The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  “So, if it’s in Somalia,” Kelsey asked gently, trying to avoid getting him even more steamed up than he already was, “how do we get it out?”

  Matt clenched his teeth so hard she could see the muscle at the side of his jaw working. “The money,” he said with forced patience, “is in Somalia for, like, one minute. Then it gets transferred back to a second account I got set up. Okay?”

  A slimy grin creased back one side of Lionel’s mouth. “Now that’s smart. That is very smart.”

  “So, anybody got any other questions?” Matt asked in a tone that suggested he wasn’t going to listen anyway. Neither of them did. “If we stick to the plan, we can’t go wrong.”

  “Sure, okay,” said Kelsey. “But once her old man pays, she goes back, right?”

  “Is that part of the plan?” he asked her.

  “It was.”

  “Then it still is. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, we head out to the next safe-house. From there we go to the last point and we dump her there.”

  Lionel waggled his eyebrows at her and made a gun of his fist again. “Pop, pop.”

  “Why can’t we just take her home?” Kelsey asked. “I could do it.”

  Matt tipped his head back, eyes up to the grimy ceiling again. “For chrissakes …” he started, but Lionel interrupted him, yelling,

  “Shut up. Look.” He was pointing to the TV. A banner across the top of the screen read: “Breaking news: U.S. Senate Candidate Richard McClaine’s Daughter Kidnapped.”

  “Turn it up,” said Matt.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DAY ONE: 9.30 PM—ELIZABETH

  The space Alice had rented was on the second floor of an office block down by the theater district. The large central room was lit by a panel of overhead lights that lent everyone below a greenish hue, and a temporary lectern had been erected on a small podium at the front like a school classroom.

  Contrary to Alice’s words, there were more than six people present. The place was packed wall-to-wall with reporters holding up iPhones and microphones, while photographers snapped shots of anything that moved, and cameramen and their assistants ran cables left and right. At Alice’s right side stood Blake Ressnick, stroking his chin and looking pensive. They looked like two warlords overseeing operations. All around them the scene was abuzz with reporters jockeying for position while camera lights flashed and doors opened and shut as more and more people pressed into a room growing stuffier by the minute. Directors crouched in front of the lectern, checking camera angles and sound equipment and lighting, yelling orders to cable runners, demanding they bring this here and that there so they’d get the best shot and the clearest sound. Alice’s P.R. machine was like some kind of juggernaut that had rolled straight into action and it looked ready to crush anything in its path.

  Elizabeth stood steely-faced behind a large pair of sunglasses. She was poised at Richard’s right-hand side with his arm clamped around her, his fingers pressed into the flesh of her right arm. She wanted to remove them, just lift them a little for her own comfort. She did not dare move. She couldn’t help wondering how much of this was campaign momentum and how much was due to the “leaked” news of their daughter’s abduction. Nothing seemed real.

  As she waited for the countdown to nine thirty to tick away, she glanced across at Alice, who gestured for her to remove the sunglasses. Reluctantly, she reached up, drew them off her face, folded them and clutched them in her right hand. She knew she looked dreadful. Her shoulder-length blond waves were tousled and lank and she hadn’t reapplied her lipstick—Alice had instructed her not to. Now she felt naked and vulnerable. Every magazine would have these photographs for all eternity to roll out whenever they might want to chop her down. She turned to ask Richard to release his grip on her arm when she heard someone call:

  “… three, two, one, and rolling …”

  Richard lifted his head, pulled her in close and let his gaze range out across the room as Alice had instructed. “Thank you all for being here at such short notice. Some of you … many of you, will be wondering why, in the closing stages of a hard-fought campaign for the United States Senate—a campaign that …” Across the room, Alice drew a furtive line across her throat. He cleared his throat, dropped his eyes momentarily. “My wife and I came home this afternoon to discover our daughter missing.” He let the moment stretch, then said, “After a considerable search, to no avail, we received news of an incident outside her school …” Alice spread her hands, questioning. “… and upon …” He let his face crumple a moment, sucked in a breath, and continued, “… upon discovering a letter not one hour ago, it appears our little girl has been abducted.”

  A shower of lights and cameras blazed for a full twelve seconds. Elizabeth blinked against them, biting her lower lip. She raised her eyes to the paneled lights above. The heat from them was almost unbearable. She couldn’t let anyone see how small she felt. The press would have a field day.

  “And for those …” Richard continued as the drone from their audience died down. She felt his grip release. “For those of you who don’t know, our daughter has Down syndrome.” There was a moment’s hesitation as the words caught in his throat. His grip on her arm tightened, fingers pressing hard into Elizabeth’s arm again, this time biting to the bone. Elizabeth looked up at him. This wasn’t staged, this was genuine. For a fleeting moment Elizabeth recognized something in her husband she hadn’t seen in a long time. She turned toward him, placing a comforting hand on his chest. But just as suddenly, it was gone. His fingers relaxed and the politician was back.

  Richard lifted his head, standing tall, confident. “Whoever you are who took our child, we will do anything you ask—anything. We will meet your demands. All we want is our little girl back home with us. Please,” he said, and looked straight down the barrel of the camera in front of him, “please, don’t hurt her. She cannot speak. She cannot communicate. She has a scar on her face from surgery to her mouth and she cannot form words.” He paused, searching for words. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, quavering. “She is only six years old. She is innocent. Please, don’t hurt her. We want her back. But we need more time. We’ve had only one hour …” He looked out across the faces, all turned to him. “… but in order to meet your demands, we first need to know that she is safe. And we need one more day.”

  “Mr. McClaine, I have a question,” shouted a female reporter from the front row. Elizabeth recognized the face, but couldn’t recall the name. The articles she wrote made it clear she was biased toward Ray Townsend, one of the country’s most influential senators, and the incumbent Richard was running against. Every microphone in the room swung to her. “Does this mean you are no longer challenging for a seat in the U.S. Senate?”

  “Mrs. Frazer, with all due respect, this isn’t the time for electioneering. My daughter is all that matters right now. I’m sure that you, and any American parent, will appreciate that.”

  Elizabeth saw Alice’s eyebrows rise in approval of the comment.

  “Have the police been informed?” It was a guy from somewhere in the middle of the pack. “And if so, what has their reaction been?”

  “When are the police issuing a statement?” someone else asked.

  Richard raised both hands, patting the air, calling for quiet. “The police have been in contact with us. They have advised us to do exactly as instructed, but we have to wait for another communication. As for a statement,” he said, and raised his hands. “I don’t know when the police will be issuing one, but I’m sure you’ll be notified.”

  “Mr. McClaine.” It came from a woman sitting on a chair in the front with her pen aloft like she was working the floor at the stock exchange. She wore a tight red skirt, black blouse under a matching red jacket that was buttoned beneath an ample bosom, red high-heel pumps; feet crossed to one side at the ankle. Her short dark hair was pulled back from her face; notebook on her lap. A sudden hush descended on the room as everyone held their breath.

  �
�Yes,” said Richard coolly, nodding in her direction. “Miss du Plessis.”

  The woman cocked her head. “Does your daughter have a name, by any chance?”

  Elizabeth saw Alice’s head drop into her right hand. When she raised it again, she looked ill.

  “Oh, uh … of course,” Richard stammered. For a moment he was lost for words.

  Elizabeth leaned to the microphone. “It’s Holly,” she said. In that split second, the image of that tiny baby lying in her arms flared in her memory—the tiny perfect hands, the tufts of honey-blond hair, that dreadful hole in her face where her little lip was split …

  Elizabeth blinked the image away. Not now. Not in front of all these cameras, in front of all these people.

  The room remained still. A sea of faces turned on her, all waiting. “It’s Holly,” she said in whispered voice that sliced through the air via the speaker system, freezing the room and everyone in it. “My daughter’s name is Holly.”

  “Please,” Richard said, pulling his wife in with one arm and holding out his hand out to fend off further questions. “Please,” he said again against the buzz of chatter flooding back into the room once more, “this is very difficult for both of us.”

  A voice from the back called, “How much are they demanding?”

  “Do the police have any leads on who took your daughter?” someone else yelled. And the room erupted into a million questions.

  “Thank you, thank you, everybody,” called Alice. She had cut her way through the crowd and was stepping up to the lectern. “I’m sorry; we’re going to have to end it here. Mr. and Mrs. McClaine have been through a terrible ordeal in the past few hours and they need to gather themselves. They will be available later, but as you can appreciate they’re in for a very long night and they need to rest. If you have any further questions, I’m sure they’ll be answered in due course. A call center has been set up and the numbers to call with information are …” She turned to Blake who raised a finger, signaling the affirmative. “Yes, according to my colleague, the numbers are currently trailing across your screen. If you have any information, please, please call. All information will be treated as confidential. For those wishing to donate, you may do so on the call center number. Thank you all.”

  As the din of voices rose once more, she turned and grabbed Richard by the elbow, steering him down off the podium and gesturing towards a corner. “Over here.”

  They squeezed between reporters and cameramen and stepped over cables, nodding and smiling at journalists and film crews doing last wraps and packing away sound equipment as they made their way to the corner.

  “What did you think?” Richard asked Alice. “Did I come across okay?”

  Alice maneuvered him around and gave him a long-suffering look. “Fine, very good. But we have company.”

  Elizabeth turned to meet the stony glare of Detective Delaney, who was making his way around the edge of the crowd, moving towards them with his hands in his pockets, and a uniformed officer in tow.

  “Jesus,” Richard muttered.

  Delaney strode across and stopped in front of them, regarding each in turn. “Good evening,” he said. “Mrs. Cressley.”

  “Detective,” she said.

  He turned his attention to Richard and Elizabeth. “Did I, or did I not tell you two to stay at home and to speak with no one?”

  Over his shoulder, Elizabeth spotted Blake shouldering his way towards them.

  “What’s going on?” he asked as soon as he got there.

  Alice gestured at Delaney with a flick of her hand. “The police have finally made an appearance.”

  Blake turned to him. “Can’t this wait, Detective? Senator Shepherd has an urgent meeting with Richard. We’re on a schedule here.”

  “No, it can’t wait,” Delaney told him. “This is a police inquiry, if you don’t mind. And Mr. and Mrs. McClaine should be at home as previously instructed.”

  Blake seemed to consider his position. “I’ll ask Senator Shepherd if he can wait,” he told Richard.

  Richard nodded, and as soon as Blake had left them, Alice turned on Delaney. “Listen to me. You left these people with no police presence or support. What were they supposed to do? Wait until their daughter turned up dead?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cressley. I’ll be speaking with you next.”

  “Excuse me, Detective,” she said. “But this is nothing you wouldn’t have done. The difference is, we did it, and we did it two hours sooner than you would have.”

  Delaney narrowed a glare on her. “May I have a word with you in private, Mrs. Cressley?” And he motioned to a clearing a few feet away. “Would you excuse us?” he said to Elizabeth and Richard.

  Alice hesitated and gave Richard a look of forced tolerance. “Do I have a choice?” she asked Delaney.

  “No, Mrs. Cressley, right now you do not,” he replied, and ushered her a few feet away. The second officer stepped across with them and stood to one side, scanning the room with his hands clasped behind his back.

  A few moments later, Blake reappeared, sidling up next to Richard. “The senator will call you later,” he said.

  Richard nodded again, and they stood in silence, watching Delaney and Alice. Delaney’s expression remained impassive as he spoke but Alice was obviously rattled. She gestured this way and that as she put her side forward, huffing out a breath every now and then, and spreading her hands in consternation.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Blake told Richard. If anyone can put him straight, Alice can. I’ll start wrapping things up here, shall I?”

  Richard slipped back his sleeve and checked his watch. “Let’s give it another half hour.”

  “What do you think they’re saying?” Elizabeth asked her husband.

  “I have no idea. Whatever it is, she doesn’t look happy.”

  “She never looks happy.”

  “Dear God, don’t let them arrest her,” Richard said.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said without emotion, “wouldn’t that be terrible.” She let her gaze slip across to the rest of the rapidly emptying room. Off to one side, she could see the woman in the red skirt and jacket, Miss du Plessis. She turned just as Elizabeth spotted her. For a moment, their eyes locked, then Elizabeth quickly looked away.

  “I need to make some calls,” Blake told Richard. “If anything happens, call me. Mrs. McClaine,” he added by way of a farewell. And he cut his way into the crowd and vanished.

  Alice and Delaney broke from their discussion to join Elizabeth and Richard again.

  “Thank you for your patience,” Delaney said to no one in particular. “Now let’s get a few guidelines set in place—”

  “Are you arresting her?” Elizabeth interrupted.

  “Why, Mrs. McClaine? Would you like me to arrest her?”

  Elizabeth wanted to say, “Yes. Take her away. She’s a menace and a bully.” Instead she met Alice’s icy blue eyes and simply shook her head.

  “This is how it goes from here on in,” Delaney told them. “You are welcome to have Mrs. Cressley continue with your campaign or any other damned thing you want, I don’t care. Fact is I’m willing to let you run another television slot later this evening to follow up from this one—as long,” he said pointedly, “as it’s in conjunction with our own press release. But anything and everything you do must be carried out with the express approval of my office, or not at all. Do you hear me?”

  “But what about—?” Richard began, but Alice jumped in, saying:

  “—just yes, Richard. That’s my advice.”

  “Then, that’s fine,” he said.

  “Mrs. McClaine?” Delaney asked.

  “Yes, yes, that’s fine,” Elizabeth muttered. Behind him, she could see the du Plessis woman had approached and was now hovering on the sidelines, waiting to speak to them. So this was how it would be. Everybody would want a piece of them. Not that that was any different from any other day, but now everybody would be scrutinizing her, questioning her, reminding her of he
r failures as a mother. The very thought of it sent a shot of irritation through her. If only she could get a drink. One vodka martini would do. Maybe two; three, if she wanted—the hell with Alice Cressley.

  Delaney turned, saw the woman. “Yes, Miss du Plessis. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I wanted to speak to Mrs. McClaine for a moment, if I may.”

  “After I’m done, you certainly may.”

  She regarded each of them. “Then I’ll wait.” And she turned on her heel and retreated.

  When the woman had achieved a suitable distance, Delaney turned back to them. “So this is what we have to date: We have four sets of prints from the letter and the envelope. One is yours, Mrs. McClaine. We have no others on file. I suspect they’ll be from the postal workers who delivered the letter.”

  “So, what are you saying? That they used gloves?” asked Richard.

  “That’s my guess,” Delaney replied. “Everybody watches CSI, everybody knows the procedure. But it’s not all bad news. We have a positive ID of the woman. Our witness picked her out of our records—which was fortunate because she’s not the only female on our books with a tattoo down the side of her neck.”

  “Your records?” said Elizabeth. “You mean she’s been in trouble before?”

  “She’s known to us,” he said. But there was more, Elizabeth could see it. Perhaps sensing her question forming, he added, “She was once arrested in connection with the murder of her mother.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Elizabeth. “She killed her own mother?” Now, she really did want that drink. All she could think of was going home and pouring herself a couple of stiff vodka martinis and washing all of this away.

  “I don’t believe she’s working alone,” said Delaney. “I believe she has at least one accomplice who drove the car. That could be her long-time boyfriend, Matthew Subritzski. It seems most obvious, but of course we have no evidence to support that. Right now, I need one or both of you to stay at home in case they call, or a second letter arrives. I’ll take you there myself, if you like.”