She answered the door dressed in black jeans and a camel-colored, V-necked sweater. The fuzzy pink slippers didn’t go with the ensemble. Her dark hair was pushed behind her ears, and for the first time he noticed that they stuck out slightly. He felt an odd wrench inside at seeing that small imperfection. He realized in this light he could still see the traces of the scratches she’d gotten crawling through the blackberries Sunday. With circles beneath her eyes dark enough to be bruises, she wasn’t beautiful right now. He wanted to put his arms around her and let her lean on him.
With a wary gaze, she said, “You’re early.”
“Yeah. Sorry. You have one neighbor I haven’t been able to catch at home. I thought I might get lucky.”
She peered past him, then stood back to let him in. “At least it isn’t raining today.”
“No.” He watched her close the door. “Beth, the neighbor was home. She saw you and Sicily leave Saturday morning.”
“What?”
He repeated himself.
“Who?”
He told her.
She blinked. “I didn’t see her.”
“That’s what she said. But Sicily waved at her.”
For an achingly long minute, she only stared at him. “Would you have searched my house if you’d talked to her sooner?”
“No.” He heard the roughness in his voice. “I know it’s inadequate, but I am sorry.”
She stood there taking it in, looking so damn fragile it was all he could do to keep his hands to himself.
Who says I have to?
Coming on to her was still inappropriate and he knew it. She was central to the investigation; she was scared. She was grieving. He’d be taking advantage of her vulnerability, and that’s not what he wanted.
She gave an odd laugh. “I suppose I should say it’s fine.”
Fine? Oh. That he’d turned her house inside out. Brought a cadaver-sniffing dog in. Ensured the whole world knew she was under suspicion in Sicily’s disappearance. Destroyed her reputation, she’d said.
He braced himself. She had hugged him, and he was sure she’d kissed him as intensely as he’d kissed her, but from the moment Sicily disappeared Beth’s emotions had to have been as unsteady as a boat caught out in high seas. He’d been arrogant enough to assume it was up to him whether or not he got involved with her, and the truth was she might not forgive him for the humiliation he’d heaped on her.
She shook herself. “I’d better get ready. I set out a couple of travel mugs if you want to pour us both some coffee.”
He probably should consider himself lucky she hadn’t said, “Well, guess what? It isn’t fine.”
And maybe she’d have been right. Maybe there was no way to get past the fact that he’d suspected her of something as terrible as killing a child. “Oh, oops, turns out you’re a good person after all” probably wouldn’t cut it.
He went to the kitchen and poured the coffee as instructed, wishing he’d met her under different circumstances. But something told him he wouldn’t have gotten to first base if she hadn’t been traumatized. Even if she did much dating—and he seriously doubted she did—why would she have looked twice at a man like him? A cop? Rough-looking, with nothing that could be called style, probably possessing lousy manners compared to what she was used to. Given what she did for a living, she’d meet plenty of smooth men with slick social skills who made a hell of a lot more money than Mike did. Men who’d fit her better. She had that air of class he’d never match.
He might not have been interested, either, he told himself in what was probably self-defense. Yeah, he liked her looks even if she was too skinny—those melting brown eyes, the high, defined cheekbones that made her face unforgettable, those long legs and subtle curves. But his initial interest was no more than any man felt now and again for an attractive woman. The real pull had come later, when she started to fall apart and he saw beneath her chilly facade.
God. What if she didn’t forgive him?
And then it hit him: forgiveness wasn’t even a distant possibility if he didn’t return Sicily to her alive and well. Something that might not be in his power to do.
* * *
SHE HATED THIS HOUSE. EXCEPT for the memorial service for Rachel, Beth hadn’t stepped foot in it since a couple of years after college graduation, when she’d returned for a few keepsakes still in her old bedroom. She had to drive by from time to time; she’d put on parties at other mansions nearby. A high brick wall kept glimpses of the house and garden limited to peeks snatched through the iron gates. She couldn’t always keep herself from turning her head at the right minute to see her childhood home. Sometimes memories would rush over her. Sometimes the sight was more surreal, as if life inside those walls had happened to someone else.
The gates stood open today and half a dozen vehicles filled the space in front of the detached triple-car garage and blocked the circular brick driveway. They were all unmarked, all dark sedans or SUVs. Mike parked behind them, right at home among the cortege.
He turned off the engine and neither of them moved for a moment. “You okay?” he finally asked, and she stirred herself.
“Yes,” she said, then got out and started for the portico.
Within a few strides Mike had caught up with her. The front door stood open, as well, a cluster of men just inside. Mike’s hand on her elbow gave her courage as they walked in. Beth saw her father almost immediately.
His eyebrows rose. “Elizabeth. We didn’t expect you.”
“Father.” She inclined her head slightly, grateful that Mike had stuck to her side rather than stopping to talk to the other cops. “I wanted to be here if the police are able to rescue Sicily.”
“I see.” As always, his expression was pleasant but gave the impression something more important to him waited for his attention. “Your mother is in the living room.”
She nodded and moved in that direction with no intention of seeking out her mother. Mike muttered something under his breath that Beth didn’t catch.
“What?”
“I hate to leave you with them.”
“I’ve dealt with them before.”
His jaw relaxed. “Yeah, I guess you have.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him.
A stir of activity shortly thereafter led to the departure of about half the vehicles. Some rearranging was required for her father to get his Mercedes out of the garage. All concerned agreed that he should drive his own car in case the kidnapper would know it.
Beth had a picture in her mind of all those unmarked cop cars lingering not-so-inconspicuously within a block of the drop-off point, but assumed the experts on kidnapping knew better.
The remaining agents and someone introduced to her as a Seattle P.D. lieutenant moved into the living room and she went with them. Her mother was smiling graciously at the men when she saw Beth.
“Elizabeth! What on earth…” She checked herself and presented an artificial smile nowhere near as warm as the ones for the men in the room. “Darling, come sit down. Let me pour you a cup of coffee.”
Beth accepted the coffee in a fine china cup and sat in a wing chair well away from her mother. She concentrated on the conversation around her rather than the setting. But out of the corner of her eye she could see the tiled fireplace where she’d once broken an arm when her mother threw her against it.
No! I won’t think about it.
From the conversation she gathered that a surveillance van would be parked within visual line of the trash can. Many of the law enforcement personnel would be packed into it, watching events on a monitor, listening to the undercover officers on the street who would be wired. How on earth, she wondered, did anyone ever get away with the money in a crime like this? She hadn’t asked if dye had been inserted like she’d read it was in a bank robbery
. Maybe not, as they wouldn’t want to panic the kidnapper before they caught him or he led them to Sicily.
Dear God, please. She imagined floating outside her body looking down. She was very good at appearing serene when she was anything but. Here she sat, back straight, ankles crossed, sipping coffee. There her mother was, engaging in conversation with the agents and the lieutenant as though they were her invited guests. All so civilized. Some tension was palpable in the room, but for the men, this was part of their job. Some of them probably had children and she didn’t doubt they cared. Her mother—oh, yes, Beth very much doubted that her mother cared at all.
A woman who had always been solitary, Beth had never felt so alone as she did now, understanding that she was the only one for whom the wait would be truly agonizing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WHY DID THIS FEEL LIKE A goddamn disaster waiting to happen?
Mike couldn’t blame it on the CARD team. They weren’t the ones who’d set up the location or timing of the drop-off. But he could see right away that the numbers of civilians around was a problem. They introduced too many variables that could go the kidnapper’s way—or not.
Given that this was out of his jurisdiction, he’d been situated a block away, where he was perusing headlines in a little storefront. His clothing had been deemed casual enough for him to pass unnoticed, but he wasn’t close enough to the scene to affect the outcome unless the guy grabbing the money bolted his way.
Surreptitiously, he checked his watch. One minute. As if on cue, the silver Mercedes turned the corner, waited politely and then backed into a parking spot vacated with impeccable timing by a Seattle P.D. officer driving his daughter’s red Jetta. Beth’s father got out, looked both ways and crossed the street midblock, the money carried in a worn canvas messenger bag.
He stood out among the more casually dressed students and shoppers. Not necessarily a bad thing, except the drop should, ideally, go unnoticed by anyone but the kidnapper.
Greenway paused by the garbage can, which was battered, dirty and damn close to overflowing. It had the kind of flat-topped lid that would be lifted off to allow the sanitation worker to pluck out the trash bag. All they needed was for the garbage truck to roll up in the middle of the operation.
From this distance, Greenway looked a little flustered to Mike. He pretended he was tossing away a piece of trash, a pretty obvious fake for anyone looking closely. His head turned; right, left. He waited as a group of laughing women carrying Starbucks cups passed, paying no attention to him. Then he slid the messenger bag off his shoulder and hastily stuffed it behind the battered brown trash can. He was in such a hurry to get away, he stepped into the street without checking for traffic and causing someone to put on their brakes and lean on the horn. Waving an apology, he hurried across and got in his car.
Mike didn’t care if he drove away or not. His attention was all on the can and the sidewalk to each side. He’d quit even pretending to look at headlines.
A couple of people passed by, oblivious. But a minute later a figure sidled toward the trash can. He looked like a homeless guy wearing army camouflage and carrying a black plastic trash bag that Mike guessed held aluminum cans. The guy’s head turned as furtively as Greenway’s had and he began to pick through the garbage. He seemed invisible to passersby, who were used to the homeless in this part of town. He shuffled to one side to get out of way of a group of students, seemed to notice the messenger bag and again darted a look each way. Mike saw long, stringy dark hair and a beard. With a quick movement he snatched up the bag, slung it over his shoulder and took off.
Movement erupted, cops coming out of the woodwork. Running himself, Mike heard the yelled commands.
“Police! Freeze!”
Everyone stopped for a block in each direction and stared. The fool kept running but he didn’t get half a block before someone brought him crashing to the sidewalk. The plastic trash bag exploded, aluminum cans flying every which way. A couple of students across the street cupped their hands and yelled something about police brutality. Within seconds, the guy was dragged to his feet, cuffed and pushed against a wall, his cheek ground into the concrete block.
“It was garbage,” he whined. “Somebody threw it away! Why are you arresting me?”
Oh, crap. What if he was a homeless guy?
Mike stopped and rotated in place, taking in everything around him. Some people were still staring. Others were dissipating. People walking away in every direction. Click, click, click, he took mental snapshots. Remember faces. Expressions. Vehicles. A man was heading into the depths of the parking garage not far away. Another turning into the alley. Cars came and went out of the bookstore parking lot. A battered small blue sedan—American, he thought, maybe a Ford?—pulled out of a slot at the curb up the block. The driver had long blond hair, was all he could tell. Mike took a couple of steps after it—get the license number, his gut told him—but too late. L… Was that a U? Shit, shit, he couldn’t even be sure of the second letter. Lucky to hit the light green, the car made a left turn and accelerated out of sight.
The handcuffed dude was four-deep in cops yelling questions at him. One of them had something in his hand—a driver’s license with a hole punched in it, which made it no good—and he was on the phone.
Mike tipped his head back, looked up at the sky and said a few, very profane words.
* * *
“YOU DON’T THINK HE’S THE kidnapper,” Beth said, dazed.
She stood now beside her parents, the three of them facing half a dozen law enforcement officials led by Agent Trenor of the FBI.
“We can’t be positive yet, but it’s looking like he may be someone who was in the wrong place at the worst possible time.” To her credit, Agent Trenor sounded apologetic. “We couldn’t do anything but grab him,” she said, “but if our guy was watching he now knows your father didn’t come alone per instructions.”
She was paralyzed with fear. “What will he do?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Mike walked into the room as if he’d only now arrived, his gaze going straight to Beth. He circled the group but stayed back.
“All we can do at this point is wait for the kidnapper to once again contact you, Mr. Greenway.”
“Will he do that?” her father asked.
“He wants his money. The only way to get it is to give you another chance.”
“What if he cuts his losses?” Beth said harshly.
The agent tipped her head regretfully. “That is a possibility, of course. I can only say again that we had no options today. Our goal was to grab whoever picked up the money. It’s unfortunate that it appears the wrong person took it.”
Unfortunate.
“We recommend that you insist on proof of life,” she said, looking at Beth’s father. “Tell him you won’t pay if he doesn’t provide irrefutable verification that Sicily is alive.”
In case he’d disposed of her today, before he left to collect his money. Not disposed of—murdered.
Beth realized she was breathing hard.
A discussion began. Would the kidnapper punish them in some way for today’s fiasco? How? What kind of situation would he demand next time? How would Greenway convince him that he’d made a mistake, that he regretted involving the police and was willing to do anything to get his granddaughter back?
Mike nodded as if agreeing with this point, frowning slightly to refute that one. Beth watched, incredulous, yet knowing that from long practice she was expressionless. She felt like a statue, frozen in place, the fear trapped in her like waves boiling in a lava cave. Rising, falling, tumultuous with the pressure. Everyone was ignoring her now. She didn’t look toward Mike again, to see what he was doing, whether he was participating in this ludicrous, all too serious dialogue based on fiction.
What if the man doesn’t call? she wanted
to say, even as she knew there was no answer. If he didn’t call…someday, somebody would find Sicily’s body. And there would never be an answer, only another funeral. And guilt, so much guilt.
Movement toward the door suggested at least some of the people were leaving. The excitement was over. A phone rang, everyone turned to look at her father, but no, it was someone else’s, and the momentary heightened interest diminished.
“We’ll keep someone here 24/7,” she heard Agent Trenor say. “You won’t be alone.”
She no longer listened, until she heard the tail end of a question. “Watching the house?”
“It’s highly unlikely,” one of the unnamed agents—or was he Seattle P.D.?—assured her parents. “Maybe in a different neighborhood, but not here.”
Suddenly her mother was in front of her, face rigid. “I don’t know how you had the nerve to come here today,” she said coldly, “when Rachel’s daughter was taken because you were irresponsible.”
For a moment Beth stared in shock. Guilt—oh, yes, she felt it. But rage was stronger, so powerful she said, “Only for Sicily’s sake would I have stepped foot in this house.”
Silence fell around them; she knew it and didn’t care.
Her father turned, alarm on his face. “Rowena, my dear, please, not now….”
Her mother didn’t pay him any more attention than Beth did. “If we’re fortunate enough to get Sicily back, she won’t be going home with you. I’m giving you notice right now. If you have any common decency, you’ll leave her here where she’ll be safe.”
“No.” She heard herself; it was an echo of what she’d told Mike. “I will never leave Sicily alone with you. And I promise you, you don’t want to take this to court.”
“If you think Rachel’s ridiculous request that our granddaughter go to you will have any weight if we take this to court…”
Rachel’s daughter. Our granddaughter. Only once had her mother brought herself to say Sicily’s name. Sicily, Sicily, Sicily.
Making Her Way Home Page 17
