“And?”
Looking in his side mirror, he pulled out to pass a driver who was foolish enough to be observing the speed laws. “Here’s how it would go down. You walk into a police station and say, ‘I think my son is still alive and there’s some guy trying to get money out of me to find him. Here’s the letter he sent and a fuzzy picture of my little boy. Please investigate.’ What do you think they do?”
“Not much, I guess. At that point.”
“They probably brush you off Or, if you get lucky and get someone more conscientious, they talk to you a while, see if you’re a loony. Maybe if they’re thorough, run a quick check, find out your kid is officially dead, case closed, assume you’re grasping at straws or still grieving, tell you to ignore the letter and talk to your minister or get some therapy.”
“Get a life, in other words.”
“Something like that.”
The sun had disappeared, but the western sky outside Dom’s window was still streaked with pink light. The view on Jordan’s side, however, showed night setting in. She opened her window and let the cool evening breeze into the car while she pursued the topic she’d introduced.
“So then what if I’d brought in the second letter, with the picture of Michael?”
“Then they might have to take you more seriously. Ask if you want to cooperate with them. Maybe set up an undercover guy on the night you met Wally at the bar, nab him. You press charges. But it’s slippery, legalwise. You were paying for information, no one forced you to go there. It’s not, strictly speaking, extortion.”
“It’s not?”
“Nah. It’s like going to a psychic, saying, ‘Here’s a bunch of money to put me in contact with my late husband.’ She guarantees nothing, only information. Wally did give you information, lots of it, just not enough to put you in contact with this kid, who you hope is your son, but there’s a ninety-nine-point-nine-percent chance isn’t. See?”
“Yes. All right, then, say we got past that part and knew where Myra and my son—”
“If he is your son.”
“All right,” she snapped, annoyed that he kept doing that, “if he’s my son.”
“Let’s get this straight, Jordan,” Dom said firmly. “I know you don’t like it when I remind you of that, but I’m scared for you. You’re setting yourself up here, and you may take a real dive if you’re wrong.”
Frowning, she studied his serious face for a moment, wishing there were some way to make him see what she knew. “Dom, I know that if I’m wrong, it will be devastating. But I’m not wrong, and there is no way I can impress on you how sure I am. I feel it, in here—” She placed a curled fist over her heart. “Michael’s alive. I know he is. I accept your doubt. In your place, I’d have the same doubt. But I’m one-hundred-percent sure ”
He pursed his lips, seemed about to say something, then raised his shoulders, lowered them. “Okay, I tried.”
“Yes, you did. Can we continue?” With obvious reluctance, he nodded. “So now say we know where Michael is. What do we do then, officially?”
“They would look up the record, see the case is closed. But you would push to reopen it, and with some Carlisle influence, maybe a friend or two in high places, someone would get the assignment. It probably wouldn’t be a priority. What they’d do, they’d get a picture of Michael at eighteen months, let one of the computer guys work up how he’d look a year later. If it’s a ballpark match to that second photo, run up to wherever Myra is, ask some questions. That would be assuming she would cooperate. Check the kid’s birth certificate, identifying marks, stuff like that.”
“Michael has a strawberry mark on his left shoulder,” she said excitedly.
Had a strawberry mark, Dom almost said, but didn’t. Obviously, nothing he said or did would dampen her belief. He was afraid for her, that was the truth, afraid of what would happen to her if, one more time, her son was proved to be no longer alive. But Dom had done all he could. He only hoped she had the strength to get through it again and come out whole. He’d be there to help.
Or would he? He had no idea where the two of them were going...
One thing at a time, D’Annunzio, he told himself. Get through this, then see.
He retrieved a stick of gum from his pocket, offered it to Jordan, who turned it down, then popped it into his mouth. “Okay,” he said, “so now we have a problem. We ask Myra to voluntarily submit to having the kid’s blood drawn for a match. If she decides not to cooperate, you have to go the legal route. Which means she goes legal, too, puts up a fight. Child services would get involved, too, maybe put the kid in foster care for a while. So you got lawyers, social workers, paperwork up the kazoo and some guy assigned to it who has fifty-five other pending cases. Might take a long time. I work for the system, but I know how it can get bogged down. None of us like that it’s that way, but it is that way. That’s reality.”
To her credit, Jordan seemed to take it all in without getting bent out of shape, and nodded her understanding. “So that’s why you’ve never recommended we do this officially.”
“Yeah, well, part of me wishes we’d done it that way from the first. But, to be honest, if you came in with this story—” He shrugged. “I’d be out of the picture. It’s not my department. Not to mention the fact that I’m too personally involved with the complainant, so I’d never get the case. And, the truth is, I don’t want to let some other cop run with it—not that he might not do a good job, but this is my case. I feel responsible. You brought me in, I’m not leaving till it’s done. However it works out.”
Jordan smiled at him. “Thank you, Dom. Really. I—”
He raised a hand to cut her off. “If you start getting grateful on me again, I’m turning this car right around.”
Two and a half hours after they left West L.A., they entered Bakersfield. It took a while to find the right street, then to make out the addresses in the dark, but finally they pulled up in front of an old wood-framed house with a neglected yard. The porch was lit by a single yellow bug light.
Jordan stared out the window for a moment, then turned to Dom. “Are you sure I shouldn’t be the one to go in?”
“If Wally’s there, he’ll want to know how you managed to get his address, then he’ll figure out you had some official help, which meant you didn’t listen to his instructions. Better if I do it. Trust me.”
“But—”
“I said to trust me, Jordan. Do you?”
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded and slumped down in the passenger seat.
He felt her eyes watching him as he walked up the concrete pathway, climbed three steps onto a narrow porch and faced a screen door with several rips in it. He pulled on it, but it was locked. He rang the bell, and a moment later, a woman in late middle age, her hair gray and wispy, wearing a long robe, came to the door. A lit cigarette dangled from her mouth.
Dom said, “I’m looking for Walter Kaczmarak.”
In the background he could hear the blare of a TV set. The woman took a drag off her cigarette, blew the smoke in his direction and looked him up and down warily. “Wally’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“Who wants to know?”
Dom flashed his badge. The sullen, suspicious look on the woman’s face didn’t change much. “I don’t want no trouble.”
Dom reached into his jacket pocket, took out a notepad and pen and made a great show of turning pages to find what he was looking for. “This is the address of Walter Kaczmarak, isn’t it? His file says it is.”
“Yes, he lives here. He boards. I get money from the state. He done something? This is my place, I don’t want no trouble,” she repeated.
“No, it’s nothing like that. We may need him as a witness to something, that’s all.”
“Oh, well—” she leaned against the door frame, but didn’t invite him in “—he’s just not here right now. He’s a good boy, Wally is. Not trouble like some of them.”
“Is he at work?”
“I don’t think so. He just rooms here, see, and I—”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“Well, he mentioned something about heading down to L.A. for a few days.”
“Do you have an address?”
“Nope. Just L.A., that’s all he said.”
He jotted a couple of notes “Are his parents nearby? They might know where he is.”
Shrugging, the woman inhaled and once again blew smoke in his face. He wished he could say he hated the smell, but the truth was, it had been four months since he’d last lit up, and he still missed the stupid habit something awful. “He’s never mentioned his folks,” the woman told him.
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Nope.”
Dom thought about asking if he could come in and check Wally’s room, but this woman wouldn’t buy that, not without a warrant. “All right,” he said. “Thank you for your time.” He closed the notebook and began to walk away.
“Hey,” the landlady called after him, “if Wally comes back, what should I say?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
He got into the car and drove off before he filled Jordan in on the interview. As he spoke, Dom searched for a public phone booth with an existing directory. When he found one, he pulled up, got out of the car and turned to the Ks. There were three Kaczmaraks listed. He called them all, asked for Myra. No one knew anyone of that name, and he was pretty sure all three were sincere.
In the car, he turned to Jordan and smiled ruefully. “No luck.”
“Not your fault,” she said, but he could see the glow of hope they’d started out with had just about faded.
Meanwhile, it was past eight and he was starving. They stopped at a drive-through fast food place, picked up dinner and eased onto the highway that led home.
“A few days in L.A. was what she said,” Dom mused out loud. Steering with his left hand, he bit into his hamburger. “L.A. covers a lot of space. But Wally picked a bar downtown, and Union Station is in that area too, so odds are he’s probably staying close by. Where, I have no idea.”
Jordan bit into one of her French fries. It had been so long since she’d had fast food, she’d forgotten how tasty it was. Not good for you, but delicious. She popped two more fries in her mouth, chewed on them and wiped her salty, greasy fingers on a napkin. “Maybe you could trace his car. Didn’t Nick say he had a silver Honda?”
Dom swallowed his mouthful of burger. “He wasn’t sure it was him. According to Wally’s sheet, he drives a purple Mercury, so either that wasn’t him in the Honda or he borrowed a car that night.”
Several trucks roared by in the opposite direction, their powerful lights blazing. Traffic was much lighter now, but as the night was overcast, with clouds that hid the moon, the highway’s only illumination was from passing vehicles.
They ate a while longer in silence. When they were done, Jordan gathered all the debris into one bag and set it by her feet. Dom reached for her hand and held it on the seat between them.
Closing her eyes, Jordan leaned back. Her anxiety about Michael was a constant, but right now all she felt was drained. All that traveling, all that hope, and now another setback. Dom rubbed his thumb lightly over the back of her hand, as though he knew the direction of her thoughts and wanted to offer comfort. And, indeed, the touch of Dom’s fingers, his skin on hers, set her senses to stirring, the way they had that afternoon at the shop She was hooked on his touch.
“What else can we do?” she asked him.
“Not much. Put it away till we get more answers—another note, the info from records on his parents, something we don’t know about because it hasn’t happened yet. I know this waiting is the pits, Jordan, but I’m used to it. Most of police work is about waiting.”
“I hate waiting. I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“I have an idea or two....” He drew her hand toward the junction of his thighs.
He was rock hard, and as she cupped her hand over the bulge of his manhood, a shiver of sensation went through her like quicksilver. “Oh, my. What do we have here?”
“We had a date, remember? Come to my place. I guarantee we can find a way to make time pass.”
Chapter 11
It was five in the morning when Dom drove Jordan to the shop to pick up her car, then followed her home. After he walked her to her front door, she was reluctant to say good-night, so she put her arms around him. Dom maneuvered their bodies away from the well-lit area and into a dark corner where they exchanged easy, lazy kisses. Her nostrils filled with the heady, musky smell of him. Her senses reeled from the new sensual dimension this man had introduced into her life.
“You should have spent the night,” Dom murmured into her ear. “I want to wake up next to you, have you first thing in the morning, before you’re awake.”
“While I’m unconscious? Hmm. Kinky.” She groaned as he glided his tongue along her collarbone. They had made love twice at his place, and she had thought both of them thoroughly sated, depleted of all energy, sexual or otherwise.
Apparently, she spoke for herself. She was in awe of the man—how could there be anything left?
“Think about it,” he said, moving his hips against hers, kissing her eyelids, running his tongue over her brows. “There you are, all warm and sleepy and maybe even in the middle of a dream, and I slip inside you and you think it’s still a dream, and I move some more and get harder and harder, and then you move, too. And you realize it isn’t a dream.”
She moved her head languidly, offering new areas for his tongue to explore. “Who is this man whispering sweet nothings in my ear? Who is this man with all this imagination, this man who said he wasn’t good with words? What have you done with Dom?”
He kissed the bridge of her nose, her cheeks. “When you find out, let me know, too.”
When he found her mouth, they kissed for a long, lovely time. Finally, and with reluctance, Jordan broke away. Smoothing her palms over his bristly cheeks, she said, “If I don’t get some sleep, I’m going to be no good to anyone. You, too.”
“Yeah.”
He walked her to the door After inserting her key into the lock, she turned to face him once more. She felt dreamy and delicious, filled with an emotion that she was growing more and more sure of with each passing moment in Dom’s presence. Love. The word was love.
She was in love with her tough-guy, hard-as-nails-on-the-outside-but-marshmallow-inside Detective Sergeant Dominic D’Annunzio There would be lots of time to explore the sensation, after she had Michael back...
“Good night,” she said softly.
He smiled, touched a fingertip to her nose, then walked away.
“Let me know when you have any news,” she called softly after him.
“You know I will ”
“And get some sleep.”
He shrugged, as though sleep was the farthest thing from his mind, and she watched as he continued down the long driveway and disappeared into the blackness. She waited till she heard his door open and close, heard the sound of the engine, then swept into the house on a lovely wave of afterglow.
In the hallway, she caught her reflection in the antique mirror over the mad table. Her face was soft, all the tension gone from around her mouth and eyes. This, she told herself, was the face of a woman in love. Smiling, she glanced at the table.
A special delivery letter lay there, addressed to her, and in the space of a heartbeat, her dream-misted mood vanished.
It all came back—her anxiety about Michael, the tension of waiting—but at least this time, her heart didn’t race quite as much. This time she wasn’t in territory as foreign as it had been in the beginning.
It was too late to run after Dom. He’d already driven away Jordan opened the letter and read the enclosed note. Ten thousand more, he demanded. In two days’ time. There were instructions on where to drop the money, and he assured her she’d have all the answers to her questions once he received his “rewa
rd.” Again, he said she was being watched, and again it warned her against bringing in the law. This time it was signed, Your friend, Wally.
Friend. Anger rose from somewhere deep inside. Friend, indeed. We’re close to getting you, friend, Jordan said silently, we will get you, you miserable excuse for a human being.
She read the instructions a second time. In two days, either Dom would have found where Wally’s parents lived or she, Jordan, would have to come up with ten thousand dollars She folded the letter, put it in the envelope and climbed the stairs to her room.
When Dom dropped Jordan off, he was still too hyped to sleep. So he took himself for a drive west along Sunset Boulevard, past U.C.L.A. and through Brentwood, winding up at the Santa Monica Pier. As he stood at the railing, he ran his tongue over his lips, tasting Jordan, even smelling her subtle perfume on his clothing. He felt filled with her, oddly peaceful and contented.
He watched the sky change colors while the sun rose behind him, observed the homeless crawling out from under the wooden pilings, where many of them had found shelter during the night. Finally, he found himself thinking about Myra Foster and how to find her. He made his mind a blank, the way he often did when working on a case, letting it wander along whatever paths it chose to go.
Myra’s brother Wally was somewhere in L.A., the landlady in Bakersfield had said. Dom had assumed that meant downtown L.A., near the bar where Wally had arranged to meet Jordan. It was a reasonable assumption. But Wally, from what he could tell, was the kind of guy to work all the angles. Maybe he’d chosen a place far away from where he was staying, in case Jordan decided to have him followed. What if he was staying, say, in Chatsworth, at his former address?
The parole officer had said it was where his ex-girlfriend, a waitress at a nearby Denny’s, lived. The two of them had broken up when he’d moved to Bakersfield. Old girlfriends were always good sources, every cop knew that. And although Chatsworth wasn’t really in L.A., most out-of-towners didn’t know that.
Following his hunch, he headed out there, taking the 405 north for the second time in twelve hours, then hitting the 118 west, till he arrived at his destination. He parked across the street from a three-story stucco apartment-building complex that took up the entire block, then got out of his car to study the layout.
The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 19