The Tough Guy and the Toddler

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The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 13

by Diane Pershing


  He seemed so at ease, she thought, while she was ready to shriek. Money. He wants money. She forced herself to inhale a deep breath, then release it. She knew she had to hold something back, couldn’t be too much of a patsy.

  “It’s—” she swallowed nervously “—nearby.”

  His smile faded slightly. “What do you mean, nearby?”

  She folded her hands on the tabletop to hide how much they were trembling. “I need some answers from you first,” she said resolutely. “Is Michael all right? Where is he? How did he come to be there? Who are you? I need answers.”

  His eyes narrowed, cold as ice all of a sudden. “You wearing a wire?”

  “A what?”

  “You know, one of those recording devices to catch the bad man with. Did you tell anyone about this? The cops?”

  “No,” she protested. “I swear it. You said not to.”

  He reached over and grabbed her small purse from the seat next to her, opened it and peered inside. There was nothing there except her keys, a slim credit card case, a few bills and change and a lipstick. Closing it, he set it on the table, then reached toward her and patted her shoulders. Before she even knew what was happening his hands had patted her upper arms and breasts, then her back, that ever-present smile on his face.

  “Stop that,” she said, pushing at his hands, trying to squirm away from him.

  “Sorry,” he said, but there was no remorse in the remark. “Just looking out for myself.”

  He reached under the table and, even as she kicked at his hands, patted her ankles, up her calves, over her thighs and hips. When he got to her midsection, he stopped. “What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

  “A money belt,” she said tightly.

  His smile returned. “Good. Take it off and give it to me.” When she hesitated, he said, “Money first, answers afterward. My reward for a good deed. That’s the rules. Five thousand big ones.” His eyes turned icy. “Now.”

  She looked at him, suddenly frightened of him. The way his gaze turned frigid was creepy. This man meant business, and he held all the cards. But she had to hold something back, had to reserve some bargaining power.

  She reached under her jacket, unstrapped the money belt she wore around her waist and set it on the table. His eyes darted around the room then, quickly, he grabbed for it. But she pulled it away as he did.

  “No,” she said with more bravado than she felt. “I need some answers to my questions.”

  A spasm of anger crossed his face, then he sat back in his seat, sipped again at his drink. “You’re not going to get a lot of answers, Mrs. Carlisle. That’s not the way the game is played.”

  “This isn’t a game,” she said tightly. “Not to me, it isn’t.”

  “Hey, keep your voice down. Relax. It’ll all work out.”

  She fought for control. Fear mixed with outrage, but she made herself calm down by telling herself that at the end of this nightmare her small, precious son was waiting for her. When she had recovered her poise, she said, “Tell me your name, at least.”

  He eyed the money belt clutched tightly in her hand. “I suppose if I grab that, you’ll scream.”

  “And fight and raise more ruckus than you want to deal with.”

  “But then I won’t tell you where Michael is.”

  “And you won’t get any money.”

  He smiled again, nodded as though appreciating her move, took another sip. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. Five questions, one thousand bucks each. Take it or leave it.”

  She hesitated, then said, “All right.”

  He flashed her his warm smile. “You can call me Wally.” A salesman. Yes, that’s what he reminded her of—someone who sold cars or insurance and had a wife and two children, a home with a picket fence. She almost laughed at the incongruity of the image.

  “Wally what?” she inquired.

  “Sorry, just Wally. No last names.” He held out his hand, palm up. “And that’s your first answer. Let’s have it.”

  Frowning, she considered him. This was ridiculous. Five questions. It was like some twisted fairy tale where the fate of the golden-haired heroine depended on coming up with some dwarfs name. She opened the bag and removed ten one-hundred-dollar bills, folded them and handed them to him.

  He snatched them, glanced around, then stuffed the wad into his pants pocket. “Next question?”

  “Where is Michael?”

  “Up north. Don’t worry, Mrs. Carlisle. He’s safe, and as far as I can tell, he’s healthy.”

  “I don’t understand. How—?”

  “That’s two.” He held his hand out again, then made a dismissive gesture with it. “Look, let’s cut the crap, okay? Here’s the deal.” He finished his drink, belched and said, “Pardon,” then smiled again.

  What she wanted to do was wipe that grin off his face with a slap, but she held herself steady. He was calling the shots. For now.

  “Give me the rest of the money,” Wally said, “or I walk out of here right now, and you’ll never see your son again.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with a raised hand. “In return, I’ll give you as much information as I think you need today. That’s it, lady.”

  As she gazed at him, all sense of power—imagined or otherwise—drained from her. Oh, lord, she thought, this is a nightmare. What choice did she have but to do what he said? Mutely, she handed over the leather belt. He removed the rest of the cash, folded it and pocketed it.

  “Okay.” Resting his elbows on the scarred tabletop, he leaned in to her. “Here’s the story. I have this sister, her name is Myra,” Wally began, and launched into a bizarre tale. As he told it, he seemed to be enjoying himself, alternately crude and cocky with self-importance.

  Apparently, his sister had left home—this unnamed town “up north”—four years earlier to break into the movies in Hollywood. “Always had stars in her eyes,” he told Jordan, “the stupid bitch. And she was pretty, but they’re all pretty in this town.”

  The family had lost contact with her. Then, a year ago, Myra returned home in pretty bad shape. “She’d suffered some sort of a nervous breakdown,” he said. “You know, all twitchy, filled with cock-and-bull stories about big-shot producers and unsold pilots.”

  When Myra returned, she had a little boy with her who she claimed was hers, and there was no reason not to believe her. Myra had always been a little on the nutty side and since her return had gotten even nuttier. In the past year, she’d been in and out of reality, barely able to care for the boy, so their parents had taken full responsibility for him.

  Two weeks ago, when Jordan’s rescue story had appeared in the papers complete with background pictures of Jordan Carlisle and her deceased child, Wally had been in Bakersfield working and had happened to read an L.A. paper. Something about the kid reminded him so strongly of Myra’s little boy, he got on the phone and started kidding his sister about it.

  Myra went ballistic, denying things she hadn’t been accused of. Suspicious, Wally came to L.A., talked to a couple of people his sister had mentioned and found out that Myra had been seeing Reynolds Carlisle before his death.

  “Your husband was paying her rent,” Wally said with a knowing smile, and suddenly the whole connection between Myra and Reynolds and the kid didn’t seem so farfetched to him anymore. What the hell, he’d told himself. That was when he’d sent the first letter and picture.

  Her late husband’s peccadilloes were old news, but Jordan wanted to know more about Myra, as much as she could find out. “What’s your sister’s last name?” she asked, “and how did she wind up with Michael? A child died in that car accident. Who was he?”

  “No last names,” Wally said. “As for the rest—” He shrugged, obviously indifferent. “Beats me. Besides, you’re out of money.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If you want any more answers, I’ll need some more cash as a reward for all my hard work.”

  Angry frustration replaced
fear. “This is blackmail.”

  “Now, now,” he said soothingly, an innocent, patronizing expression on his face. “That’s not a nice word, is it? No, Mrs. Carlisle, you are free to leave right now, and I have no power over you whatsoever. So, no, it’s not blackmail. It’s a reward for information, which I have given you.” He spread his hands. “Pretty simple, huh?”

  “But I need to know more.”

  “And I need more money,” he said, his mouth forming a smug smirk. “Surely the reward should match your ability to pay, don’t you think? You’re loaded, Mrs. Carlisle.”

  “I’m not,” she protested. “It’s not my money. I’m not wealthy, not in the least. I had to pawn my diamond ring to get you what you asked for today.”

  “Really?” He raised one pale, skeptical eyebrow. “Tsk, tsk. What a sad story.” Then he shrugged. “However you get it, I sure hope you can come up with some more, or I’m afraid that will end our association.”

  “Please, I—”

  “Spare me the hearts and flowers, okay? Ten thousand will get you more information, such as the name of my hometown, maybe even details like last names and addresses. Hey,” he went on, stretching his arms above his head as though he hadn’t a care in the world, “I’m being nice here. I could soak you for a hundred thousand, and you know it. Pawn some more rocks. Steal it. Not my problem. All I know is there is this little boy, and he’s either yours or Myra’s. And I know where he is. Meanwhile, I have to go now.”

  He finished the last of his drink and slid around the booth to stand.

  No, Jordan thought, he couldn’t leave, not now. She pushed herself to her feet and clutched at his shirtfront. “But when can I see my son?”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Wally removed her hands and handed her the bill for his two drinks. “You pay this time,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll get the next one.”

  As he turned to go, she grabbed his shoulder. “You can’t just—”

  Shaking her off, he glared at her. Making sure his back was to the bar patrons, he whispered, “Don’t be a pain in the ass, Mrs. Carlisle. Got it?” His hazel eyes met hers for another brief moment. They were empty of all feeling, of all humanity.

  If she hadn’t known it before, at that moment, she understood that she was dealing with a sociopath, someone who totally lacked compassion, conscience, maybe even a soul. Nothing she could say would sway him from his agenda, which was to drain as much money from her as possible. In so doing, he would dangle Michael in front of her like a cat’s toy—the moment she reached for it, it would be snatched away.

  Oh, God, she thought, as she watched him saunter out of the bar. Myra was unstable, Wally was sick, and her son was in that family’s care. A surge of terror sliced through her unlike any terror she had felt before.

  She had to do something, she thought. She would follow him. Force him to tell her...

  She grabbed her purse and ran after him but was stopped by the sound of the bartender’s gruff voice. “Hey, lady!”

  “Yes?” she said over her shoulder.

  “Who’s paying for the drinks?”

  That stopped her. She could make a run for it, she supposed, but this large man would come after her, she had no doubt of it.

  She walked to the bar, realizing she was in way over her head. What had she been thinking, that she would follow Wally? Was she capable of trailing him through the dark and dirty streets of downtown L.A., keeping her distance? What if he got into a car and drove off? Her car was a block away. The B-movie image returned, the one where the hero or heroine would hail a cab and say, “Follow that car.” In reality, there were very few cruising taxicabs in L.A., none in this section of town.

  Briefly, she wondered if all this movie imagery meant the strain she was under was making her lose reality. But she dismissed the idea. This wasn’t the movies, this was her life, and Jordan Carlisle, supersleuth, was a bust.

  At the bar, she set money on top of the bill. “Excuse me?” she said.

  The bartender looked up from wiping a glass. “Yeah?”

  “That young man I was just with?”

  “Who?”

  . “You know, the one who just walked out? Do you know him?”

  “I didn’t see nobody walk out, lady.” He seemed bored. “I don’t know him, I don’t know you, I don’t know nothing. Anything else?”

  No, she thought, defeated and dispirited. Nothing else. She hadn’t done this right, somehow, hadn’t come up with a clever enough plan. For sure, she had no idea what the next move was. Still her mind continued to race, trying to come up with some answers, some solutions, anything. Tucking her purse under her arm, she walked toward the exit.

  Chapter 8

  Dom watched from the shadows as Jordan came out of the sleazy-looking bar. She stood for a moment breathing in the night air as though grateful for oxygen. He stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder.

  She let out a short gasp, but he came around to face her, the fingertips of his other hand pressed on her mouth. “Hey, Jordan, it’s okay. It’s me.”

  When he dropped his hand, she stared at him with a look of total surprise. “Dom?” she said. “How did you—” The surprise changed to panic as she glanced wildly up and down the street. “Did he see you?” she asked.

  “Who? The blond kid?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, he walked them toward his car, which was parked nearby in the red zone. “Come on, get in,” he said when they got there.

  Again, she glanced up and down the street then at him, panic and confusion on her face. “He’ll see us together.”

  “He’s gone. Walking southeast. Nick’s following him.”

  “Nick?”

  “Get in the car and I’ll answer all your questions.”

  She did as she was told, and he drove the several blocks to the Civic Center. At the fountains in front of the courthouse, he pulled into a Loading Only zone. They were surrounded by the quiet, darkened stone buildings of the city’s hub at night. The only illumination was the colored lights of the fountain.

  Dom turned off the motor, leaned against his car door and faced her. He was fighting a war inside between worry for Jordan’s safety and anger at her for being here. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he said, keeping a tight rein on his temper.

  “Me?” She seemed taken aback, then responded heatedly. “You’re asking me that?”

  “Yeah, I’m asking you that.”

  She glared at him, defiance in her eyes. “Well, I want an explanation of what you’re doing here. And I want it now. How did you know where to find me?”

  He took in a breath, tried to slow down the tempo of their interchange. “If I tell you, will you answer me?”

  “That depends on what you tell me.”

  He was aware that he was on the verge of blowing up at her, even if it was fury born of fear. When Nick had called to tell him where Jordan was, Dom had broken speed records getting here. However, at this moment, he sensed that it was not wise to make her his verbal punching bag just to relieve anxiety. Besides, he told himself, he was the professional here, which meant he needed to set the tone.

  “I was worried about you, okay?” he said with as much calm as he could muster. “This afternoon, after you clammed up on me, I...got concerned, so I asked Nick to keep an eye on you.”

  Nick had been only too glad to oblige his old friend. A few months back, Dom had helped Nick track down a sicko who had kidnapped Nick’s fiancée, Carly. Nick was retired and teaching Police Procedure at a local college. When Dom had asked him, unofficially, to keep tabs on Jordan for him, Nick hadn’t hesitated to agree.

  “Keep an eye on me?” Jordan said. “You mean, he followed me?”

  “Yep.”

  “You had me followed? Like a common criminal? How dare you?” She punched her index finger into his chest. “Who gave you the right—”

  He grabbed the finger, squeezed it.
“You did When you involved me in this, when you called me up and asked me for professional advice, you gave me the right to do it.”

  To her credit, Jordan seemed to hear him and at least partly agree with him, because she stopped fighting him. He dropped his grip on her finger, hoping he hadn’t hurt her. Crossing her arms over her chest, Jordan leaned against the car door, stub-born defiance in her body posture. “I accept your explanation, but I don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t much like it when Nick called me with your location. He popped his head in the bar, saw you talking with the blond kid—” He broke off. “What’s his name?”

  “Wally.”

  He nodded. “I came hightailing it down here, got here just as Wally was leaving. Nick took off after him, I stayed to talk to you. So, talk to me, Jordan. I’m gonna guess that he’s the one who sent you the note last week.”

  Her mouth was still set in a stubborn line. He wanted to shake her, but he kept his hands to himself while they curled into fists. “Talk to me, I said,” he repeated “I’m not going away until you do.”

  She stared at him, those large green eyes nearly translucent as they reflected the fountain’s colored lights. Then she seemed to come to a decision. She unfolded her arms and clasped her hands on her lap. “You were right. I got a second letter. I’m just so scared about what will happen if he knows about you.”

  “He won’t, not unless it’s necessary. Come on, let’s hear it, all of it. Please,” he added, less aggressively. Jordan was safe, sitting here in his car with him. He could relax a little. “It’s been making me crazy.”

  She studied him a moment longer, then gave up the last vestiges of her resistance. “All right,” she said with a sigh. “It seems stupid not to, at this point.”

  In halting tones, Jordan brought him up to date—the locker at the station and the picture, the meeting, the story about Myra. As he listened with a cynical cop’s ear, Dom’s personal fear for her safety increased. She wasn’t only a civilian, she was an innocent when it came to dealing with the seamier segment of the population.

 

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