Beachcomber Baby

by Stephanie Queen

  Unfortunately the shot, even from the puny .22, was loud enough to bring Toly’s bodyguards rushing in from the hall.

  Shana turned to aim her pistol at them and Dane held Toly’s knifepoint straight to the man’s jugular.

  He said, “Let’s calm down, everyone. I’m not a kidnapper. I’m protecting Paulette.” He stared the man down. Anatoly stared back for a beat and then must have decided that his old adversary-pal with the beachcomber’s soul couldn’t have suddenly turned into a baby kidnapper overnight. Or over ten years.

  Anatoly nodded to his men and said, “Lower your weapons.”

  Dane backed off and tossed the knife onto a chair a safe distance away from all the action and the warriors. Shana was the last to lower her weapon. Dane didn’t know whether to be proud or scared.

  “What the hell is going on here, Dane Blaise?” Anatoly growled his question.

  “I think we have a mutual problem, Toly. I think we can help each other.”

  Dane told him about Paulette being left at a church—leaving out Father Donahue’s name—no need to impeach the priest or involve him further in this—and about the subsequent attempted kidnapping and shooting.

  Toly’s reaction startled him. The old man looked surprised, then he showed a mysterious little smile—until Dane mentioned the kidnap attempt and shooting of a nun. Then the man’s red-faced rage showed and he made sense again.

  “You know any reason why someone would want to kidnap Paulette? Does this have to do with the baby farm operation at the Garage Club—or is it more about an organizational coup?” He waited a beat, but the man seemed to be thinking it over.

  “Toly? You have problems with insubordination in the ranks—in the family?”

  “It would appear so.” He spoke with a tight, controlled voice and then took a breath and asked, “Is Father—the priest all right?”

  Dane looked at the man. Of all the responses he expected, this was not top on the list. Toly had never been a religious man that he knew of. There was something more to this story—something they were missing—but this wasn’t the time to discuss back-story details. He said, “Yes, the priest is all right.”

  Shana darted him a questioning look. She knew Toly was holding something back too, but they needed to find Lara and deal with Mr. Cool, Spartak Ivanov.

  Shana spoke up and addressed Toly, “Is Lara’s last name Bennett?”

  Toly paused, squinted at her and then said, “Yes. Her mother, my beloved daughter, married an American man and Lara was raised in the suburbs like an ordinary American. I want her to keep her American dream life.”

  Shana understood. Dane understood. Whatever they did, whatever happened with the FBI, they needed to protect Lara and her daughter Paulette from being touched by the fallout. They needed to remove the threat from Toly’s men. And the trickier part, they needed to shield her—and Toly if possible—from the FBI. Dane knew this and he hoped Shana bought into it too. She more recently hailed from official law enforcement. He’d been off the books long enough to see the big picture.

  He wasn’t sure about Shana. Toly—who probably got this—wasn’t sure about Shana. Dane needed to watch out for Shana. He didn’t want Toly leveraging her.

  “We have to assume that Spartak has Lara—for leverage,” Dane said. To make sure the old man harbored no small illusions about whether his rotten grandson would go this far in betraying his family.

  “I understand. The betrayal is complete.”

  “But we’ll check Lara’s apartment first—talk to people in the area to see what we can find out. You have your men go to Spartak’s place.”

  “It’s a plan.” Toly rose from his chair, straightened himself out, and nodded at his two assistants. The two men darted a look at Dane before leaving. He couldn’t be sure but he sensed some respect mixed in with their incredulousness.

  Shana finally tucked her little pistol back into her little bag. She’d been holding it down and at the ready at her side until the two bodyguards left. What a partner.

  Dane shook Toly’s hand.

  “You’ll be waiting here?” Dane asked. Toly nodded.

  “I have other security arriving soon.”

  “The day shift.”

  Toly laughed. “Such are the precautions of a wealthy American businessman—even in the suburbs.”

  Dane went along with the charade. Bottom line—Anatoly had the home base covered if Spartak came his way. It was time to go.

  He and Shana walked through the entry hall, out the front door and down the drive to the gate. It opened for them automatically. Dane gave a pat to one of the two dogs and said, “I’ll be back—remember me, Rufus.”

  “How do you know his name is Rufus?” Shana asked. “You know these dogs?”

  “No—just a guess.”

  They strolled back to the car and Dane decided it was a good idea to revert back to their undercover pose as lovers-on-a-stroll. He reached out and hauled Shana into his side and nuzzled her neck, taking a deep breath of her essence. The scent was indescribable, yet unmistakable. And intoxicating.

  “Father Donahue is in big trouble when Anatoly finds out he’s the father of Lara’s baby,” Shana said.

  “I don’t know. Something’s not right there. Anatoly was particularly concerned about the priest—and not because he’s a big churchgoer or even a member of that parish.” Dane felt like he was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle. They’d made progress and among them all would find Lara and Spartak and resolve the matter without ever talking to the FBI, but something was out of line.

  He said, “Toly was concerned about the priest for some reason—some other important reason.”

  Shana shrugged her shoulders under his grip. “Maybe he already knows the priest is Paulette’s father.”

  Dane laughed. “I don’t think so. I didn’t see any disfiguring scars on good old Father D.”

  “Maybe the scars are in places we can’t see.” Shana looked up at him with a devilish smile as they reached the car.

  “You’re sick.” Dane opened her door for her and trapped her in that triangle—fast becoming his favorite move. She let him lower his mouth and brush his lips across hers in a tantalizing wisp. He felt the lush plump give of her lips and the light moisture as her mouth parted a sliver. He was tempted, so tempted as he felt every nerve ending tighten. The tension made him feel like his skin had shrunk and closed in around his body, squeezing the air out of him. But he held back and lifted his head. She fluttered those intense green eyes at him and he backed off, pushing her inside the car and looking away.

  Not even the deepest breath of sea air—which was nowhere around here—would be able to relieve the desperate tension he felt at this moment.

  She said, “Let’s go, partner.”

  That burst something in him—maybe his illusions. He walked around the car and got in the driver’s side and started the engine. It would be a quick ride. Lara lived less than two miles away near the Boston College campus.

  Dane was surprised when they pulled up in front of a large old wood-frame Victorian three-family. He’d expected a luxury penthouse condo. But then Toly had said she was a typical suburban American. Maybe he was right. Maybe she wasn’t a Russian princess type.

  “Let’s be cautious. Sparty could be here,” Dane put a hand on Shana’s arm as she was about to bounce out of her car door. “This isn’t a panty raid.”

  She gave him a look and said, “Sparty? Really?”

  He smiled through his game face. “You gonna rat me out, girlie?”

  “First chance I get. I’m gonna say, ‘Hey Ivany, you shoulda heard Dane here calling you ‘Sparty’ behind your back.’” She shook her head and added, “Of course I was going to be careful—you jerk.” Then she got out and closed the door quietly, holding her gun low with two hands, and came around the car. He’d gotten out and they approached the front porch of the house from an angle where it would have been tough for anyone looking out their front windows to see
them. He looked up. Unless they were up in the cupola. Damn it.

  They climbed up the steps. Dane took the center stairs and Shana approached from the left side. There were three doors with accompanying doorbells and mailboxes. The name Bennett was listed as number three, as Toly had told them. Dane pressed the bell. They waited—this was the worst part—for someone to answer. It was not an exact science trying to determine how much time to give a potentially innocent person to answer their door when there could also just as easily be a not-so-innocent person in there. But odds were on this occasion that no one was in there at all.

  And that would have been another whole equation of problem solving. But on this day, Dane was saved the headache. The buzzer sounded and he opened the door and walked down the short hallway, leading with his gun, toward a closed door.

  When the door opened inward, he dropped to a knee with his gun raised. Shana stood behind him against the wall with her gun raised and stretched across the front of her body. They both yelled at the poor woman in the door to stop and raise her hands. To the woman’s credit, she didn’t vomit, or cry, or shut the door in their face—all of which were real and actual past scenarios of how this scene had played out—she stood, as instructed, with her hands raised.

  Shana came around him and patted her down quickly, then turned and nodded and slipped her gun into the back of her pants.

  “I’m sorry, miss. We’re here on behalf of Anatoly Ivanov. We’re looking for his granddaughter who has been missing and we have reason to believe she may be in danger,” Shana said as she swept past the shell-shocked girl into the apartment.

  Dane moved forward and said, “It’s okay. You’re her roommate, right?” He shoved his gun back into his pants and put out his hand, “I’m Dane Blaise. May we come in and ask you some questions?”

  The girl nodded vigorously, but said nothing. Still shell-shocked. They needed to work on honing their encounters with innocent civilians.

  Shana was ahead of him and had her gun out again, making a motion that she would check the other rooms while he waited with the girl in the kitchen. Dane motioned for the girl to be quiet with his index finger raised over his lips. He heard Shana move from room to room and watched the girl becoming gradually paler until Dane was afraid they’d end up questioning a ghost.

  Finally, Shana reentered the kitchen, slipping her gun back into her pants and smiling. “All clear. What’s your name?”

  The girl stood mute. Dane gently guided her by the arm and led her to a rocking chair in the corner of the room—one of those newfangled glider jobs that looked like it was used to rock a baby—Paulette.

  “Are you Lara’s roommate?” They weren’t told about a roommate, but Dane figured it was a good icebreaker.

  “No—I’m a friend—a neighbor. I live next door. Look, I was just looking in on her cat. I haven’t seen Lara in a couple of days.” The girl started crying.

  Dane looked around for the cat and didn’t see one, but he saw the rug-covered tower in another corner of the room.

  Shana stooped down in front of the girl and asked in a gentler voice, “What’s your name?”

  “Debbie.”

  “Debbie, we’re here to help. We’re looking for Lara and we—”

  “What about Paulette? Is she… is she—”

  “No,” Dane said. “She’s not missing. Paulette is staying with us in a safe place.” They’d have to make sure Paulette was moved out of the beach shack as soon as possible. Too many people knew her whereabouts now.

  Debbie leaned back in the glider-rocker and closed her eyes. “Thank God. I was so worried. You have no idea.”

  Dane didn’t bother telling her he had a very good idea but asked, “What do you mean? What can you tell us?”

  “Like I said, I haven’t seen Lara for two days—but I haven’t seen Paulette for three days. And I—well, I don’t know if I should say—”

  “Has there been a man around here speaking with a Russian accent, small and wiry, dark hair, quiet and mean?” Shana asked.

  “Yes—that’s her new creepy boyfriend. He has a funny name—I only heard her say it once and he almost smacked her for it. We were outside on the front porch when he came up the stairs. I’ll tell you Lara didn’t look too happy to see him considering he was her boyfriend.”

  “Spartak?” Shana prompted.

  The girl nodded.

  “What makes you say he was her boyfriend?” Shana asked.

  “He said so. Lara didn’t say much. He’d only come around a few times. Didn’t stay long. Lara refused to talk about him. Even when I told her I thought he was bad news and she ought to ditch him. Lara is a beautiful girl—and sweet—the kind of girl who could get anyone she wants.” Debbie took a breath and then started up again before either he or Shana could ask a question. “Before you ask—I have no idea what the story is with Paulette’s father. She won’t talk about it. Lara is very serious about finishing school and having a career.”

  “Can you give us the name of her babysitter or anyone else who might have information?”

  “I’m her babysitter. She doesn’t need much help. Her grandpa helps out most of the time. He’s—”

  “A prince. We know.” Dane didn’t want her to get started again on another tangent. He looked at his watch. It was getting late and they needed to get back to the Vineyard before Sparty. “I think we have what we came for,” he said.

  Dane pulled Shana to a stand. “We need to go. Now.” She nodded and they left.

  “You drive,” he said and tossed her the keys. “I’m going to make some calls.”

  “Where am I driving to? The governor’s heliport? The Ivanov mansion? Or Sparty’s place?” Shana raised a brow.

  “Good question. Let me call Toly to see what his men found.” Or didn’t find. He punched in his new best Russian friend’s number and hoped to hell his hunch was wrong and Toly’s men had found Sparty at home. And if they did, they were heading straight over so they could get their licks in before calling in the authorities.

  Toly answered on the second ring.

  “Any word?”

  “Nothing good. That traitor Spartak has cleared out.”

  “No sign of Lara?”

  “There is a sign of her, but she’s not there now.”

  “Where else could she be, Toly? Think—what other properties does Spartak have access to or use for business?”

  “I’m told he’s been using a warehouse lately—out at the waterfront.” Toly gave him the address and he repeated it to Shana.

  “Commercial Wharf? I have no idea where that is, but I do know it’s not anywhere in this neighborhood.”

  “Get us back onto Storrow Drive East, heading back into Boston. Can you do that without getting us lost?”

  “I may be from out of town—”

  “Out of the country—make that out of the hemisphere, Ms. Aussie girl.”

  “But I learn fast. I have an aptitude for navigating.”

  “You mean you have a good sense of direction.”

  “Never mind—make your damn calls. One of them better be to David Young or the governor.”

  Dane dialed David Young and prepared himself for bad news about Beachcomber Investigation’s relationship with the FBI.

  “We’re making progress,” Dane said. “Anatoly Ivanov is going to give us his grandson Spartak Ivanov for the baby farm operation—and whatever else you and the FBI can pin on him—including kidnapping. It looks like he or his men have Lara Ivanov, Paulette’s mother, aka Anatoly Ivanov’s granddaughter.”

  “You’re a fountain of good news,” David said. “Any possibility you can stop in at the office in between tracking down kidnappers? I have the ASAC Mark Richards waiting in my conference room and he’s rather anxious about all this. Any little reassurance would go a long way.”

  “After we check out a warehouse on Commercial Street we’ll stop in. Maybe—if we’re very lucky—we’ll bring them a witness.”

  “Lara Ivan
ov? Won’t that make your friend Anatoly upset?”

  “Not as upset as he’d be if we let his grandson get to Paulette. I’m thinking she’s the target now and Sparty’s going to use her for leverage.”

  “Sparty? Good nickname. I think you could be right. I’ll check in with Captain Lynch.”

  “Do that—and tell him to move Paulette to another location.”

  “Roger that.”

  Dane ended the call and looked out the windshield to see that they were off Storrow Drive and sailing down North Washington Street well on their way to Commercial Avenue and the warehouse district.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You should be. I typed in the address in my phone one handed while driving because you’re a useless slug over in the passenger seat—which is traditionally where the copilot and trusty navigator sits.” Shana spoke conversationally as she gunned the gas into a left-hand turn on a yellow arrow onto Commercial Street.

  “Start looking for numbers.”

  “Maybe we ought to slow down. Toly’s men were going to meet us here and we shouldn’t go in light. Chances are good that Sparty has some upstarts with him in on the coup of his grandfather’s operation and standing guard.”

  “No kidding. And hey, you better watch out with that nickname shit ’cause if you say it in front of him—”

  “Oh yeah? What’s he gonna do? Shoot me?”

  “Like, yeah.” She laughed and then slammed on the brakes, pulling the wheel hard to the left. “Sorry. This is the place.”

  Sometimes Shana George was a little too competent. After he lurched back to a rest in his seat and rubbed his whiplashed neck, he opened his door and said,

  “You stay here and watch for Toly’s men—I don’t want to get caught in any cross fire. I’ll call Toly and let him know I’m here.”

  Dane made the call to Toly and his old comrade directed him to an office at the back of the building as the most likely place to store a person. They’d had occasion for keeping people stashed there in the past, he explained, and Spartak was well aware of this—had even pulled guard duty on occasion. Most importantly, Toly said, “He has a key.”