by Lisa Jackson
Logan had been a trusted friend and ally ever since. But he still spoke his mind. “If you ask me, Zach knows what happened to your little girl, Witt.” The detective glanced at Kat, who had turned a paler shade of white and looked as if she might faint. “Any reason why he’d want to harm her—?”
Katherine let out a whimper. “He’s just a boy…”
“—or at least scare the bejesus out of the both of you?”
“No!” An uneasy feeling tightened in Witt’s guts. He and Zach had never gotten along. They’d been oil and water for years, and the fact that Zach didn’t seem to have one Danvers characteristic made Witt suspicious of the boy. There had always been rumors…ugly rumors suggesting that Zach wasn’t his son. Then there was the problem with Kat…Witt had seen her dancing with her stepson, leading him on, whispering in his ear only to shut him down. Maybe out of vengeance…Hell, no! Zach was the only one of his older children who seemed to like London. And he was seventeen, for crying out loud. Seventeen!
“It’s been known to happen,” Logan was insisting. “One kid gets jealous of another—”
“No way. Zach’s probably up to his butt in trouble, but he didn’t take London.”
“Think about it,” Logan suggested, then started ordering some of his men to talk to everyone remotely associated with the Danvers family. Other officers were told to interrogate everyone staying at the hotel, then asked to check the records and contact guests who had stayed in the hotel for the last three months.
While each family member was interrogated a second and third time, the detective sergeant kept track of the investigation via walkie-talkie. His men were situated throughout the building and checking every available space in the hotel as well as working the grounds and spreading through the city, reporting anything remotely suspicious on the streets.
Informants were contacted, and anyone with an arrest record for kidnapping was in for a shock, though Logan suspected that this case was different. This wasn’t the work of penny-ante crooks—this was different and deadly.
Logan was a practical man, a cop who had fought his way through the ranks to make detective sergeant. He hadn’t earned his position because of his education or his sophistication; he’d built his reputation by the simple fact that he always got the job done. Over the course of his twenty-odd years with the force, he’d been called a mule, a terrier, and a self-centered bastard, but the bottom line was that he got results. Crusty and cantankerous, with four-letter words being the essence of his vocabulary, he’d devoted his life to cleaning up the filthy streets of Portland.
He called ’em as he saw ’em and in his book, Zachary Danvers was a bad seed. Maybe not even Witt’s son. Rumor had it that Zach was sired by Anthony Polidori, and though Logan didn’t give much credit to most of the gossip he heard, he did believe that where there was smoke there was fire. He’d caught more than one slippery criminal on the anonymous tip, the “gossip” of the streets. So maybe the grudge between Zach and Witt was stronger than the old man wanted to admit. Maybe Zach hated the man who had raised him. Considering the feud between the Polidori and Danvers families, anything was possible.
The sooner Zach was located, Logan was convinced, the sooner he’d find London, and when he did, his score with Witt Danvers would be even. Members of the family, swathed in hotel robes, hair mussed, smoking cigarettes, sat in the chairs and whispered quietly, hoping not to set off Katherine, who, arms wrapped around her middle, stared sightlessly out the window, a neglected Virginia Slim dangling from her fingers.
Trisha chewed at the corner of one fingernail. Jason paced from the window to a small table and back again. Nelson was wide-eyed and nervous, as if he was on speed, Witt thought with distaste. Everyone was there except London, her nanny Ginny, and Zach.
Witt stared at the bleary-eyed faces of his children and prayed to God that little London was safe, just misplaced. He hoped that the child, upon being hauled away from the party, had protested by “running away” to some hidden corner of the hotel and that Ginny, the idiot of a nanny, rather than lose face and admit that she’d lost his most precious possession, was tearing the hotel apart, searching for her missing charge. But he knew in his heart that he was wasting his time on empty hope. London was gone. Abducted and kidnapped and probably worse. His back teeth ground together in frustration as he wondered where she was—if she was still alive. He couldn’t let his mind wander too far along that dark path, or he’d lose every bit of his sanity.
The police, except for Jack Logan, left the room.
Kat ran the fingers of one hand through her rumpled hair and glanced sightlessly at her husband. With effort she stubbed out her cigarette. “I think we should do something.”
“Logan’s got his men searching the building. He’s going over the guest list. He’ll question anyone who was in the hotel.”
“That’s not good enough!” she said with a deadly calm that belied her ravaged emotions. “My baby’s gone, Witt. Our baby. Gone! Disappeared!” Blinking back tears, she walked to her purse, pulled out her gold cigarette case, and fumbled with the catch. She lit up again and wrapped one arm around herself, as if warding off a chill.
“What do you want me to do?” He felt so damned helpless and he hated the feeling. He was always in command, the man in charge…
“Use your influence, for God’s sake. You’re the richest man in this city, so you shouldn’t sit around here waiting for the police to fumble all over themselves. Do something, Witt. I don’t care who you have to bribe or threaten. Call in the goddamned FBI! Just find my daughter!” Her hands shook as she took another drag on her cigarette.
“They’ve already called the feds—in case she’s been taken over state lines. And I’ll do anything I can to find London, you know that. Believe me, I’m trying.”
“Well, try harder!” She squashed out her half-smoked Virginia Slim in a glass tray. “She might be with Zach,” she said, not for the first time, though at one point she’d defended the boy. She’d been the first to suggest that Zachary was involved, then changed her mind as if the thought were too distasteful. “Maybe Zach’s got her somewhere and this is just a prank…” She must’ve noticed the skeptical expression on his face. “Well, he’s involved, then. You know him, Witt, always in trouble…walking on the wrong side of the law…like his father.”
Stung, Witt held his tongue. The crack about Zach’s paternity struck home, but he didn’t call her on it. He’d never believed, never let himself think for one minute, that Zach had been sired by Polidori. A bitter taste filled his mouth at the very thought. It was possible, but, no, he wouldn’t believe that the boy he’d considered his second son for all these years wasn’t his. But he wasn’t going to argue the point with Kat. There was no reasoning with her now and he had to keep a clam head, no matter what else.
Nelson, his youngest son, looked scared. Witt had never much cared for the boy; at fourteen he was still a scrawny kid who seemed to take after him, but always reminded Witt of his first wife, Eunice. There was something about Nelson that was…odd. Unsettling. “Why didn’t you tell me Zach didn’t come upstairs?” he asked the boy, and Nelson swallowed hard, avoiding his father’s eyes. “You were supposed to be sharing a room.”
“Dunno.”
“Where is he?”
“Dunno.”
Witt let out a sigh and stared at Nelson with an intensity that had made loggers with inch-thick hides squirm. “You know where he is.”
“No!”
“But you know something,” Witt prodded, sensing that the boy was holding back. Hell, what a bunch of headstrong kids he was raising.
“I, uh, saw him leave the party,” Nelson admitted sullenly, looking as if he thought he was Benedict Arnold, for Christ’s sake!
Witt didn’t move. “Leave? When?”
Katherine walked over to Nelson. “It must have been after Witt cut the cake, because I saw him earlier.”
Nelson nodded mutely.
So Kat had ke
pt her eye on Zach. “Was London with him?” Witt demanded, already knowing the answer.
Nelson shook his head furiously, his long blond hair brushing the back of his shoulders. “He left alone, didn’t want to be bothered.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Katherine seemed tense enough to slap the boy.
“I didn’t want to get him in trouble.”
“London’s missing!” she screamed. She was at the breaking point, nearly hysterical, not making a lot of sense. “I don’t give a damn about your brother getting his ass in trouble again!”
Witt stepped between his son and young wife. “We don’t know anything. Not yet. Let’s not go jumping to conclusions.”
“That kid’s always had a mean streak,” Katherine said. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I wouldn’t put it past him to—”
“Enough!” Witt turned his attention on his oldest son, who had watched the exchange with a hint of amusement on his lips. “You think this is funny?” he roared.
“No.”
A muscle ticked in Witt’s jaw. “You act as if you know where your brother is.”
“Probably meeting a girl,” Jason replied, then shrugged indifferently. “He’s always horny. My guess is he’s spending the night with someone he picked up.”
Katherine looked stricken.
“Come on, Dad. Don’t pretend you don’t remember how it was when you were seventeen and horny as hell. Zach just wanted to get laid.”
Witt could barely remember, but he didn’t give a damn. Not now. Not when London was missing.
Sirens.
Somewhere in the distance sirens screamed through the night. Horns honked, people shouted, and the pounding in his head wouldn’t fade. Slowly Zach opened an eye. The floor tilted and for a second he didn’t know where he was. He tried to move and pain ricocheted down his arm. He was woozy and his head felt as if it weighed a ton.
Gritting his teeth, he got to his knees and saw the dark stain of blood—his blood—on the cheap carpet. The room swayed. He was dizzy, his mind a blur, until he saw his bloody reflection in the mirror over the bureau. The Orion Hotel. Room 307. Sophia. All at once he remembered everything—the pretty girl, the hoodlums barging in and nearly killing him.
Why?
Because the thugs had thought he was Jason.
That bastard. He’d been set up. By his own brother. Zach pulled himself upright and staggered into the bathroom. His head throbbed, his gut ached from being kicked and his shoulder felt as if it were aflame, but somehow he managed to twist on the faucets and splash some water onto what had once been his face. He looked like hell. His eyes were already beginning to blacken and swell shut, blood crusted in his nostrils and clotted over his lips. One cheekbone was crushed, and a clean slice ran from the top of his head and down to his cheek.
His monkey suit, the tuxedo Kat had bought for him, was torn and stained with blood.
Shame and rage grappled with each other as he glared at his reflection. Jason had lured him with a hooker—a lousy hooker—and then let Zach take the fall. Jesus, he could have been killed.
But he hadn’t been. He was alive and though he’d probably have to be stitched up at a hospital, he’d survive long enough to beat the living shit out of his brother. With a white terrycloth rag emblazoned with a black “O,” he cleaned his face, wincing when the warm water touched the knife wound. He didn’t dare mess with his shoulder, couldn’t afford to have it start bleeding again. Besides, he had to leave quickly. No way did he want to try and explain what had gone on here or give the thugs another chance at him. He’d have to sneak back into the Hotel Danvers and up to his own room without being spotted by anyone.
That shouldn’t be too hard. According to his watch, it was almost four-thirty, nearly dawn. Witt’s party should have wound down to nothing. Anyone who was still awake would be too drunk to notice Zach slinking in.
And then he’d hunt down his older brother and beat the piss out of him. Jason had a lot to answer for.
He slipped out of the room unnoticed, took the stairs to the first floor, and while the desk clerk had his back turned, Zach crossed the lobby, hurried past the magazine stand where some old coot was hoping to sell the early edition of the newspaper, and was out the door.
A summer storm had hit. Warm rain lashed from the sky, puddling on the sidewalk and drizzling down the back of Zach’s neck. Ducking his head against the wind, he started back toward the Hotel Danvers. He hunched his shoulders—his legs felt as if they were made of rubber.
As he rounded a corner, he noticed the police cars, six or seven of them, parked in front of the hotel like vultures hovering over a dying sheep. Blue and red lights flashed against the side of the building and a dozen uniformed officers milled around the grounds.
Zach stopped dead in his tracks.
His anger turned to fear as he realized what had happened. Joey and his pal had probably left Zach and attacked his older brother right in his father’s hotel! Jason was dead! Oh, God! Without realizing what he was doing, Zach started running, forcing his heavy legs forward, unaware of the sight he made, unafraid of the police with their riot sticks and guns. His footsteps pounded on the wet cement and he dashed across the cross streets, ignoring the early morning traffic, mindless of the brakes squealing and the horns honking as he flew toward the hotel.
Jason. Oh, God—
“Hey, you!” a loud male voice yelled.
Zach didn’t pay any attention. He sidestepped between two parked cars.
“Kid, I’m talkin’ to you. Stop!”
Zach was barely aware of anything except the fear that gripped him and a burning sensation in his shoulder.
“Police! Freeze!”
He skidded to a stop as the words sank in and whirled on the two officers who approached him. They emerged from one of the cars, their weapons drawn, no-nonsense written all over their features.
“Hands in the air! Do it!” Zach slowly raised his one arm. The other hung limply at his side. “Shiiiit, look at him, will ya, Bill?” the one with the loud voice said. “Looks like our boy here got himself into a fight. What happened to you? Haven’t seen a little girl, have you?”
“What?” Zach figured they must be talking about Sophia, but he kept his mouth shut. Something wasn’t right and he didn’t trust the cops.
The stocky officer—Bill—smiled without a trace of humor in his suspicious eyes. “Don’t you know who this is, Steve? It’s the Danvers kid. The one who’s supposed to be missing.”
“Zachary?”
“Yeah, so what?” Zach snarled.
The policemen exchanged glances and Zach’s blood ran cold as ice. The tall one, Steve, said, “So where’s the girl?”
PART THREE
1993
5
The memory of her fight with her mother was vivid. It had started as an argument about a boy Adria had been seeing on the sly and accelerated quickly to a full-blown battle.
“The Lord thy God is a vengeful God, Adria—”
“He’s not my God,” Adria, then eighteen, had said. “He’s your God, Mom. Yours. But he’s not mine!”
The slap had been one of the few blows Sharon Nash had ever inflicted upon her adopted daughter and it had stung deeper than Adria’s skin; the pain had reached the thick hide that covered her soul.
“Don’t you ever, ever talk like that again.” Sharon’s breath, bitter from the coffee and tinged with the underlying odor of gin, had drifted over Adria’s face. “Now, go wash up, and you forget about ever seein’ that boy again. He’s trash, y’hear. Trash. Just like his ma. Bad blood flows through his veins, girl.”
“And what kind of blood flows through mine?” Adria had demanded.
“We don’t know—you don’t need to.”
“Of course I do!”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways—he brought you to us for a reason. You’re not to question His wisdom, y’hear?”
Adria had turned on her heel and fle
d to her little bedroom tucked under the eaves of the second story.
Years ago. But it seemed like yesterday and the argument seemed to ring through the tiny motel room near the airport.
She’d remembered the fight because of Zachary Danvers, another rogue, another man she should avoid. Though she’d only talked with him for a few minutes, she’d read all about him and his family, her family, and she hadn’t been disappointed.
He was the black sheep of the family—kicked out of the house and cut out of his father’s will more often than not. He did things his own way, didn’t give a hang that he was born rich, and he was cursed with an irreverent spirit that just might want to help her find the truth.
Or maybe not. In the year before his father’s death, Zach and Witt had seemed to bury the hatchet. Nonetheless, she knew instinctively that he would be her only ally in the family; the others appeared to be ready to pick at the old man’s bones and take his fortune.
Maybe Zachary was like the rest.
If so, her battle would be harder than she’d thought.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror over the sink in the bathroom and bit her lip. Was she on a fool’s mission? How could she ever hope to battle the powerful Danvers family? And why was Zachary Danvers—her half-brother, for crying out loud—so attractive?
Adria had always been drawn to the kind of men her mother despised—the rebels and misfits and loners whom Sharon Nash found repulsive. The Zach Danvers of the world.
Yet Zach was the one member of the Danvers family she instinctively turned to, the only one of her siblings she felt she could trust. Trust! She snorted a laugh at her own foolishness. Zachary Danvers was about as trustworthy as a hungry rattler with a trapped mouse. She walked into the bedroom and found a copy of the videotape that had led her to Portland and tucked it into her bag. As she snapped the purse closed, she wondered why she never seemed to learn that very important lesson about men.