Never Kissed Goodnight

by Edie Claire

  Leigh and Warren were silent for a moment, then Warren exhaled with conviction. "Well, that does it," he announced. "No one in the family needs to have anything to do with this guy. If his friends are blackmailers and kidnappers I have no desire to meet his enemies. Leigh—you're coming home. I don't like Mason knowing you're here. It could be dangerous just being around him."

  "I agree," Maura said soberly. "But tracking him down may be our best bet for getting to the kidnapper." She turned to Leigh. " We found the Escort, thanks to your remembering the license number, but now we’ve hit a dead end. The car—rented under the name Mason Dublin, of course—was returned to the airport within an hour of the crime. We think the kidnapper took a cab back into town, but if he left on either a train or the bus, he used another alias. We need more info on this guy, and it sounds like Mason Dublin has it. We'll set up a tracer on your phone; maybe we'll get lucky and he'll call."

  Warren's brow creased. "He could find out our address, too, couldn't he? From the phone number?"

  "Don't worry about that," Leigh interrupted, knowing what Maura's answer would be and feeling foolish for giving out her number at all. "If he wanted to drop in he would have asked for my address in the first place, wouldn't he?"

  She refrained from telling them that despite any good sense she might have to the contrary, she didn’t think Cara's father posed any threat. Hadn't he been ready to walk out of her room after he established that Jagger-lips wasn't the kidnapper? But when he found out the kidnapper was someone he knew, he had stopped. Maybe he really did want to help.

  "Besides," she continued, "All he could find out from the phone records would be what apartment complex we lived in. We've got decent security in the building now—I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. Can we just go home, please?"

  Her husband eyed her skeptically and cast a questioning glance at the detective. "Don't look at me," Maura said, smiling slyly. "She's all yours, Harmon." She punctuated the statement by rising and delivering one of her signature back claps. Warren swayed, but only a little. Though Maura’s back claps had felled many a heavier man, he had long since learned to brace himself.

  "I don't think there's any need to clear out of your place," Maura continued. "But don't answer your phone at all till we get the tracer set up. And—" she threw Leigh a meaningful glare. "If he should try to contact you in person, just get away from him. Then let me know ASAP."

  "Don't worry. Leigh will not be participating in any more clandestine rendezvous with criminals," Warren said firmly, eyeing her. He hadn't given her too much grief about her midnight excursion to the bus station, but then, she had confessed the whole thing while lying in a hospital bed. The next time could be touchier. She smiled at him innocently, but his warning glare didn't waver.

  "I hope not," Maura answered, preparing to leave. There was a little note of amusement in her voice that made Leigh turn to look at her. The detective was taking all this seriously enough, but at the same time, she seemed to be in an unusually good mood. Curious.

  "I'll check in with you guys in a few hours," the detective announced, still with a slight smile. "Right now, I have some hospital employees to question."

  Chapter 15

  "You are not going to stay here and baby-sit me all day," Leigh told her husband with conviction. "Not that I don't enjoy it, but the election is tomorrow, and I know you have a million things to do. So go. I'll be perfectly fine. You heard what the doctor said: a little rest for a few days and I'll be good as new. I'm just going to lie around and vegetate. Promise."

  Warren didn't answer immediately. After getting her settled on the couch and confirming that the phone surveillance mechanisms were all in place, he had started rambling restlessly around the apartment. "How's your head?" he asked finally, ignoring her comment. "You can have another pain pill now if you want it."

  "No thanks," she answered, wishing he would cut it out and stand still for a minute. Her headache had improved dramatically as soon as she was out of the hospital, but watching him pace around like an animal in a cage wasn't helping things. "Warren," she said heavily. "Get out of here. Please. I refuse to single-handedly wreck your campaign."

  He stopped moving then and came and sat down next to her. "I do really need to go out for a while. But—"

  "But what?"

  "But we both know that the minute I'm out that door, you're going to be up doing something you shouldn't."

  She feigned innocence. "Like what, pray?"

  "I shudder to think."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I'll be fine."

  "I know you will."

  Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Does that mean you're staying or going?"

  He flashed her an enigmatic smile and rose. "It means I've called in the A team."

  A knock sounded on the apartment door, and horror dawned. "Oh, no," she exclaimed. "You didn't."

  "I did," he said unapologetically. "And it seems she's right on schedule." He strode to the door and greeted Frances, who entered with a flourish—and a casserole dish.

  "Hello, Leigh, dear," she said without smiling. "Have you been behaving yourself so far?"

  Leigh didn't answer, but instead threw a panicked, irate glance at her husband, who was heading out the door with amazing speed. He paused only briefly to offer a goodbye wave. "I'll be back early this evening," he said with a grin. "Be good!"

  His eyes twinkled evilly as he backed out, and Leigh returned her most ominous glare. Election or no election, retribution would be hers.

  "Now," Frances announced, sitting down heavily on the armchair next to Leigh. "What shall we do this afternoon? You shouldn't be reading or watching any television, you know—it would be too hard on your eyes. But—" Her beady browns made a quick sweep of the room, and her lips pursed. "Oh, my. Poor Warren. I know you think you're busy, dear, but he really shouldn't have to do housework in the middle of an election."

  Leigh groaned inwardly. Only Frances could simultaneously fuss at a person for overdoing and berate them for laziness. It was a gift.

  In truth, Warren did do most of the cleaning, but only—as she had explained a thousand times—because his standards were higher than hers. Granted, he had let things slip a little in the pre-election fray, but not nearly enough to warrant her involvement. The heat kicked on, and Leigh began speaking quickly, hoping to distract her mother from the next performance of the dance of the cat-hair tumbleweeds. "The apartment is fine, Mom. Why don't we just sit and talk?" You can tell me everything about Mason Dublin you left out the first time, she thought hopefully. She cleared her throat and began, trying to sound conversational. "You never told me how much Cara looked like her father."

  But Frances's hawk eyes were already fixed on a spot at the corner of the ceiling, and she hustled off to the kitchen without responding, returning a few moments later with a broom. "Mom," Leigh began again, "did you hear what I said? I said I know that Cara looks just like her father."

  Frances aimed the broom at the corner. "You've got a spider up here the size of Rhode Island."

  Leigh gritted her teeth. "That's Harold," she growled. "Leave him alone."

  A muffled whack issued from the corner. "Sorry," Frances said glibly. "He's at eternal rest."

  Leigh kept a straight face and tried again. "What I'm trying to tell you is that I saw Mason Dublin. This morning. He came to my room at the hospital."

  Frances said nothing for another moment as she strode about the room, running the broom along the edges of the ceiling. "Yes, I know," she responded flatly. "Warren told me all about it when he called."

  Leigh's eyebrows rose. "So, aren't you surprised? He came to Pittsburgh to visit his sister in the hospital. Or so he says. What do you think?"

  Frances's expression remained stony as she turned her attention to a shaking out of the drapes. "I think that nothing that man could do would surprise me."

  "He wasn't what I was expecting in a bank robber," Leigh continued, puzzling over her mo
ther's reticence—and lack of curiosity. "I wonder if he could have changed over the years?"

  "Possibly," Frances answered on an exhale. "But I doubt it. Bad judgment is bad judgment."

  "Still," Leigh defended, wondering why she was doing so, "he was just a kid at the time, wasn't he? A lot younger than me."

  Frances paused a moment and looked at her. "What does it matter now? What's done is done. Lydie doesn't want that man in her life or Cara's, and once this kidnapping business is straightened out, it would be better for everybody if you forgot you ever saw him. You haven't told Cara, have you?"

  Leigh's brow furrowed. "Not yet, but why would I keep it from her? She knows everything else now."

  Frances's eyes glittered with something Leigh vaguely recognized as guilt. "Perhaps," she said stiffly, turning away. "But I wish you'd wait until Lydie gets back. In the meantime, why don't you close your eyes for a few moments? Just tell me where you keep your carpet cleaner. There's a little spot right here…"

  ***

  Leigh leaned her aching head back on the bench and gazed up into the gently swaying tree branches above.

  Peace.

  She might not be capable of eluding the Clean Machine completely, but her pleas for fresh air were a stroke of genius. The carpet cleaner did have an annoying aroma, and since Frances couldn't possibly be expected not to comply with the directions, which said not to vacuum for fifteen minutes, Leigh knew she could count on at least a temporary respite. She gazed up from the bench, which sat in the apartment's marginal greenspace/playground, and could just see Frances's snow-capped head peeping at her from out their kitchen window.

  She closed her eyes again. The great watchdog never slept, but at least she could be ignored for a while. The cool November sun felt good on her face, and the throbbing in her head—which had recurred shortly after her mother's arrival—began to lessen again. Perhaps after this, a nap. Frances couldn't very well deny her that.

  She was just about to drift off when a fallen leaf crackled near her feet, and the light left her face.

  Instinctively, her eyes flew open.

  "Don't worry," a newly familiar voice said casually. "It's only me again."

  She couldn't help jumping a bit, but quickly struggled to regain her cool. "Now you're following me?" She asked with what she hoped was equal casualness. "I thought you said you'd call."

  "That was plan B," Mason answered, tossing his head toward the bench. "May I?"

  Leigh hesitated only a second or two before scooting over. Maybe he was dangerous, and maybe he wasn't. Either way, if she knew her mother, he would soon be in the hands of the police. Frances wouldn't let five minutes pass without checking on her, and when she saw Mason, she'd dial 911 on the spot. Leigh just needed to keep him here.

  "So," she began, anxious to extract all the information she could in the meantime. "How is it that you're acquainted with a blackmailer and a kidnapper, and how much of a kickback do you get for selling out your relatives?"

  She watched his eyes, expecting to see either guilt or resentment, but neither appeared. Instead, his face softened into a smile: a sad, vulnerable smile that probably served him well in his days as a knife salesman, not to mention his later life of fraudulent crime. "Like mother, like daughter," he said with admiration. "Always protecting the family. I like that. I'm trying to protect them, too. That's why I had to talk to you again."

  Leigh glared at him. "Excuse me if I'm skeptical."

  The smile only widened. "Apology accepted. But it's the truth." He scanned the courtyard and surrounding parking lot with a wary eye, then took a deep breath. "You can call off the fuzz; I'll tell you what happened with the kidnapping." His shoulders slumped a little, his cocky manner turning suddenly self-conscious. "It's like this. I'm an ex-con. Ex-cons tend to end up with other ex-cons—it's a law of nature. For the past couple of years I've been bartending, and I've met a lot of people you wouldn't want to meet. Normally I keep my business to myself, but occasionally I slip. A year or so ago my sister sent me a newspaper clipping about the baby, and I slipped."

  She stared at him in confusion. "What do you mean, slipped?" she asked, getting angry. "You found out you had a grandson, so you asked somebody to kidnap him?"

  This time his eyes did fill with resentment, but his response was mild. "Of course not. But I'd been drinking, and—" he paused and shook his head. "There's no excuse. It just happened. Finding out that way, it got to me. I got angry and started drinking and talking crazy. So I told some buddies—" He sighed, looking thoroughly embarrassed. "Well, I mentioned that I had a rich son-in-law."

  Leigh said nothing for a moment. Since the details of what he had said made no sense, the gist was a tough sell. "So you're telling me you had nothing to do with the blackmail, or the kidnapping? That these guys acted totally on their own, right?"

  The aqua-green eyes turned on her curiously. "Blackmail? What blackmail?"

  Leigh tore her eyes away from his and groaned. He had to be pulling her leg, and yet he looked so damn sincere. What was she supposed to believe? She told him about the phone calls and the letter and watched as his expression morphed from puzzlement to mortification—or an excellent imitation thereof. "So none of that was your fault either, right?" She finished with frustration.

  He looked away and rubbed his hands over his face, which suddenly looked older. "Well, of course it was. If I hadn't opened my big mouth, it wouldn't have happened."

  She thought she got the picture now, but she wanted to clarify. "So you weren't just bragging about how you had a son-in-law with a lot of money. You were bragging about how you could get some of that money by using dirt on your ex."

  "Something like that," he said miserably. "But I would never—" he looked at her stony expression and stopped. "The letter. How was it written? With misspellings?"

  She nodded stiffly. "Out the wazoo." She was trying hard not to glance up at the window and look for her mother. Surely she'd called the police by now?

  Mason rose from the bench, swearing under his breath. "That was Sammy. You don't have to worry about him either. He's just a kid. All he's good for is stealing cars, and he's not all that good at that. I doubt he could scrap together bus fare to get up here."

  He cast another anxious glance around the courtyard, and started talking quickly. "Look, Leigh. I can't be here any longer. I probably shouldn't have come in the first place. But when you told me it was Gordy… I'm sorry as hell about all of this. I want everyone to know that it was my fault, and I'm going to take care of it, okay? My—your cousin can stop worrying. Those guys are opportunists, but they’re not bad men. Not really. Not like some I know."

  Leigh looked into Mason's bewitching Cara-like eyes and wished her urge to give into them wasn't so strong. She took a deep breath. "So, how many other not-so-bad men have you been chatting with?"

  He shook his head. "Those two were the only ones who knew enough to make trouble. And they didn't even know where you all lived—not until that stupid TV show."

  Movers and Shakers, Leigh thought grimly. So, that was what had started it all. This Sammy and Gordy had recognized Cara Dublin as Mason's daughter. And why shouldn't they? She had given her maiden name because she used it in her business, she was married to a rich entrepreneur, and furthermore, she looked just like her old man. Sammy had probably looked up the address of Mason's ex in the phone book; Gordy had taken a more direct approach and called Gil's business. Each probably had no idea what the other was up to. But only one had resorted to kidnapping when his blackmail bluff failed. At least, she thought apprehensively, she hoped that was the case. "You can't possibly expect us to call off the police," she protested reasonably. "Not when Matthias could still be in danger."

  "He's not," Mason insisted quickly. "I promise, I'll take care of both of them."

  "How can you promise that?" Leigh asked, her voice rising. She had absolutely no reason to trust him. "What can you possibly do? This Gordy person could have killed your own gr
andson!"

  He shook his head firmly. "No. He's not that kind. He has grandkids of his own."

  "He snatched a toddler! Not to mention giving me a concussion."

  Mason started to say something else, but after a glance at Leigh's irate face, he stopped. His eyes turned liquid. "Please, listen to the rest. It's important. This kidnapping case has been on the TV news, and if you pursue it my name will be, too. There's a good reason to avoid that, and it's got nothing to do with my sterling reputation." His voice dropped low. "I'm in trouble. Big trouble. And anyone linked to me is in trouble, too. Only two men know about the family I left here, and it has to stay that way, for your own protection."

  There was real fear in his eyes now, and the sight of it chilled Leigh to her bones. "Who are you running from?" she asked quietly.

  Mason let out a breath and sank back down on the bench. But even before he reached it, a whizzing sound assaulted Leigh's ears, followed by a dull "whump." The next thing she knew she was on the concrete in front of the park bench—with Mason Dublin on top of her.

  Tires squealed somewhere in the parking lot, and though she twisted to see what was going on, she found herself tightly pinned. Only when the sounds of a gunning engine had receded did Mason move enough that she could breathe. "Stay down for another minute," he hissed into her ear. "Then run back inside."

  Not ordinarily one to follow directions without explanation, Leigh quickly decided to make an exception. She remained frozen to the spot, even as Mason's footfalls indicated he would not be keeping her company. Her scrambled brain tried to make sense of what had just happened, but no matter how she sliced it, her conclusion kept coming up the same. Somebody had just shot at them.

  Chapter 16

  Frances screamed. Repeatedly. And with every shrill "merciful heavens" and "oh, Lord, Lord, Lord," an electric drill pierced another part of Leigh's bruised skull. Otherwise, she was fine.