Nancy nodded. “Sure. It comes up on the system. It uses GPS to locate the car.”
“But how do you track the car?”
“I told you—online.”
“Surely you’d have to have a password to get into it, though, wouldn’t you?” Penny had addressed the question to Elizabeth, but Nancy replied.
“You do. Trish gave it to me. I didn’t have to ask or anything. Just said, ‘Here you go.’”
Somewhat surprised, Elizabeth asked, “Then why would she give you the password to the tracking system if she was having an affair? You could just track her down, find out where she’s been?”
“I guess she trusts me.” It was clear the very idea brought with it a certain amount of self-recrimination. Nancy drew back one side of her mouth and looked away. “Or at least, she used to.”
“Do you know where the car is right now?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yeah. It’s in the same place it was last night when I looked. Same address: out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Then let’s go,” said Elizabeth.
*****
Penny clutched the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles white and foot hard on the accelerator for almost the entire thirty-four-minute journey south on I-77. Beside her in the passenger seat, Elizabeth sat with one hand on the dashboard, the other gripping the seatbelt, staring wide-eyed and, at times, open-mouthed at the oncoming vista flying at them on the road ahead; every now and then, saying, “Do we have to go so fast, Penny? Maybe we should slow down a little.”
In the rear seat, Nancy Pattrenko didn’t seem to notice the speed. She stared out the window, muttering, “Yeah, right. And how am I going to explain this? ‘Oh, hey yeah, we were taking a quiet drive in the middle of nowhere, and I just happened to recognize your car?’ I don’t think so.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Elizabeth told her without taking her eyes off the road ahead.
Penny hit the turn signal and slowed to veer off the freeway and along the first of a crisscross of back streets the GPS was now indicating.
“You know what I don’t get?” she asked. “How did Tyler know Stacy? I mean, how long is it since he saw her last? Kid must have a memory like an elephant.”
Nancy sat forward, hands gripping the backs of the seats, eyes on the road ahead while she spoke. “Well, don’t forget he lived with Stacy for three years before she went away. And then Kay Heathers said that as soon as his foster family found out Stacy was being released, they started telling Tyler he’d be going home with his mom, and that he’d be living with her. They got photos of her and everything. She said he was so excited about it. He might have learning difficulties, but he sure knows who his mom is. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
The image of Tyler, of how small and innocent he looked, sent a stab of pain arrowing into Elizabeth’s heart. “That little boy will be crushed if she doesn’t come home. What’s he going to think? That she doesn’t want him?”
“I doubt she’ll be home anytime soon,” Nancy said grimly. “Delaney seems to think they’ll have Stacy back in custody by the end of the day. They’re expecting her to be up for sentencing first thing Monday morning.”
Penny passed Elizabeth a horrified look. “Monday morning. They have to know something we don’t. How long does that give us?”
Elizabeth checked her watch. “It’s almost three now. Somebody wants this brushed under the carpet as soon as possible. We’ve still got tomorrow, though.” All at once aware of how little time they had, she lifted her purse, dredged out her phone, and scrolled through her contact list until she came to the listing for Grant Alders. In his early sixties now, Grant had been the family lawyer for as long as her father-in-law, Charles, had been wealthy—a sure testament to his success. She hit the send key, put the phone to her ear, and waited.
Grant picked up on the sixth ring, just as Penny swung the car in through a gateway and followed a dusty back road, seemingly heading towards a building some half mile or so farther up ahead.
“Grant, it’s Elizabeth McClaine,” she said, trying to inject a note of good humor into her voice that she didn’t feel. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Elizabeth. What can I do for you?” Straight to the point. No time for small talk.
“I need you to represent a client of mine in court. She hasn’t been arrested at this point, but from what I’ve heard, she soon will be.”
There was an unhealthy pause at the other end of the line. “I see. You mean Stacy May Charms?”
“That’s correct. The police have indicated that they’ll be making an arrest by the end of the day so I need to get some representation for her right now. I’m afraid that if she goes back to prison, they’ll make an example of her.”
Another pause, and a deep sigh. “Elizabeth, this really isn’t my field.”
A flash of anger shot down her spine. How much money had her family shoveled his way over the years? When she spoke this time, her tone was firm, but polite. “Then I’d like you to find someone whose field this is.”
“And what do you expect them to do?”
A second flash of anger made her cheeks flash hot. “Keep her out of prison until I can find out what the hell is going on. What do you think I expect them to do?” The fury in her tone surprised even her.
Penny cut her a flabbergasted glance but said nothing, just swiveled her eyes straight back to the road and kept driving. Avoiding her gaze, Elizabeth turned her attention to the passing landscape, somehow even more determined now.
“Well, can you do it, or do I have to find someone else?”
“Let me see what I can arrange,” he said. “I might be able to get one of our guys to look it over, see what they think—”
She cut him off mid-sentence. “Seeing what they think isn’t good enough. She’s already had one lousy lawyer; she needs someone on her side.” She glanced across at Penny, who made a doubtful face. “I want him up to speed and with a solid game plan before Monday. That means she’ll need someone on the case tomorrow at the latest. And if you say you can’t do it, I’ll be forced to take this up with Charles. That’s not a course of action either of us wants. Am I making myself clear here, Grant?”
“Tomorrow is Sunday, Elizabeth—”
“I don’t care if tomorrow is Christmas Day. I want him on the job first thing in the morning. Now can you do it or not?”
She pressed her fingers to her forehead, frustrated that no one ever seemed to take her seriously anymore. All she could hear down the line was the sound of Grant Alder’s breath, then a clearing of his throat as he went to speak.
“Well, I guess we can get Jay Templeton on it. He’s young but he’s had some criminal defense experience,” he replied. “He’s a bright guy, came into the firm last fall. Plus, he can do it pro bono.”
A sly reminder that Elizabeth might have the position, but she didn’t have the money. Determined not to be goaded, she said, “Then I suppose he’ll have to do.”
By the time she ended the call and put her phone away, her cheeks were burning and her heart pounding. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so infuriated. Why was everyone so focused on Stacy May’s actions instead of looking for the reasons behind them? Was it so much easier just to lock her up and forget about her? Just because a few politicians had been left red-faced?
Penny’s eyes flicked across to her, then back to the road.
Feeling like she owed her secretary an explanation, she said, “He’s putting one of their junior lawyers on the case—a young guy he says has had some criminal defense experience.”
“How much experience is ‘some experience’?” Penny asked.
“It’ll have to be enough.”
She’d tried to sound upbeat, but the bleak look Penny slipped across at her said it all.
“I know, I know. Just drive, will you?” Elizabeth said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DAY TWO: 3:08 PM—STACY
Bear ha
d told Stacy to stick to the back streets. According to the police frequency the tow-truck drivers listened in on, the police had received a report of Stacy’s car parked in an empty lot on Union Avenue. By all accounts, every cop in the vicinity had responded, and when they got there, it was some poor schmuck with the same make of car, in a compromising position in the back seat with his girlfriend. But at least that had kept the cops busy for a while. And given Stacy a momentary advantage.
The gas Bear had put in took the indicator to just under half a tank. Stacy kept her foot light on the pedal. No point in wasting what she had. And there was no way of knowing how much she’d need. Now, twenty minutes after pulling out of the wrecker’s yard, here she was on Chagrin River Road—might as well have been another world based on the difference in landscape.
Sun shafted through the leafy canopy overhead, dappling the roadway and strobing across the windshield as she drove along stretches of narrow, tree-lined street. Five minutes further on, the landscape opened up and she found what she’d been looking for—Velmont Boulevard.
Despite the fancy name, Velmont was a narrow lane that led off to the right and out into open fields, freshly mown grass on either side, trees forming a ridge across the top of the first incline. At first, Stacy thought Bear must have got the street wrong. She checked the address and turned up the lane, driving slowly until she saw the first house and almost ran off the road. A massive gray structure, it looked like something out of one of those shiny-paged books all about home decorating—all manicured lawns and hedges and fountains, behind which stood a house that six families from Stacy’s neighborhood could probably occupy without ever running into each other.
“Holy shit.”
Passing one enormous home after the other, she drove steadily along until she came to the address she was looking for, a wrought-iron gate across the driveway and high brick walls on either side, behind which she could see a forest of tall trees. The name welded into the ironwork over the gate read:
MENDELLSON ESTATE
Private Property of M & PJ Crane-Thorpe
“This is it. This is definitely it.” Her heart fluttered. This was her only lead. She could not mess it up.
Fifty yards or so past the gate the street widened into a bay cut into the trees to allow cars to pass. She pulled the car in, wiggled into her dry clothes, and looked herself over. Not exactly fashion runway material, but at least she didn’t look homeless.
The gate was locked, walls too high to climb, no gap she could squeeze through.
But there was another way in. She walked quickly back to Curta’s car, got in, and started it up. Inching back and forth, she maneuvered the car closer and closer to the brick wall until a clunk from the front fender told her she couldn’t get any closer. When she got out, the car was wedged in perfectly, so she climbed up onto the hood, then onto the roof. From here she could just make out the driveway through the trees, winding up a slight incline. With both hands on the top of the wall, she jumped, hoisted herself over, and dropped on the other side.
How much money would you have to have to live in a place like this? The front yard looked like a state park. She headed for the driveway, following it up toward the house, wondering what she was going to say when she got there. Best plan, she figured, was what she’d thought of on the way here—to say she wanted a job with Millcreek, telling them she heard they had vacancies. Maybe Maryanne Thorpe-whatever would tell her who to contact. That’d give her an in. It was a long shot, but what else did she have?
The driveway was longer than she’d counted on. It wound around a couple of turns, cutting through a sparse forest of oaks and firs with squirrels scuttling across the leaf litter and up branches, until the house came into view. An enormous cream-colored place, it looked like a replica of some Spanish castle with balconies with wrought-iron railings, and roses and some kind of vines trailing up them.
Hanging back behind one of the trees, she scanned the gardens right across to the far tree line on either side of her: not a soul in sight. If anyone got antsy, they could call the cops and she wouldn’t see the light of day for the next ten years. With her heart in her mouth, she walked on up the garden path, across the huge circular driveway out front, and up the broad, stone front steps to a pair of expansive wooden doors. A bell hung at one side. She rang it and clasped her hands in front of her, circling her thumbs around one another while she waited. After a few seconds, the door opened and a woman looked out—dark hair caught up in a bun at the back, dark eyes, a slash of red lipstick. Stacy would have guessed she was around forty, maybe fifty.
“Hi. I’m looking for Mrs. Thorpe.”
The woman looked over Stacy’s shoulder, scanning the tree-line. “How did you get in here?”
Stacy thumbed back over her shoulder. “The gate was open,” she lied. “I just walked in.”
Stacy followed the woman’s gaze, then leaned into her line of sight. “So is Mrs. Thorpe here?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Crane-Thorpe isn’t available at the moment,” the woman said in a snotty tone. “Now if you don’t mind, you can show yourself out again.”
She went to close the door, but Stacy interrupted her, saying, “When will she be available? I need to talk to her.”
The door opened slightly. “May I ask what it’s about?”
“Who is it, Celia?” A woman’s voice from somewhere in the house. The echo indicated a large open area and that the woman had spoken from up on a second-floor stairway.
“A young lady asking to speak to you, ma’am,” Celia called up over her shoulder.
Footsteps clicked down stairs, then across the marbled floor. The door widened and a woman peered out—short gray hair caught up in stiff curls, eyebrows arched severely over hooded lids, a pale blue ring circling each iris of her hazel eyes, which meant the woman was elderly. Certainly older than the image Stacy had seen on the internet, which must have been taken some years back. But it was definitely the same woman.
“Mrs. Crane-Thorpe, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had any vacancies at Millcreek.”
The woman frowned as deeply as a face full of Botox would allow and shared a questioning look with Celia.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I looked you up—on the internet. It said you were on the executive board of Millcreek Fashions and I was told you might have some jobs.” She looked from Mrs. Crane-Thorpe to Celia and back. Both of them frowned out at her.
“I’m sorry, young lady, but I think you must have the wrong person.”
“No, I don’t. Millcreek Fashions. Maybe if you just tell me who’s in charge, I can go talk to them.”
“Go and have my car brought around,” the woman told Celia.
“Look,” said Stacy, a little irritated now, “All I want is—”
“I don’t have time for this right now. I suggest you go and check your facts. There’s no one here on any board of executives for a Millcreek or anything else. Good day.”
And the door closed in her face.
Stacy swore under her breath, then realized she wasn’t going to be able to get out of the front gates until the woman left. She hammered on the door with the side of her fist. “Hey, I can’t get out. You’ll have to open the gate for me!”
When no one responded, she muttered a few choice words, then started back down the driveway. When she got to the street, sure enough, the gates were still locked.
Now she’d have to wait until the woman brought her car down.
A minute later, the automatic mechanism hummed into life and the gates slowly parted. Stacy stepped back as a white Mercedes swept down the driveway behind her and paused until the gates were fully open. Maryanne Crane-Thorpe sat in the back seat, eyes glued to something in her hand—probably her phone. The car swung out of the driveway onto the road and turned right.
Stacy walked out behind them and watched the car depart down the lane.
The woman had lie
d and Stacy intended to find out why. She hurried back to Curta’s car and pulled back out onto the road, following until the Mercedes was just in sight. She eased the car to the side of the street and waited until it had crested the first hill, then pulled out after it.
There was more than one way to skin this cat.
CHAPTER THIRTY
DAY TWO: 4:32 PM—ELIZABETH
Nancy was right—the address indicated on the GPS tracking system was out in the middle of nowhere. After driving down a long dusty road lined with the occasional abandoned house, they came to a dry riverbed where the bridge had collapsed and never been repaired. Nancy got out of the car and strode over to the flimsy white wooden barrier that had been placed across the entrance to the bridge and leaned over. After scanning the surrounding stony ground populated only by the odd naked sapling, she bent to pick up a sign that lay on the ground next it.
“Sinkhole,” she called, pointing to the sign. Shaking her head, she tossed the sign back down and trudged back to the car. “River runs right into it and disappears. No wonder everybody moved out.”
Penny backed up, swung the car around, and retraced their original route back to the main highway. The new route took them down a potholed back street lined on both sides with bare saplings. A mile or so later, Penny guided the car past a roadside Dumpster and a stack of cardboard cartons next to it, tied in neat bundles and waiting for collection, and down a long, narrow lane. After another couple of hundred yards, the lane opened into the front entranceway of what looked like an old freight storage building surrounded by a sagging chain-link fence. Penny pulled the car to a stop and cut the engine. All three women sat in silence, listening to the tick, tick of cooling metal under the hood while looking the place over.
Covered mostly in plywood siding, the place stood two stories high, a rusted tin roof dipping into visibility at the front, a garage door standing open to the left with a white truck reversed into the loading bay. The front reception area consisted of a set of double wooden doors, both closed, the glass windows boarded up, a lopsided sign next to them with an arrow pointing to the rear of the building alongside a few words handwritten in Spanish.
The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set Page 48