by Lisa Jackson
“Okay. Fine.”
“So I’m coming to New Orleans.”
“Perfect,” Abby said with a false smile, “then Zoey, we can talk about a lot of things before we have that drink, okay? Including Mom and the day she died. I think you know more about it than you’ve ever said. If you won’t go back there with me, fine, but we’re going to discuss it.”
“Oh, Abby…”
“I need this, Zoe,” she said, then hung up, hard. She tossed her uneaten yogurt into the sink. Where had that come from? She’d always had a feeling that her sister and father hadn’t been completely honest with her about that day, but she’d never baldly questioned them. She’d been content to be wrapped in her little cocoon of innocence, afraid of what she might find if she ever emerged.
Sister Maria’s insistence that Abby had been inside the hospital when her mother had plummeted to her death had brought back pieces of her memory, a memory she hadn’t known had been shattered. Something about the way she’d recalled the accident was wrong—and had been for the last twenty years.
She had been inside the hospital. She remembered hurrying up the stairs, nearly running head-on into the tall nun who had warned her to slow down at the landing. But Abby hadn’t paid any attention to the woman in the black habit with her stern expression and rustling skirts. She’d raced past and up the final partial flight, focusing on the doorway to 307…
After that, her memory failed her.
Now, closing her eyes, Abby tried to call up what had happened then and why, oh, why, did she see her mother’s broken body on the cement? A headache started in the back of her skull, pounding, warning her she wouldn’t like what she found. Still she fought to remember. Gripping the edge of the counter for support, she forced her thoughts backward. If she hadn’t been outside the car, on the hospital steps, not only had her memory failed her, but so had her family. Her father. Her sister.
For twenty years she’d felt something wasn’t right about that day, but she’d been afraid to ferret out the truth, unwilling to peel the blindfold from her eyes.
No more.
It was time to stop protecting herself, to unwrap the layers of lies, deceit, and guilt.
Zoey, whether she wanted to or not, was going to help.
The night had been a bust. Montoya had spent his time talking to the students attending the vigil, double-checking with Courtney LaBelle’s friends. Then he caught up with Father Anthony for a few minutes before the priest had to rush off, hell-bent, or perhaps heaven-bent in his case, to comfort Mary LaBelle’s family. But Montoya didn’t like him. Father Anthony Mediera was too smooth, too outwardly calm, too damned not-a-hair-out-of-place perfect for Montoya’s tastes. The priest’s faith felt worn like a badge.
Later, Montoya had stopped by Nia Penne’s apartment to find her with her new boyfriend. Petite, to the point of being elfin, with white-blond hair feathered around a face Montoya thought was reminiscent of Tinker Bell, she’d politely answered a few questions, but she hadn’t changed her story. Montoya noticed that the new man in her life was indeed sculpted, appeared strong, and for the most part, silent.
The boyfriend had stood near the fake fire, arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging beneath a too-tight black T-shirt that showed off a slim waist and what Montoya figured were “abs of steel.” His name was Roy North, his feet were a size twelve, and Montoya intended to check him out. There was just something about Roy that was very territorial and angry and all muscled up on his own testosterone that bugged Montoya. And he hadn’t been in Toronto last week with Nia and her friends.
As for Nia, she wasn’t exactly the grieving ex-girlfriend. In fact, when he’d noticed the boxes scattered around the living room floor, she’d grinned naughtily and admitted that she was giving up the apartment and moving in with Bigfoot.
Tinkerbell and Sasquatch. What a pair.
So much for love eternal, Montoya figured, as he strode to his cruiser parked on a side street near Nia’s apartment. For a fleeting second, as he returned to his car, he thought of Marta…beautiful, vibrant, full of sass and charm. He’d thought she would be the one he’d settle down with and that chance had been ripped from him. And yet, the sadness he’d once felt, the blatant out-and-out anger that ate at him, had slowly faded, and now, not even nostalgia clung to him. It was hard to envision her face, her dark eyes and long, curly black hair. When he did, her features blurred, as if washed by the rain still falling from the sky.
Another woman’s face appeared.
A beautiful woman with whiskey-colored eyes, untamed red-blond curls, and a full mouth. Abby Chastain. Luke Gierman’s ex-wife, the woman right in the thick of this investigation. Hell. She was the last woman Reuben Montoya should be attracted to, the very last, and he knew it.
But wasn’t that the way it always went down? The whole forbidden fruit thing? How many married women in the past had attracted him? Flirted with him? How many had been engaged to other men? He’d never crossed that line, but he’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t been tempted. Sorely so.
But this, with Abby, was different. She didn’t flirt with him. She didn’t pretend to be innocent and flash him glimpses of her body, nor did she play the naughty vixen to intrigue him.
Hell, she hadn’t had the chance! He barely knew her. Had met her a few times under tense circumstances. He was just stressed out, that was it, and it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. Too long.
Now, in the pelting rain, he unlocked the cruiser, slid inside, and pulled the door closed. Swiping the raindrops from his face, he turned on the ignition and wondered why he was already fantasizing about her.
She was out of reach and that was the end of it. He checked his mirror, found the side street deserted, and cranking on the steering wheel, pulled a one-eighty and drove into the wet, dark Louisiana night.
The damned gate was stuck!
How the hell had that happened?
Asa Pomeroy leaned out the window of his Jaguar and punched in the electronic code to open the gates to his estate. Again. Nothing happened except that he got wet. Again. Rain was coming down in sheets, sliding down the sleek windshield and drumming the top of his balding head. “Son of a bitch! Come on, come on.” He punched in the code a final time and swore loudly. Then he tried the remote again. Clicked it several times but the damned gate still didn’t move.
He had his cell phone with him, of course, but whom would he call? Vanessa was off at her mother’s for a blissful week, the maid was gone for the night, the gardener-handyman was twenty minutes away. And he’d been drinking too much to call a cop. Any of his friends would take a full forty minutes to get here and they, too, would be tanked up from a night of drinking at the club.
No, he was on his own.
Which was usually not a problem. He was nothing if not efficient and capable. Hell, he hadn’t spent two tours in Vietnam only to come back to the good old US of A to build, market, and ship a better weapon. He sold rifles, grenades, bazookas, ammo, and every weapon imaginable all over the planet and because of it was rich beyond his wildest dreams. All because of Yankee ingenuity from his father’s side of the family, Southern charm from his mother’s, and red-blooded American know-how, cast in iron from generations of his WASP ancestors.
Tonight, by God, no cheap-ass piece of Japanese technology was going to thwart him. He grabbed his Stetson, rammed it onto his head, pulled a flashlight from the glove box and slipped his reading glasses onto his nose, then stepped outside his car. Rain was running in rivulets, soaking his goddamned Italian leather shoes, the ones Vanessa had insisted he buy on their last trip to Tuscany. Jesus, what a waste of time and money that had been.
He was leaning over, peering at the backlit keypad, when he realized the dog hadn’t come out to greet him. Without fail, Geronimo, upon hearing the Jag’s smooth engine, would run pell mell down the long driveway and be waiting, tongue hanging from his mouth, on the other side of the gate. Once Asa pulled through, the big dog alway
s raced the car up the long drive. Asa, without fail, let him win.
So where the hell was he?
Water dripped from the brim of Asa’s hat. His half-glasses fogged as he stared into the darkness, through the iron gates and trees where, though the house was hidden, lights should glow.
Now, save for the glow of the Jag’s headlights, where mist rose and swirled in the twin beams, there was only darkness.
He whistled loudly.
Nothing.
Something was wrong, he thought, and was just starting to sense that he’d been set up when he felt something hard and cold against his back. He started to whirl, but it was too late.
Zap!
Three hundred thousand volts of electricity jolted through his body.
His hat flew off.
He dropped to his knees.
Gasping, he tried to reach into his pocket for the knife he kept hidden there.
But he was confused, his body and mind at odds and he couldn’t so much as raise a finger. His brain ordered his hands to stretch into his damned pocket, but he couldn’t move a muscle.
Disoriented, he saw a big man step out of the shadows to loom over him in the rain.
Panic grabbed Asa by the throat.
Someone, this guy and probably his friends, had planned this attack. Meticulously.
Fear cut through him.
His assailant was dressed in black, in some kind of tight-fitting body suit, his face covered by a mask. Leaning over, he had the audacity to hold his weapon up so that it was visible in the light from the car’s headlights.
Still unable to move, to barely focus, Asa caught a glimpse of the stun gun and recognized it was one he manufactured.
Jesus H. Christ, what was this?
Then he knew. The guy was going to abduct him. To demand ransom in the form of millions. And he was going to kidnap Asa by using the very “self-defense” weaponry Pomeroy Industries manufactured.
Terror struck deep in his heart. Again he went for his knife. Again his hands failed him.
His assailant calmly set the stun gun against his neck and gave him another shot.
Electricity rocketed through him.
Another three hundred thousand volts.
Asa screamed.
Pain sizzled and popped down throughout his body. Despite all the advertisement to the contrary, the jolt stung like a son of a bitch. He writhed, flopping in the mud while his attacker slowly and calmly pulled out a roll of duct tape from his utility belt. Then he came up with a circle of fishing wire as well as a knife. Asa recognized that weapon, too. His attacker clicked open what appeared to be a Pom 4SF—a folding knife with a quick release and four-inch serrated blade—a specialty knife advertised in Pomeroy Industry’s latest catalog for gutting big game as it could easily slice through gristle and bone.
A knife strong enough to eviscerate a man.
Fear turned his blood to ice.
He got the message.
Don’t do this! I’m rich. I’ll pay. Anything! He was screaming but only a garbled mewl came from his throat. He couldn’t form words.
He tried to struggle, but it was no use. Helpless and without control of his limbs, he was flailing in the mud like a warthog in quicksand.
He glanced up at his assailant and swore he saw satisfaction in the eyes looking down at him through the slits in his mask.
But that was impossible…right? It was dark.
Who was this guy? What did he want?
Jesus, help me, Asa silently pleaded. He watched helplessly as first a six-inch piece of duct tape was sliced from a roll and slapped over his mouth, then his hands were jerked roughly behind him bound first by the same tape, and fortified with a plastic-coated steel fishing wire he recognized as the same type he used when he was trying to land a marlin. The tape would have been enough: the wire was some kind of statement.
All hope failed as his ankles were taped together, but no fishing wire used. Then a hood was forced over his head and tied at the neck. There were air holes so that he could breathe, but he was surrounded by darkness.
Just like in ’Nam.
He’d been captured by the Gooks. Held in a cage for nearly two weeks before he managed to escape. Well, he’d do it again, goddamn it. He’d fight back the terror, the bone-numbing fear, and beat this son of a bitch at his own damned game.
He was hauled to his feet by the collar of his jacket. He tried to fight, to spin away, but it was useless. He heard a car door open and his assailant pushed him inside, banging his forehead as he fell into what smelled and felt like the backseat of his Jag. His legs were pushed up so that they bent at the knees, then the door was slammed shut.
A few seconds later he heard the attacker climb behind the steering wheel, the car sinking slightly with the added weight, and then that door, too, shut. With a deafening click, all the doors were locked, the gearshift rammed into reverse, and then the perfectly tuned engine revved as they backed down the quarter mile to the main highway.
Asa’s only hope was that someone would recognize his car.
But it was late.
Few vehicles drove this stretch of isolated road.
For now, he had to do whatever this bastard had in mind. No doubt it was money. He’d be held for ransom. Well, that was fine; he had enough cash to pay whatever exorbitant figure the kidnappers came up with.
He might lose a finger in the process.
Or an ear.
He inwardly cringed, but reminded himself it was worth it, if he could just get out of this alive.
Vanessa would willingly pay the ransom, right?
The board of directors at Pomeroy Industries included his children. They would be eager to fork over the cash, wouldn’t they?
Hadn’t he helped his wives and children, even his grandkids, for Christ’s sake? He’d paid for braces, college, vacations, any damned thing his progeny needed, even the ones who disdained his wealth, claimed they needed only a “little something” to “get started” or to “find themselves.” He’d shelled out for face-lifts and boob jobs and trips to psychiatrists. Health spas, new cars, even a boat; he’d come up with it, so those who owed him not only their lives but their lifestyles had damned well better offer up the cash to bail him out of whatever the hell this was.
Don’t count on them, Pomeroy.
You’ve been in tough spots before and who was the only person who came to your rescue?
No one but your own damned self.
And the truth of the matter was, if he examined his life closely, he had a lot of enemies, and some of the worst were his own kin. Backstabbers, money-grubbers, liars, and cheats…all either having been married to him or with his blood running through their veins.
And then there were his series of partners, most of which he’d screwed over.
Was this his punishment?
Don’t think that way. This is just some greedy, sick opportunist. You’ve dealt with worse across a boardroom table.
As the car purred down the smooth, winding road, some of Asa’s disorientation cleared. He thought of his wife who didn’t love him. His kids who didn’t respect him. His two sons both of whom were missing a screw or two and his daughter, a gold digger like her mother. His grandchildren were just as bad and thought of him as their own personal ATM. His business partners who only pretended to like him because of his net worth.
Had one of those sons of bitches set him up?
Hot anger replaced his cold fear. He might be hog-tied now, defenseless. But that was only temporary.
Whoever the hell the bastard driving his Jag was, he would damned well get his. The idiot hadn’t even checked his pockets, didn’t know that Asa’s own knife was, even now, resting against his thigh, right next to his money clip. If he got half a chance, Asa planned to use the Pom 3.5F, a deadly folding knife that would slice right through muscle and hide. Asa hadn’t spent some of his army hitch with the special forces and not learned how to slip a blade between a man’s ribs and slice the hea
rt. It was just a matter of getting the jump on his attacker.
It had been years since he’d practiced killing a man, of course, but he was certain he could take the guy out. This time, the kidnapper had picked the wrong goddamned mark.
CHAPTER 14
“Asa Pomeroy is missing,” Lynn Zaroster said as Montoya walked into the small kitchen at the station the next afternoon. He’d spent the day catching up on paperwork, going over autopsy reports, and interviewing witnesses all the while waiting for the pictures that he’d taken the night before to be blown up. The bodies of Luke Gierman and Courtney LaBelle were being released to their families, the DA wanted answers, and Montoya felt no closer to knowing who had committed the double homicide than the day he’d walked into that cabin by the river.
Zaroster was carefully dunking a tea bag into a steaming cup of water. Montoya headed straight for the coffeepot.
“The millionaire?”
“Multi-multimillionaire if Industrialist magazine can be believed.”
“You read that crap?” Montoya asked as he grabbed a paper cup and poured a thin stream of coffee into it.
“My boyfriend does,” she admitted.
“Wait a minute. Doesn’t Pomeroy live in Cambrai?”
“Outside of the little downtown area. Kind of out in the boonies, maybe even the swamp.”
He felt a tightening in his gut. He remembered driving past the elaborate iron gates securing the Pomeroy estate. “He lives close to Abby Chastain.”
“Really?” she asked, tossing the used, wet bag of English Breakfast tea into the garbage.
“Yep. They’re neighbors.”
“How weird is that?”
“Weird enough.” Montoya didn’t like the feeling that was creeping over him. Didn’t like it one bit. “What happened to him?”
“Don’t really know. I just ran into Vera from Missing Persons in the ladies’ room and she told me that the wife was out of town, came back this morning and he wasn’t there. The bed was still made and apparently he never even pulls the covers up. A real slob. Anyway, both the maid and the gardener hadn’t been able to get into the house, the automatic lock was jammed or something. It looks like maybe someone changed the electronic code according to the security guy who came out and checked. So the Mrs. calls Asa on his cell phone but he’s not answering. At this point she’s starting to get worried and then Asa’s secretary calls from his office: Asa’s late for a big meeting. After phone calls all around, including the cell again, his cronies, family members, and no one has any idea where he is, the wife called the station and is coming in to file a report…it hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, but it’s not looking good.”