I was starting to wonder.”

  Biegler’s face was unlined and callow, giving a disquieting impression of youth rather than experience. Model-thin, with small, suspicious eyes, he practically radiated ambition.

  “It’s not as though I had much choice, Lieutenant. Besides, I’m worried about Lisa.”

  “We all are. That’s why Chief Logan wanted me to handle this personally. Keep things on a need-to-know basis. Which is also why I tried to talk Mr. Harland out of bringing you into this. But he insisted. Wanted to meet you.” A crooked smile. “Though I don’t think it’s gonna be a pleasant conversation.”

  “Who knows, Lieutenant? I might still make myself useful.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” said the other newcomer, stepping up to shake hands. Her grip was firm, no-nonsense.

  Agent Gloria Reese, FBI. A slender, pretty brunette with wary eyes and a placid manner, she had been part of a Bureau team working with Pittsburgh PD this past winter on the Jessup case.

  “Nice to see you again, Agent Reese. Surprising, but nice. I didn’t know kidnapping was a federal crime.”

  She lifted short, unpainted fingernails through her bangs.

  “It isn’t, Dr. Rinaldi. Unless the victim’s been taken across state lines. Regardless, Mr. Harland called the governor personally, and had him request that a senior FBI officer be present, if only in an advisory capacity.” A nod at Biegler. “In cooperation with local police, of course.”

  “Senior officer?”

  “I’m Special Agent Reese now. Deputy section chief for the tri-state area.”

  “Where’s Neal Alcott?”

  “Quantico. A new Bureau research project. The director feels his field experience will be invaluable.”

  Total bullshit. Alcott had been the point man for the Bureau during the Jessup investigation, for which he hadn’t exactly won any laurels. I remembered that he’d been called back to Quantico after the case was over, but I’d figured it was to get a lecture and a slap on the wrist. Not anything permanent.

  Biegler suddenly stepped between us, eyes darkening.

  “Look, you two can catch up later. We’re in the middle of a goddamn shit-storm here.”

  “More like the lull before the storm, Lieutenant,” Gloria said. “Before the next one, anyway.”

  Biegler scowled, but she ignored it. Giving me a quick, collegial smile, she turned to consult with Barney the tech guy.

  “Let’s try to keep our composure, okay, Lieutenant?”

  Arthur Drake spoke forcefully, striding over to where a gleaming, brass-railed wet bar stood against the wall. He peered avidly at the array of bottles. “Besides, at this point, all we can do is wait.”

  “For what?” I said.

  “For the next phone call.”

  It was a new voice, coming from the opened doorway to a second adjoining room. Accompanied by the low squeak of wheelchair tires turning on the hardwood.

  Arthur Drake froze where he stood, fingers half-closed around the neck of a whiskey bottle.

  His boss, Charles Harland, was wheeled into the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Harland looked to be at least eighty, his frail body swallowed up by his incongruous Armani suit. The hair framing his pale, sunken face was a threadbare carpet of gray wisps. His thin hands were gnarled, age-spotted, gripping the rails of his wheelchair as though welded there.

  It was only his eyes—sharp, cunning—that were vibrantly, arrogantly alive. As Harland looked intently from one of us to the other, his eyes seemed paradoxically dark and incandescent. Like miniature black holes, drawing everything and everyone into the pull of their urgent, insistent command.

  Unlike the small, hooded eyes of the fair-haired man behind him, pushing the wheelchair. Maybe late fifties. Equally well-dressed, though much more casually. Tall and languid, his neck was encircled by a thin gold chain with a pendant hanging at its lower end, though I could only see its vague impression where it was tucked in under his designer-label sweater.

  The man brought the chair to a stop, then stood impassively as Charles Harland’s gaze settled on me.

  “You’re him, I assume.” Harland signaled that he be brought further into the room. The man behind him complied.

  “That’s right, Charles.” Drake quickly answered for me. “Dr. Daniel Rinaldi. The psychologist.”

  I left Biegler and Agent Reese to meet Harland in the middle of the room. Offered my hand, but he ignored it.

  “You’re the person Mike told us about.” Harland’s voice was clear and strong, despite a slight quaver. “The therapist my wife saw this afternoon. Without my knowledge. Or permission. I understand you also consult with the police.”

  This time, before I could respond, Biegler spoke up.

  “Only occasionally, sir. Dealing with crime victims who need professional help. He has no role in our investigations.” He cut me a disdainful look. “As I mentioned earlier, I see no reason why he should be involved in this present situation.”

  With some effort, Harland sat up straighter in his chair, squinting coldly at Biegler.

  “Rinaldi’s here because I requested it, Lieutenant. As you well know. And for a very good reason. He was the last person to be with my Lisa before some vile creature abducted her.”

  Harland peered at me again. “I presume you’ve given a detailed description of the kidnapper to the police.”

  “To Sergeant Polk, at the scene. Though I couldn’t tell him much
. It all happened pretty quickly.”

  “So I’ve been informed by Lieutenant Biegler here.”

  “That’s right,” Biegler said. “I conferred earlier with my people still there. Dr. Rinaldi was found unconscious in his office waiting room. Apparently assaulted by the same man who took your wife.”

  “Too bad you couldn’t have done more to stop him,” said the man behind Harland. Though his words were challenging, they had curiously little bite. “Maybe prevented it from happening.”

  I stared at him. “And you are…?”

  “My son,” the old man said brusquely. “James Harland.”

  Apparently it was the custom in this household for people to answer questions addressed to other people. However, I didn’t see much value at the moment in pointing this out.

  “I’m also vice-president of Harland Industries,” James added evenly. “Though, as my father implied, my only real title is that of Charles Harland’s son. It’s also my only real job. Which is why I’m pushing this damned chair in Donna’s absence.”

  Then the younger Harland left his father’s wheelchair and joined Arthur Drake at the wet bar.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” He gave the lawyer a thin smile. “But make it a double.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Arthur,” Harland said flatly. “Unlike you, James can’t hold his liquor. Never could.”

  James Harland looked over at me. “My childhood in a nutshell, Doctor. My father’s unending disappointment with his only son. Only surviving son, that is.”

  Drake shook his head. “Jimmy, please…not now.”

  “What do you mean? He’s a psychologist, right? I’m sure he’d be interested in our family history.”

  By now, I was aware of the subtle though unmistakable slur in his voice. He’d already had a few.

  “Besides,” James went on, “all Rinaldi’s heard about us so far came from Lisa. And God knows what that bitch said. I just wanna go on the record, too.”

  With a quick, knowing glance at his boss, Mike Payton walked over to the wet bar. But spoke only to Drake.