Treasures aka See How She Dies

by Lisa Jackson

  Zach kicked, the heel of his boot connecting with the man’s shin.

  Wind whistled between the attacker’s teeth. “You son of a bitch! You lousy little bastard!” The man yanked harder on Zach’s arm.

  Agony ripped through his shoulder. Zach heard a sickening rip and his muscles turned to fire.

  “Help me out, Rudy!” the tall man ordered.

  From the corner of his eye, Zach noticed Sophia scoot backward on the bed. Her face was white with fear as she tried to grab the receiver that dangled from the phone.

  “No way, sister,” the shorter man-the one called Rudy said, as he yanked the cord from the wall.

  “Please-” she cried.

  “Shut up!” the thug snarled.

  Zach kicked his attacker again. “Let go of me!”

  “No way, Danvers. You fucked up one time too many.” Again he wrenched Zach’s arm.

  Agony jarred through his body. Zach screamed.

  “You tryin’ to kill him, Joey?” Rudy barked.

  “Maybe.” Joey twisted Zach around and slammed his face with his meaty fist. Bones shattered. Pain exploded behind Zach’s eyes. Blood spurted from his nose as his knees buckled.

  Rudy stared at Zach’s pulpy face for a minute, then glanced at his partner. “Oh, shit! Hey, man, I don’t think this is the right guy. This one, he don’t look like-”

  “You’re making a mistake!” Sophia cried, clutching the blankets around her, her lips trembling.

  “I don’t think so.” The big one wasn’t convinced. “Let’s get this over with, Rudy! Quit screwing around!”

  Panicked, Zachary struggled, throwing himself toward the door. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rudy reach into his pocket. A flash of silver glinted in the lamplight. Zach’s guts twisted with a new numbing fear. He heard a resounding click and he nearly wet his pants. A switchblade!

  “Okay. Cut him,” Joey said, his foul breath warm against Zach’s head.

  “No!” Zach fought even harder, hurling his weight sideways, throwing his attacker off balance.

  “I said, cut him!” Joey yelled.

  Rudy’s switchblade sliced through the air.

  Sophia screamed.

  Zach flinched as he felt his scalp slitting open above his ear. White-hot, the pain nearly blinded him. “Stop!” Blood poured from the wound, over his eyes and face.

  “This isn’t the right guy,” Rudy said, wiping the blood from his weapon on his pants. “I’ve seen Danvers-”

  “Don’t matter! ’Sides, he’s claimin’ to be him.”

  “Shit!”

  Blindly, Zach kicked.

  “Who cares who the fuck he is,” Rudy finally agreed. The knife plunged into Zach’s shoulder. Pain shrieked through his arm. He retched. His body sagged heavily. They’re going to kill me. I’m gonna die just like a lamb being slaughtered. Zach tried to fight, but he could barely move.

  “He said he’s Jason Danvers, now let’s just get it over with,” Joey said.

  Jason? They thought he was Jason? “Zachary.” Zach spat words and blood from behind loose teeth. He tried to break free and his knees buckled. “I’m…I’m…Zachary Danvers.”

  “He’s telling you the truth!” Tears rolled down Sophia’s white face. “He’s not Jason! For the love of God, just leave him alone!’

  “Not Jason?” Rudy repeated. “I knew it!”

  “Shit!” Joey let go of Zach and jerked the knife out of his shoulder. The wound burned like acid. Zach dropped to the floor, banged his head and couldn’t move out of the sticky blood pooling beneath him.

  “I told you he was the wrong guy. Shit, man, why don’t you ever listen?” Rudy hissed. He pointed at the bed where Sophia was still huddled in fear. “You-get some clothes on and get out of here.”

  “But the boy-” Sophia whispered.

  “He’ll live,” Rudy snarled, casting a dark look toward Zach before eyeing the hooker again. “Unless you want to explain what you’re doing up here with the half-dead son of Witt Danvers, you’ll move your sweet little ass out of here.”

  Don’t leave, Zach tried to say, but the words wouldn’t form over his thick tongue. He watched three sets of feet, her small, bare ones, the others in black work boots-moving in slow motion away from him. Footsteps scuffled on the shag carpet. Blood seeped from his body to the floor. He tried to lift his head.

  “Bastard!” He saw the shoe, felt a hard kick in the groin and curled into a ball. Bile sprayed up the back of his throat. “Stay put, Danvers! You’ll live longer.”

  A tide of black swirled around his eyes, though he willed himself to stay conscious. He saw the door to room 307 open, then close, and he gave in to the warm, dark void that swallowed him.

  Katherine’s feet ached, her head throbbed, and her eyes burned from cigarette smoke. The celebration had been a success and Witt, if he hadn’t been surprised, had put on a good show of acting astounded at his wife’s carefully planned party.

  Seated on one of the chairs near the empty stage, she ignored the litter on the floor and took off one of her spiked heels to rub the bottom of her foot.

  Soon dawn would be streaking the eastern sky, and still a few guests lingered, talking, laughing, refusing to call it a night.

  “Come on upstairs,” Kat suggested to her husband as she slipped her toes into her shoe again. “London will be up before we know it.” She stood and stretched, aware that after hours on her feet, her hair tangled, her makeup all but gone, she was still beautiful and sexy. She caught more than one male gaze lingering on the swell of her bosom.

  Witt, having consumed champagne for hours, yawned and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He was heavy, this big bear of a man, and she staggered under the combination of his sagging weight and too many glasses of champagne.

  Hours before, while she was getting ready for the party, she’d dressed with care and planned to seduce her husband, no matter how much work it was, but now she was tired, her feet ached, her head pounded, and she wasn’t interested in anything but falling into the huge bed in their suite and sleeping for at least a million hours.

  She helped Witt into the elevator. For a few hours the guests, dressed in their finest clothes and jewelry, had forgotten about anything other than celebrating Witt Danvers’s sixty years.

  With a groan, the elevator car moved upward, only to shudder to a stop on the seventh floor. “Come on, birthday boy,” she said, still supporting him as they reached their suite with its panoramic view of the river. She didn’t much care about the view as she unlocked the door, snapped on the lights, and helped him to the king-size bed that had already been turned down by the maid. Witt fell across the silk sheets like a heavy sack of potatoes.

  “Come here,” he said thickly, reaching for his wife as she pulled the draperies shut.

  Katherine giggled. “Want me?”

  “Always,” he assured her. “I love you, Katherine. Thanks.”

  Tears stung the back of her eyes as the drapes snapped shut. She did care about him. “I love you, too, honey.”

  “I wish I could…I mean…”

  “Shh. It doesn’t matter,” she said, and meant it at that moment. Sex was important, but it wasn’t as valuable as love. Kat could find sex anywhere, but she’d learned long ago how stingy people were with love. Leaning over, she rumpled his hair playfully and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute. I just want to check on London.”

  “Me, too,” he said, his foggy eyes clearing a bit as he thought of his little girl.

  Kat sighed. As much as she adored London, a tiny part of her was jealous of the attention Witt lavished upon his youngest daughter-their only child. As Witt pushed himself upright in the bed, Kat cracked open the connecting door, allowing a thin shaft of light from their suite to pierce into the room occupied by London and her nanny.

  At first she thought her tired eyes were playing tricks on her, that she’d drunk too much champagne and her cloudy mind wasn’t focusing, but as she stepped in
to the smaller room, her heart began to hammer, thunder in her ears. She fumbled for the switch. Suddenly the room was flooded with light.

  Both beds were empty; neither had been mussed. The sheets were turned down and two mints sat untouched on the pillows.

  Katherine’s throat constricted in a mind-numbing fear. “London?” she said weakly.

  Sagging against the door frame, Kat glanced at the closet standing open, and noticed that there was nothing inside-no clothes, no bags, no shoes, as there had been earlier. There wasn’t a trace of London or Ginny.

  Dear God, please let this be a horrible mistake. She stepped into the room and felt a chill as cold as November. Don’t panic! London was here. She had to be. But something was wrong and a black fear started crawling up her spine, clutching at her heart.

  “Witt?” she called, surprised at the calm in her voice. After all, this was probably just a mistake. The nanny moved London to another room-to make sure that Witt and Katherine had the privacy they needed. “Witt!”

  “Whaaaa?” Witt weaved to the doorway and propped a shoulder against the frame. “What’s going on?” he asked thickly and Kat knew a moment of absolute desolation-as if her soul had been stripped from her.

  “Call security! There’s something wrong here-London and Ginny are gone. Probably in another room, but call the security guards and the manager just in case.” Her mind, always so cool and dependable, was running away with her to horrible nightmares concerning her child, but she tried her best to stay calm and reasonable. There was just a mixup. That was all. No reason to become hysterical, not yet. Then why were her knees knocking? Oh, God, please don’t let anything happen to my baby!

  Witt strode into the room, knocked over the lamp and swore. Suddenly comprehending that his daughter was truly missing, he began tearing the dresser and bed apart, as if he could find his precious child or some evidence of her in the room.

  “Leave it alone! For the police!” Kat threw herself at him. “Just call the damned security!”

  “She’s not gone,” Witt said, suddenly stone-cold sober. “She can’t be. She’s in this hotel. In the wrong room.” He opened the door and bellowed into the hallway, “Jason! Zach! For Christ’s sake get in here!” Turning to Katherine, he said, “Well find her. And that damned nanny. And when I do, I swear I’ll strangle Ginny Slade for this little prank!”

  Witt’s words were bold, but his face grew ashen and Katherine knew the cold, jabbing fear that she might never see her daughter alive again. Guilt and fear took hold of her. She loved London, she did. With all her heart. All the times she’d been jealous of her little girl because of the attention she received from her father flitted through her mind and she wondered, vaguely, if she were being punished. She didn’t believe in God, but…Oh, please, please, let her be safe! She ran back to her room and with shaking fingers dialed the main desk. Before the clerk could answer, she said, “This is Katherine Danvers. Send up security. Room 714. And call the police. London’s missing!”

  4

  Witt loosened the top two buttons of his collar and stared out the window to the city he’d loved, the town he’d trusted. The streetlights, skyscrapers, and traffic looked the same as they had on any predawn Sunday morning, but now the town seemed sinister and menacing. Portland, his home, had turned on him.

  He saw his reflection in the plate glass, ghostly and faint over the eastern skyline. His face was ravaged and drawn, his eyes haunted, his shoulders slumped. He looked ninety rather than sixty.

  Whoever had taken his baby would pay, but a dark fear tore at his mind. What if they were never found?

  He wouldn’t think such gloomy thoughts. Of course she’d be found. Of course she’d be fine. She was London Danvers, for Christ’s sake. That part bothered him as much as the loss-that someone would dare defy him, someone who knew how to wound him until he was bled dry.

  He reached for his wife’s pack of Virginia Slims and lit up, hoping that sucking in smoke and inhaling nicotine would help. It didn’t.

  Turning back to the suite, he saw the faces of his family, tired and drawn, with dark circles and eyes dark with fear. Everyone was accounted for except London. And Zach.

  A loud knock jarred through Witt’s head. “Police, Danvers! What the hell’s going on?”

  Jason opened the door and admitted Jack Logan, who only a few hours before had been downstairs at the party. Jack, an honest cop before he’d met Witt, was now firmly trapped in Witt’s gold-lined pockets. Four officers were with Detective Sergeant Logan.

  “We got a call that London was kidnapped,” Jack said, eyeing the group, taking a mental tally and coming up not one, but two Danverses short.

  “Looks that way.” He stubbed out the damned cigarette in a cut-glass tray, then showed the police London’s room.

  “Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” Logan muttered under his breath. The room was photographed, dusted, and gone over with the proverbial fine-tooth comb; then Logan returned to Witt’s suite, where he, along with another officer, Sergeant Trent, began his interrogations.

  Questions were fired at each of the family members, sometimes together, sometimes individually. Logan trusted no one.

  While the officers were still scribbling on their pads, Logan demanded a list of the people who had attended the party. He wanted names and phone numbers of the guests, the staff, as well as the band members, florists, and wait staff. Who were the delivery men? With what agency did Katherine book the entertainment? What about the baker and the ice sculptor? Were there any reporters or photographers present?

  Who was Ginny Slade? Where did she come from? Did she have any family? What were her references?

  What was her relationship with Zach?

  “She has none!” Katherine said emphatically, her cool confidence shattered. Eyes rimmed with streaking mascara, she glared at the detective sergeant. “Zach isn’t involved in-”

  “He’s missing, isn’t he?” Logan countered, his lips thinning thoughtfully. “You call that a coincidence?”

  “For Christ’s sake, he’s only seventeen. How could he be behind something like this? He was probably kidnapped as well,” Witt interjected, and Logan sent him a harsh look that silently called him a fool.

  “That boy’s been in and out of trouble since he was twelve, Witt. Face it. I’ve had to cover his ass more times than I can count.”

  “Nothing like this,” Witt said quietly, though deep inside he felt a gut-wrenching fear that Logan was right. Zach had a chip on his shoulder the size of Nevada and he’d never gotten along with anyone in the family-even London, though the precocious child had hung on his every word. “You know who you’ve got to arrest, Logan. Polidori is behind this one.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Like hell!” Witt growled, suddenly snapping. The tension in the room was getting to him and he felt as if his nerves were strung as tight as winch cables.

  Logan, still staring at Witt as if he were a buffoon, ran a gnarled hand through his snow-white hair. Logan’s face was lined and ruddy, weather-beaten by the winds that had blown incessantly down the Columbia River Gorge while he pounded a beat on the east side for ten years. Tiny lines webbed beneath the skin of his nose, adding a reddish tone created by a lifelong love affair with Irish whiskey. A no-nonsense man, Logan seldom threw any punches. It had taken years for Witt to get the goods on the man, make him bend the rules a bit, and take a simple bribe. Logan had fought him, but when push came to shove and Logan had needed help with his drug-dependent daughter, Risa, Witt had gotten the girl quietly into a private clinic and made sure that the story hadn’t found its way to the news stations or been printed in any of the local papers.

  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 o
ut 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.