Complete Mia Kazmaroff

by Kiernan-Susan Lewis

  Sandy laughed. “You have the same look on your face that most men do when they see the Porsche of their dreams.”

  She tied an apron on pulled out a carton of eggs from the refrigerator.

  “If you like them fancy,” she said, “there’s all kinds of stuff in the fridge.”

  He went to the refrigerator and pulled out mushrooms, cheese and a jar of roasted peppers. “Do you have onions somewhere?”

  “In the pantry.”

  “So both the bodyguard and Imelda are live-in?”

  “No, just Jay. He’s got a room at the far end of the house, but close to Mama’s room. Imelda cooks for us and he eats in the kitchen.”

  “Is your mama upstairs?”

  “She has her own suite up there. TV set, couch, the works. She wasn’t feeling too social tonight but she said to tell you hey.”

  “Vernetta never liked me.”

  “And I don’t know why. Anybody else’s mama would kill to have the clean-cut Burton boy eating PBJs at their kitchen table. I never did understand it.”

  They worked quietly and Jack was struck by how well they worked together. Even though it wasn’t his kitchen, he moved easily from stove to counter, as did Sandy. Almost like a ballet. Mia wasn’t interested in cooking and rarely came into the kitchen if she could help it. The minute he thought of her, a slight twinge ran through him—an uncomfortable twinge. He dismissed it.

  They brought their omelets and grilled garlic bread into the cavernous dining room and sat down next to each other.

  “You know I cook for people like you,” he said. “People too rich to whip up their own scrambled eggs.”

  Sandy laughed. “I know I’ve taken on airs, Jack Burton, but surely I’m not that bad. I can still scramble my own eggs.”

  “And very well, too.”

  She reached out and held his wrist. He looked at her in surprise.

  “I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I got you involved in all this,” she said, her eyes moist.

  “Hey, girl,” he said, covering her hand with his, “that’s okay. I feel pretty bad that I left you holding the bag sixteen years ago.”

  “I asked you to. But what you must think of me? I mean, to have a teenaged girl thrust into your life and I don’t even know…are you seeing someone? Will this be hard to explain to a special someone?”

  “There is someone and we’ve talked about it. She’s very cool and I know she’ll be excited to meet Twyla.”

  Sandy nodded, her eyes narrowing. She removed her hand and picked up her fork.

  “Is it someone you’ve been seeing for a while?” she asked.

  “I’ve known her for a while, but the dating thing is recent.”

  “I’m not sure you’re going to want to introduce her to Twyla any time soon, Jack. She’s a very confused teenager.”

  “Mia can handle it. She’s not your average anything.”

  “No, of course not. She wouldn’t be if she’s dating you. I didn’t want to spring this on you just yet, but some of Twyla’s problems are quite serious.”

  “Like?”

  “She’s already been caught once for possession since we moved to Atlanta.”

  Jack nodded grimly.

  “And I’m pretty sure she’s not a virgin either,” Sandy said.

  Maybe it was the juxtaposition of having just come from the bed of a twenty-eight-year-old woman who was a virgin and realizing that this child of fifteen wasn’t, but Jack felt a twinge in his gut.

  “Have you tried counseling?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. Useless. She’s got quite a mouth on her. You’ll see. I think even professional counselors have a limit to the amount of abuse they’ll take—even at two hundred dollars an hour.”

  “Was she like this before…?”

  “The divorce? The DNA test?” Sandy put her fork down, as if she’d lost her appetite. “No, I’d say that would be a pretty accurate assessment of when everything started to go south for her.”

  “Poor kid.”

  Sandy folded up her napkin and stared at the cooling omelet on her plate. “I really hope you still think so when you get to know her.”

  “I’m pretty tough, Sandy,” he said, reaching out for her hand again. “I’m an ex-cop, remember?”

  “I do, Jack. And I can’t tell you what a comfort that is for me.” She stood up with her plate, but Jack took it from her.

  “Why don’t you find a movie or something on the TV,” he said, “while I’m stacking these in the dishwasher? We’ve still got a good hour before she’s likely to be out of the cinema.”

  “Okay. And Jack? There’s a decent Pinot I opened last night that should be still good.”

  “I’ll bring it in with a couple of glasses.”

  “I knew calling you was the right thing to do.”

  She turned to go back into the living room and Jack carried the plates to the kitchen. This wasn’t the first time he’d looked around at an environment where someone seemed to have everything in life—an AGA!—and seen they were really missing the important things. He remembered Sandy from high school and she’d always been lively and ready for life.

  That her life had turned out like this—even with the bonanza lottery winning—prompted heaviness in his chest. She deserved so much better. As he ran hot water over the dishes before tucking them into the dishwasher, he looked out the huge bell-shaped window over the breakfast nook into the darkened backyard.

  Bet it’s quite a view in daytime.

  The scream that came from the living room seemed to build in horror until the sound of it hung in the twelve-foot ceilings and hummed throughout the house. Jack ran through the dining room and stopped in the arched doorway that led to the living room.

  Sandy was sitting on the couch, one hand to her head and the other holding her phone.

  She was moaning an elongated, “Nonononononono…”

  Jack knelt by her and plucked the phone out of her fingers. While her moans began to elevate again in intensity, he read the screen:

  I got ur dauhter. Go to the cops and she dies.

  Chapter FOUR

  “I know it’s Eugene, I just know it is,” Sandy said, her hands shaking within Jack’s grip.

  “All right, calm down, darlin,’” Jack said. “If it is Eugene, that’s good. It means he won’t hurt her—”

  “That’s not what it means,” Sandy said, her voice edging back up to the hysterical register. “He hates me! He is absolutely capable of hurting her. You don’t know him.”

  “That’s true, but I do know if we have a suspect for this it will make the police’s job—”

  “No! God, no, Jack!” Sandy grabbed his hands and looked into his face as if he was the only thing standing between her and death itself. “We can’t go to the police. You read what he said!”

  “I know, Sandy, but—”

  “No! I will not jeopardize her life. We will give him whatever he wants. I’m sure it’s money. We’ll pay him. Oh, my God. Twyla must be out of her mind with terror. Oh, Jack.” She wrenched her hands away to bury her sobbing face in them and Jack was left to ineffectually pat her on the shoulder and make soothing noises until she’d worn herself out.

  When she lifted her face, it was a mask of pain and bewilderment. “Help me, Jack. Please, you’ve got to help me.”

  “Of course I will, Sandy. You know I will.” Jack picked up her phone for the hundredth time in twenty minutes to stare at the text message. The ransom note was sent from Twyla’s phone. Not absolute confirmation that the guy had her, but with the way most teens clung to their phones at all times, pretty damn close.

  His mind whirled. Sandy was a lottery winner. There must have been lots of press—especially in Valdosta. Surely everyone in town had known about Sandy’s new situation. And then moving to Atlanta? Nothing says money-grubbing traitor like absconding to the most hated place on Earth—second only to any city north of the Mason-Dixon line.

  And if it was Eugene Gilstrap? He�
�d never get the opportunity to spend the money. Every dollar would be marked. As soon as the moron started spending it, he’d be picked up.

  “We’ve got to send Jay away,” Sandy said, sniffing and using the corner of her sleeve to dab her eyes. “And Imelda. I’ll tell her not to come in for a few days.” She grabbed Jack’s sleeve. “Nobody can know. Everybody who does is one more person who might tell. Twyla’s life is at stake.”

  “Sure, Sandy, don’t worry. We’ll get her back. I promise.”

  She flung herself into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder. She felt instantly familiar to him and he admonished himself for flashing back to old times for even a second. He patted her back.

  “I’ll tell Jay I need him to housesit the old house back in Valdosta.”

  “He might think it strange being rousted out of bed in the middle of the night to be sent three hundred miles away to housesit.”

  “I want him gone!” Sandy wailed, wringing her hands. “What if the kidnappers know he’s here? They might panic and not contact us again.”

  Jack knew this was a classic reaction to a typically unimaginable situation. He’d seen it in victims hundreds of times before. Take action—any kind of action—just do something.

  “I’ll wake him,” he said, getting to his feet. “You going to be okay down here?”

  She nodded numbly, tears streaking down her cheeks. “He’s the door at the end of the hall. I just know it’s Eugene. Who else could it be?”

  Jack ran upstairs taking the steps two at a time and jogged down the long carpeted hall. He tapped on the door. “Jay? Wake up, son.”

  The door opened quickly and the bodyguard stood there in his boxers, blinking himself to alertness.

  “Sir?”

  “There’s been a crisis back home. Mrs. Gilstrap needs to you to head back to Valdosta and secure her house there.”

  The young man nodded, as if trying to clear his head. “Yes, sir. Right now?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Gilstrap’s downstairs. She’ll tell you anything else you need to know. Sooner rather than later, son.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jay turned from the door and Jack went back downstairs.

  Less than half an hour later Jack watched Sandy hand a befuddled Jay the keys to the SUV in the driveway with instructions to secure her Valdosta house and call her when he arrived. The kid, clearly eager to prove himself in his role, did everything but salute when he left, and if the situation weren’t so grim it would’ve prompted a smile from Jack.

  After he’d left, Sandy stood in front of the picture window in the living room. She twisted her hands in agitation.

  “Sandy, why don’t you sit down? You sure you don’t want to tell anyone what’s going on?”

  “No! Just you and me. Please promise me.”

  “And your mother?”

  Sandy sat down heavily and groaned. “Oh, Mama. She will never recover from this. She will die.”

  “Come on, now, Sandy,” Jack said, sitting down next to her. “We’ll figure this out, I swear we will. We’ll get her back. Do you hear me, Sandy? We. Will. Get. Her. Back.”

  Sandy smiled wanly through her tears and got a solid grip on Jack’s arm. “Thank God for you, Jack. What would I do without you?”

  *****

  The next day defied all logic and long-held maxims by not being a damn bit better than Mia’s worst moment in the middle of last night. She sourly noted that the leaves had definitely started to fall, at least in this neighborhood. Did it make sense they’d fall here and not in Atlantic Station where she lived?

  She sat in the front seat of her Toyota sedan parked two houses down from where her client lived. Mia loved Brookwood. It was perfectly situated just north of Lenox Square and Phipps Plaza, but nowhere near the Perimeter and the dreaded suburbs.

  In fact, if her brother hadn’t left her his condo in Atlantic Station she’d always imagined herself in one of these natty Brookwood townhouses. She squinted through the windshield at the house in question. It was a beautiful three-story brick with a rear-entry garage. Mia was parked on the alley road that serviced all the driveways. It was somewhat problematic, because although a rear-entry garage was a real estate agent’s dream, it was a monumental pain in the ass if you were trying to observe people coming and going from the house. Should she watch the back, where the garage is? Or should she watch the front, where people park on the street and walk up to the front door?

  The wife used the alley when she came home an hour ago. Mia watched her drive into her garage and close the door. She assumed the woman’s lover would not come in the front door. But what if he did?

  She sank lower in her seat as the garage door nearest to where she was parked opened and a large SUV backed out. The woman in the driver’s seat glared at Mia.

  So that’s probably not good. Mia started up her car. She drove slowly down the alley, and as she passed the backyard of the client’s house she used the time to snap a few pictures. She already had enough photos of the house, front and back, but it made her feel like she was doing something.

  And doing something helped her not to think.

  Sleep tight? Is that really what he’d said?

  She needed to not think about the fact Jack had come home, taken her into his arms in an indefinably amazing hour of passion and lust and surreal connection—and then went over to his old girlfriend’s house… and never came back.

  Well, gee, it doesn’t sound quite so bad when you put it that way. She flushed with embarrassment. How could I have been so stupid? So naive?

  She drove to the end of the alleyway. She would need to hide the car a few streets away—let a new group of neighbors grow suspicious of her car—then come back on foot. Her client had been agitated on the phone and adamant that he didn’t have time to come into the office to meet with Mia. She knew Jack always said they should have a written contract first but Jack wasn’t here, was he?

  That sounded peevish, she admitted as she parked the car under a large loblolly bay facing the Capital City Club golf clubhouse and, locking up, slung her camera over her shoulder. But that was how she felt.

  The weather was fine, warm for October, but not hot like it had been most of September. Mia trotted back to her client’s street and stood at the end of the street, facing the front of his house.

  His name was Bill Whitcomb, age thirty-five, a forensic accountant. His wife’s name was Jenna. She didn’t work and they had no children. Mia photographed the front of their house from this angle. Whitcomb was out of town and suggested this might be an excellent time for Burton and Kazmaroff Detective Agency to find out what the hell was going on when he wasn’t around.

  So far, all Mia was getting were some very nice shots of his house from every angle. And the backside of his wife’s head as she pulled into the garage. The afternoon light was fading. While this was only her first day on the case, Mia decided there was no reason not to be aggressive.

  The husband is out of town. If not now, when?

  Besides, she couldn’t wait to tell Jack that she had done just fine without him. Everyone says these surveillance cheating spouse cases are tricky. What’s tricky about watching people who are not expecting it, taking a few photos and cashing the check? She remembered Maxwell’s warning the night before.

  When will the men in my life stop being so damn patronizing? It’s insulting.

  Assuming Jenna Whitcomb’s boyfriend must have come in from the front since she hadn’t seen anything when she had the place staked out from the rear, Mia walked down the sidewalk toward the front of the house. There was nobody out on the streets: no strollers, no dog walkers, no joggers. A careful scrutiny of the neighboring houses showed a couple of for sale signs and more than a few that looked to be in foreclosure.

  She slipped into a large Rose of Sharon bush that anchored the small postage stamp front yard and waited for the light to fade completely. It was just after five o’clock. Time to get something other than architectural shots, she thought gr
imly, emerging from the bush after looking carefully in every direction.

  A five-foot brick wall jutted out into the front yard and encapsulated the backyard and unattached garage. Assuming it would be smarter to find a window she didn’t have to climb up to look into, and one that didn’t face the street, Mia pulled herself up and over the wall and dropped into the yard on the other side.

  Not only did Jack not come home last night as he’d promised, he’d blown her off with a voicemail. And after last night, Mia would be damned if she called him.

  Can someone just do that? Can someone just go to bed with you for the very first time and then go fall into bed with somebody else an hour later?

  Mia pulled her penlight out of her pocket and shifted the camera strap on her shoulder. She peered up at the second floor window in the back of the house. That had to be the bedroom. The light was on. She glanced into a ground-level window but it was too dark to make out anything.

  All day and no word. All damn day she waited for him to call and nothing.

  Mia found a low, brick knee wall that turned out to be a long container of wilting petunias and geraniums. She climbed on top of it and looked around. There was a small trellis propped up against the garage, reachable from where she was standing, the roof of which was approximately five feet below the bedroom window.

  Wait until I tell him I did this without him, she thought as she grabbed the trellis and tested it to make sure it would hold her. Wait until he sees that I can run my own case without him and it’s no big deal. She grunted and pulled herself onto the trellis, pausing to gauge the necessary handgrips for her climb to the garage roof. Her camera swung against her hip, and when she jerked the strap down to prevent it from happening again her foot missed the next step on the trellis.

  Mia gave a stifled shriek and fell, hanging by her hands for a split second as she heard the wood crack. All at once she was holding nothing, the trellis breaking into pieces and falling away beneath her. She grabbed for the side of the garage but it was too slick and her hands slid off it as she tumbled onto the brick pathway leading from the garage to the house. She landed on her butt and fire raced up her hip, but she managed to scramble back to her feet.