Complete Mia Kazmaroff

by Kiernan-Susan Lewis

  The pass she’d made last night had not been subtle. He had done everything in his power to ensure his rejection had been. But he was new at this and you just never knew with women. Just ask Mia. After an intense, knock-your-socks-off-sideways hour in bed with her—the long awaited, much anticipated sexual explosion of bodies and minds he knew for a fact both of them had been hungering for over five months—you’d think she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Jack carried the stepladder into the garage and set it against the wall before entering the kitchen. Vernetta sat at the table and looked up as he came in.

  “Sandy’s taking a shower.” She had a cup of coffee in front of her from the pot he’d made hours earlier. He went to the sink and started another pot.

  “How well do you know Eugene?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Well enough.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “The SOB who’s kidnapped my grandchild and is driving my daughter to the brink of insanity? What do you think?”

  Jack turned and looked at her. “So he was always a monster? And you saw that?”

  “No.” She looked away and lifted her cold cup to her lips. “No, I didn’t see it at all.”

  That’s what was galling her, Jack realized. She had liked Gilstrap. And now that he’d shown his true colors, she knows she didn’t know as much as she thought she did.

  So how do you like me now? he couldn’t help thinking as he turned on the new pot of coffee.

  “I’m a little worried about Eugene’s motives, Vernetta,” he said. “I was wondering if you could help me see a clearer picture of him.”

  “You’re asking me if he could kill Twyla.”

  “Could he?”

  The older woman seemed to slump in her chair as she considered her answer. “It liked to kill him when he found out Twyla wasn’t his.”

  “But Sandy said he’d always suspected it.”

  “I don’t know about that. All I know is he went crazy when he found out.”

  “He hit Sandy?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Twyla?”

  Vernetta shook her head. “No. Twyla adored her daddy.” She looked quickly at Jack and then grimaced. “Eugene. She loved Eugene. She wouldn’t have if he’d hit her. Besides, Sandy would’ve told me.”

  “But not stopped it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t live with them then.”

  “Is he smart enough to pull this off purely for revenge?”

  “You mean, not ask for money? No, he wants the money. I heard it from his mama after Sandy divorced him and we was all rich all of a sudden. Eugene thought he’d gotten cheated out of his share of the money.”

  “So he felt like he lost his wife, his kid and his chance to be rich.”

  “That about sums it.”

  “So you think he just wants money.”

  “I don’t know Eugene anymore, I’ll say that. I think he’s changed. I don’t think I could guess what he’ll do or why. Not any more.”

  Jack poured her a fresh cup of coffee and then spotted Sandy’s phone on the table. He picked it up and went to her contacts. When he saw “Eugene” he clicked on the name, but the call went straight to voice mail. Figures. Guess the guy’s not totally stupid.

  Which doesn’t bode well for us.

  *****

  Sam slid the SIM card into his card reader and connected it to his laptop. Mia sat opposite him in the farthest booth from the front door. She’d taken the time to shower and get a couple of hours sleep before meeting him well before he was expected at work at seven o’clock.

  It had been a long night. An exhilarating night. She’d looked through all the photos she’d taken before she even showered. They were as clear as they could be: two men grabbing a barrel of some mystery substance and dumping it into the lake while a third stood guard. Behind them in the photo was the telltale silhouette of the feedlot, its grain towers visible even in the murky light.

  The camera had done what it promised. Even in poor lighting—although she’d had the unexpected bonus of the illumination offered by the truck’s headlights—it was easy to see what was happening. She even took a photo of the truck with the lettering Hart of Georgia written clearly on its side. There could be no doubt where they were or what the men were doing.

  The only thing the photos lacked was a sign saying Beautiful Pine Valley Lake. But to cover that little detail, Mia had set the GPS on the camera so the embedded meta data would pinpoint the location for any jury to see as clearly if a sign had been in the photos.

  She’d covered every base and she hadn’t gotten thrown into jail in the bargain. And this was her first time. Not only the first case she’d tackled all by herself, but possibly—just possibly—one where she’d done what the client had asked for.

  She pushed her omelet around with her fork and watched his face as he looked at the photos on his laptop and tried to read his reaction. Finally, he looked over the top of his computer at her, his face stern and unhappy.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?” she asked, feeling the eggs she’d eaten begin to curdle in her stomach.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, snapping his laptop shut. “It’s exactly what I need. Exactly.” He shook his head. “Sorry. It just infuriates me to see it. The gall of the man.”

  “So they are what you wanted,” Mia said carefully, trying not to feel too joyous too soon.

  “Yes, yes, they’re exactly what my lawyer told me to collect to prove the case. Thank you, Mia.”

  She let his words wash over her as she gave a deliberately quiet exhale of the breath she’d been holding. She’d done it. She’d pulled it off. Her first solo case. Success.

  “Well, good,” she said. “Glad it all worked out.”

  “Did you have any kind of problems getting them?” Sam began gathering up his laptop. Obviously, he wasn’t staying to finish his breakfast.

  “Well, you can see in some of the photos that I was being confronted by the men.”

  “I saw that. They didn’t try to stop you from leaving?”

  “No. Not really. Well, at first they did, but, no…they let me leave with no problem.”

  Just as soon as I shot the hell out of the water cistern and generally looked like I had no idea what I was doing with a loaded gun they were only too happy for me to leave any way I felt most comfortable doing it.

  “Great.”

  “When do you plan on using the photos?”

  “I’m not sure. Soon, I hope. Again, my lawyer will advise me but trust me, I don’t want Hooker to get away with this any longer than possible.” He handed her a check, then reached out to shake Mia’s hand. When he touched her she felt a rush of excitement and pleasure in his grip.

  A happy customer. Her very first authentically happy customer.

  On the drive home, Mia cranked up the radio and let the music and the feeling of triumph wash over her. All it took was one single success. One single case that she pulled off—all by herself—leaving the client happy and the world spinning once more in its proper orbit. She rolled down her car windows and sang along with the B-52s at the top of her lungs.

  When she reached her condominium complex, she pulled into a parking spot next to a police cruiser. I wonder if there’s been a break in recently? She glanced idly in the backseat of the cop car before heading up the steps to her condo. Just the pure thrill of having solved this case—without anybody’s help or advice—was beyond wonderful. Talk about putting the naysayers in their place.

  She trotted up the stairs to her condo and turned the corner in the hall to see two uniformed policemen standing at her door. They turned toward her and she slowed her pace.

  “Mia Kazmaroff?”

  She hesitated. “That’s right.”

  The cop closest to her, his hand resting on a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt, held out a sheet of paper.

  “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Chapter TEN

&nbs
p; Vernetta knew they should never have left Valdosta. How many times had she told Sandy that? Nobody ever gets kidnapped in Valdosta. The very idea of it was ridiculous. How can you kidnap someone where everyone knowing every detail of your private business? That’s the problem with Atlanta. Nobody cares enough to know what’s happening behind your doors.

  She turned to watch Jack Burton as he screwed a cabinet door back on. It had hung on one hinge for weeks. The man was handy, she’d give him that. He was always good-looking. Vernetta happened to know that was about as useful to a woman as tits on a boar. If she had a dollar for every good-looking man who’d led her down the garden path…

  Vernetta watched Sandy watching Burton work. What does she think? That he can magically get Twyla back? Just like Sandy to have her next man fix the problems caused by her last one.

  When the phone rang, Vernetta was so used to waiting and fearing that it might never ring again she wasn’t sure she was really hearing it.

  Burton snatched the phone from the kitchen table and pushed a button on it. Then he set his own phone next to it and turned to drag Sandy over to the table.

  “That you, Sandy?” an unfamiliar voice said through the phone. “Don’t record this call.”

  Vernetta looked at Sandy in confusion. That was not Eugene’s voice. Sandy must have been thinking the same thing because she looked at the phone in horror and stuttered out, “Yes?”

  Vernetta searched Burton’s face. She had to admit there was comfort in watching the man process what most folk would consider the worst moments of their lives. She could see his brain working, but no expression of horror or confusion passed across his face.

  Whatever it meant that the caller was clearly not Eugene after all didn’t seem to bother Burton one little bit. Had he always known? Maybe he really was Superman?

  “You want to see her alive again,” the voice intoned, “you don’t go to the cops. Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand,” Sandy whispered.

  “Five hundred Gs in a book bag. You can get your new boyfriend to deliver it.”

  Whoever was talking had a thick, South Georgia accent, but was obviously reading it. Vernetta looked at Sandy and then Burton. Did they realize that? Is that why Burton didn’t seem concerned it wasn’t Eugene’s voice?

  “Bring it to where the old Coke sign used to be on Margaret Mitchell Square. Tonight at one a.m. Put it on the ground next to the trash can. There’ll be instructions under the can about where the girl is. Go to the cops and she dies.”

  Suddenly they heard Twyla’s hysterical voice. “Mama, please don’t let them hurt me! Mama, please!”

  Vernetta clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from groaning as the phone disconnected.

  She was glad she was sitting. She was sure her legs wouldn’t hold her. Sandy must be feeling the same. Vernetta watched her grope for a chair and fall into it, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

  Burton picked up his phone. Vernetta knew he’d recorded the call, and for one terrible moment she thought he was going to replay it right then and there. If he did, she would have to leave the room; she couldn’t bear hearing Twyla’s cries again. Instead, he went to the kitchen window and looked out over the backyard, Sandy’s muffled sobs the only sound in the room.

  I reckon I should go to her. Only I don’t have the energy and God knows I ain’t got the words. What words could there be to a mother who just heard her daughter beg for her life? Dear Lord, I pray you bring that little girl home to her family, to me and her mother. If I ever earned any rewards from you, I beseech you that you don’t let that little girl die. Please God.

  Jack let out a long breath. A trickle of perspiration found its way down his collar, even with the air conditioning on full-bore. This was what they were waiting for. Now they were one step closer to getting Twyla back, or counting down to her murder. One way or the other, the clock had started. There was no telling whether or not Jack or anybody would be able to alter what happened going forward. If there was a right way to handle this—for this particular situation, this particular kidnapper—there was no way of knowing.

  If it went south, he’d dissect it later, tear it apart and determine what he could have done to prevent it. If all went well, it wouldn’t matter. Just getting her back, that was all that counted. He turned and forced his voice to show the confidence and optimism he absolutely did not feel.

  “This is good,” he said. “Now we know when and we know where.”

  He watched Sandy attempt to pull herself together. It was possible his cosseting of her was only making it worse on her. Vernetta rarely reached out to her and maybe he was trying to make up for that? No, it was just his way to step in and offer a broad shoulder to cry on. It was just who he was. But he wasn’t making a dent in Sandy’s ability to hold up any better under all this. Or at least it didn’t seem like he was. Perhaps she needed a firmer touch?

  “So was Eugene just…playing along on the phone yesterday?” Sandy asked, staring in confusion at her hands. “And all along, it wasn’t him?”

  “It might still be him,” Jack said. “Sounded to me like it was somebody reading a script.”

  “I thought so, too!” Vernetta said.

  “You mean, like he got someone else to read it for him?” Sandy asked.

  “Sure,” Jack said. “Give some homeless guy a six-pack and say, ‘Read this.’”

  “But why go to all that trouble if he knows we know it’s him?” Sandy asked.

  “Because we really don’t know anything,” Jack said. “When you called him, by any chance did you lead him at all? Did you say something like, ‘I know you have her, you bastard’?”

  Sandy looked sick and then nodded her head slightly. “I might’ve,” she whispered. “I was just so sure it was him.”

  “And then Eugene would just grab the bait and run,” Vernetta said to her daughter in disgust. “I can hear him now. ‘What? You think I kidnapped Twyla? Why, you bet I did, you bitch.’” She shook her head. “You make everything harder than it has to be,” she said. “If we don’t get Twyla back, it will be because of you.”

  Sandy put her hands to her head and Jack realized he was losing patience with the drama between these two. He clearly wasn’t cut out to do much handholding.

  “Let’s not point fingers,” he said to Vernetta, figuring she hated him anyway. “It doesn’t help.”

  “Well, what do we do?” Vernetta demanded, her eyes glittering with impotence and frustration.

  Jack knew just how she felt. He ignored her combative tone and went to the table where Sandy sat cradling her head. “Sandy, honey,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and firm in hopes of snapping her out of whatever downward spiral she seemed intent on nose diving into. “You said you have fifty grand here in the house. Can you go to the bank today and get the rest? Sandy?”

  Vernetta looked up at him. “Are you insane? We don’t have that kind of money!”

  Sandy wiped her face with the back of her hand and made a visible effort to focus on the conversation. “The lottery allotment is for two hundred and fifty grand a year for life,” Sandy said. “After paying staff salaries, private school tuition, mortgages, car payments—well, two of the cars we bought outright.” She looked at Vernetta as if for confirmation and the old woman crossed her arms and looked away. “We really only have about $2K a month living expenses left for the year.”

  It was October. That meant Sandy had four thousand dollars in the bank until January. Jack ran a hand across his face, as if that might help him think better.

  “You can take the manicurist out of Valdosta,” Vernetta muttered. “I told you we were throwing money around. In my day we knew the value of a nest egg.”

  “Yes, all right, Mama, excuse me for not seeing the day when I might need to get my hands on an obscene amount of cash or lose my child.”

  “So what do we do?” Vernetta said to Jack. “You heard what he said.”

  “The
only thing we can do,” he said. “Dress up what we have to look like more than it is and pray we get our hands on Twyla before he counts what’s actually in the bag.”

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Sandy said. Nobody moved to assist her.

  “We’re going to bluff with Twyla’s life in the balance?” Vernetta said.

  “I don’t see we have an option. Chances are he’ll grab the money and run. If he does open the bag, he’ll see a top layer of money. By the time he counts it, we’ll have Twyla home safe and sound and it won’t matter.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way to mark the bills?” Vernetta asked.

  “There would be if we were working with the police.”

  Sandy turned angrily on her mother. “Getting Twyla back is our priority,” she hissed. “Screw the money.”

  Vernetta turned away and looked at her hands, for once silenced by Sandy.

  “But the second priority,” Jack said, “is nailing the bastard if at all possible.”

  “I don’t even care,” Sandy said, looking at the phone on the table in front of her.

  “Yeah, well, I care,” Jack said in a low voice.

  *****

  The whole situation was beyond humiliating. No, strike that. It would’ve been worse if Mia had had to call Jack to bail her out. She would rather go through the whole system and go to prison for life rather than call Jack and tell him she got arrested.

  Of course, there was the little matter of him not answering her texts, her phone calls, or generally giving a shit about what she did.

  “You okay?” Maxwell frowned at her as she got in the car and secured her seat belt.

  “I was railroaded.”

  “Yeah, that’s not what the owner of the feedlot said. Tell me again what you were doing out there in the middle of the night?”

  “I told you. I was on a case. In fact, I successfully completed the case to my client’s satisfaction.”