Sacked!

by Melinda De Ross

  “Drive up to the house. Someone will meet you at the front door,” he said.

  Carter thanked him and waited as the gates slowly opened.

  Geez! This place was guarded like Fort Knox.

  Once the gate was fully opened, the man signaled for us to drive through.

  The driveway leading up to the house wasn’t very long, but I was grateful we hadn’t had to walk it. I still had a cold, and every now and then a chill shook me.

  Carter noticed and squeezed my shoulders.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You can wait in the car if you don’t feel up to it.”

  I shook my head vigorously, ignoring the increased headache as I did.

  “I’m fine. I’m just a little nervous.”

  “Don’t be. Just follow my lead.” His smile reassured me.

  The estate was definitely one fit for the king and queen of jewels. The impressive white pillared brick house sat amidst trees and green lawns, reminding me of estates I’d seen in brochures advertising tours to the UK.

  We parked the car and walked up the few steps to the veranda. A maid opened the door.

  “Good day. Mrs. Doleman will see you in the library,” she said and turned around. “Follow me.”

  We stepped into the sumptuous foyer and followed the woman down an imposing corridor with high ceilings and a lot of artwork on the walls, until we reached our destination. She opened a magnificent set of doors and ushered us inside.

  The library was an impressive room to say the least. These people had money with a capital M. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the walls. In the center of the room were matching sofas separated by a coffee table. The room smelled expensive, with the aroma of ink, old paper, and waxed wood.

  I managed not to trip over my jaw when Jack Doleman’s wife set down the leather-bound book she was reading and signaled for us to enter.

  Mrs. Doleman was fortyish and very well preserved, her beauty probably aided by Botox and silicone, but tastefully done. She wore more real gems and gold jewelry than I’d ever seen other than in a store or museum. She was as beautiful as any Hollywood actress I could think of. Why would a man want another woman when he had her?

  “Come in, Mr. Evans.” With a heavily ringed hand, she gestured toward the sofa opposite the one where she sat. “I thought I’d made it clear to you the last time you were here. I have nothing to say to the Press.”

  “Then why did you agree to see us?” he asked.

  She sent him a smoldering gaze that said she wanted to rip his clothes off and lick him all over. I didn’t blame her. I felt the same way. I disliked her on the spot.

  “Let’s just say I was curious.” Carter and I sat on the smooth leather. “And your companion is…?” The curiosity in her eyes held more than a touch of venom.

  “My name is Camilla Jackson, Mrs. Doleman,” I said, adopting my most professional manner and tone of voice. “I’m Carter’s partner.” That was stretching the truth a bit at the moment, but I had no compunction about doing so. “We would like to give you the opportunity to tell us your version of your husband’s kidnapping.”

  She raised a penciled eyebrow. “My version?”

  “Yes, well, we already know the police’s version,” I said, linking my hands together. “We know you’ve been thoroughly questioned, but we thought you might want a chance to be absolved of all suspicion.”

  That sounded brilliant. I could sense Carter’s approval. Regina Doleman appeared both mildly amused and oddly impressed. It seemed to me she had caught on to my tactic, but couldn’t resist stepping into my trap.

  “All right,” she said after a moment’s silence. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything you know regarding your husband’s kidnapping, from the moment it happened until this very second,” I said trying to hide my relief.

  If this worked, Carter would definitely want me as his partner.

  Chapter Twelve

  Regina pursed her lips and crossed the long legs revealed by the short blue dress she wore. For a woman with a missing husband, she didn’t look too concerned. If this were Corinne and Dan were missing, she would’ve ripped out all her hair by now, dogging the police like a pit bull.

  “Let’s see ... It happened a couple of weeks ago, more or less. Jack and I were supposed to have lunch together, but when I got home from the salon, he wasn’t here. Of course, he rarely was,” she added with just an edge of bitterness. “I went into the bedroom to change, then went down to the living room. I was just calling his cellphone when I noticed a red stain on the carpet.”

  “What did you do then?” Carter prompted, leaning forward slightly, supporting his forearms on his knees.

  “Nothing. I assumed it was wine. I asked Lydia to clean it, although she swore it hadn’t been there earlier when she’d cleaned the room. The next day I found a ransom note in the mailbox demanding two million dollars for Jack’s safe release, and telling me not to go to the police.”

  I was stunned by her nonchalance. “But ... Weren’t you concerned when your husband didn’t answer his phone or when he didn’t show up at home that night?”

  She scoffed. “Not in the least. He’s never been the most reliable man.”

  This woman was as cold-blooded as they came, reminding me of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. As a matter of fact, she bore a marked resemblance to the blonde actress, crossed legs and all.

  I cleared my throat and continued the interrogation.

  “So you called the police despite the fact the kidnappers told you not to. Why?”

  She shrugged. “At first I thought it was a prank, one of Jack’s schemes to get back into my good graces. I decided calling the police would teach him a lesson. When the forensic team came to the house, they found signs of forced entry at the terrace doors and traces of blood on the carpet, which they later identified as his.”

  “Was that when you began to worry?” Carter asked.

  Her glacial blue gaze fixed on him. “I never worry, Mr. Evans; it’s non-productive and causes wrinkles. I assumed that if Jack had been kidnapped, he must’ve done something to merit it. Not all of his business dealings were on the up and up, as they say. He was involved with numerous shady characters. I figured he had it coming.”

  What the hell could I say to that? The silence stretched several minutes as I gathered my thoughts.

  “And the police haven’t found any clues? Nothing that gives them a lead?”

  “Not that I know of. In my opinion, if they spent more time working the case instead of questioning me, they might have something by now. As it is, the case was stalled until last night.”

  My ears pricked and so did Carter’s.

  “What happened last night?” he asked before I could.

  Regina Doleman recrossed her legs.

  “An envelope arrived, along with a patch of scalp.”

  My jaw dropped.

  Carter gasped. “A patch of scalp? Is it your husband’s?”

  “Oh, yes. The police tested the DNA. They have the envelope.”

  “Was there another note?” I asked, chills creeping up my spine, chills that had nothing to do with the way I was feeling.

  “Yes. Now, because I haven’t been cooperative, they want three million dollars, or they’ll continue sending me pieces of Jack until I pay up.”

  I hissed out a breath. This was surreal, as if I were trapped in a gangster movie.

  “What are you going to do?” Carter asked, his voice strained. “Will you pay the ransom?”

  For the first time, uncertainty appeared on her carefully made up face. It could be fake, but I glimpsed the shadow of worry in her eyes.

  “I don’t know. It’s not about the money, you see. We have plenty of money; it’s just a matter of principle. At first, I thought Jack deserved this, but now ... I’m not so sure,” she confessed, slowly shaking her head.

  Carter and I looked at one another. We were both at a loss for words. Fortunately, a knock on the woo
den door disturbed the uncomfortable silence.

  Without waiting for an answer, a man stepped into the room, carrying a stack of papers. I glanced at him briefly, and froze. He was the man from the hair salon, the one who’d nearly cost Rodney his life, the one I’d assumed to be a gangster when he’d mentioned a second letter with a ‘souvenir.’

  My heart stalled for a second or two, then began racing madly. Had he noticed my staring? Did he recognize me? He seemed to be watching me intently as he walked toward the sofas to hand Mrs. Doleman the papers.

  “Here you go, Mrs. Doleman. The reports you asked for,” he said, his voice containing the Jersey accent I remembered.

  I bent my head, inspecting the Turkish carpet, hoping he hadn’t recognized me, or if he did, that he had no reason to suspect I’d overheard his conversation. Meanwhile, my mind was making leaps and bounds at lightspeed.

  This man had to be involved with the kidnappers. I glanced sideways at his back as he left the room, and was terrified to see him glance at me over his shoulder.

  I was just about to tell Carter and Regina Doleman what I’d overheard, when another thought struck me. What if she and this guy were in cahoots? What if this was an elaborate scheme to get rid of her cheating husband?

  She claimed to have lots of money, but maybe she didn’t have access to it unless he was out of the picture. Or perhaps she was just sick and tired of the philanderer. The best thing for me to do right now was to keep quiet and get out of here, but I had to know something first. Curiosity killed the cat; I hoped it wouldn’t kill me.

  “Who was that?” I asked, feigning indifference.

  “Oh, that’s Richie Delgado, my husband’s right-hand man. He takes care of most of the businesses for us.”

  Richie Delgado. Did he and Regina have more than a business relationship? I was dying to tell Carter what I knew. I slapped my hands against my thighs and rose.

  “Thank you for talking to us, Mrs. Doleman.”

  Carter followed my lead and stood as well. I was immensely grateful to him for letting me conduct the interview, though I knew he was used to working alone and being in charge.

  “Mrs. Doleman, we appreciate you taking the time to speak to us. I hope this gets resolved soon and your husband comes back to you safe and sound. With your permission, we’ll leave now, but we’ll stay in touch.”

  “Thank you. Lydia will see you out.”

  I didn’t say another word until we were back in Carter’s car. Then, as soon as he started the engine and drove away, I turned to him.

  “Carter, I think that Richie Delgado is one of the kidnappers.”

  Carter turned to me, a stunned look on his face.

  “What? What makes you think that?”

  As quickly as I could, I told him about the episode in the salon—minus the details about Rodney. I would save those for later.

  “Don’t you see? ‘A letter with a little souvenir.’ What else could it mean?” I asked breathlessly. “And this guy turns out to be Doleman’s right hand. It has to be him. He has to be involved. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  He drove on, his face a mask of concentration as he pondered the new information. Finally he said, “I don’t know, Camilla. Even if you’re right—and it’s a stretch in my opinion—what can we do? We aren’t the police. In essence we’re just private citizens who may or may not have information of interest. You don’t know for a fact that he was talking about the kidnapping.”

  “True, but it’s the only thing that makes sense,” I muttered, more frustrated than ever.

  “In that case, the only sensible thing to do is for you to talk to the police and tell them what you’ve told me.”

  “Do you think I should?” I mean what if Carter was right and the conversation had nothing to do with the kidnapping, I would not only be making a fool of myself, I could be accusing an innocent man of a serious crime.

  He raked a hand through his hair.

  “I don’t know, Camilla. Sometimes doing the right thing is as dangerous as not doing it. What if this Delgado dude recognized you and suspects something? You said he noticed you at the salon. If he kidnapped his own boss and sent his wife a patch of the guy’s scalp, he’s not only dangerous, he’s deranged. This may sound callous, but maybe you should stay out of it. I don’t want to risk your safety. You’ve become too important to me.”

  My heart jumped for joy as I turned my head to look at his profile. All at once I forgot all about Doleman, Delgado, and everything else. Carter and I were the only ones in my universe.

  When his gaze met mine, my temperature shot up again, and not only because of the fever. God, if only I didn’t feel so lousy! Just then, I shivered, my teeth chattering in the process. Carter noticed and took one hand off the wheel to put it on my forehead.

  “You’re burning up again. I’d better get you home to bed. I’ll make you some soup. Whatever happens, you’re not going out again today,” he said, easing the car to a stop in front of my building.

  In my misery, I ignored the comment about bed.

  “You can make soup, too?” I asked.

  He smiled as he climbed out of the car and came around to open my door and help me out.

  “I can make a lot of things. I love to cook. Carina didn’t. She specialized in take out and pizza.”

  I searched his face for the usual signs of grief, but found none. There wasn’t sorrow in his eyes, just a fond memory that seemed to fade as he gazed back at me. He took my hand, and we headed into the building.

  “Do you have what it takes to make chicken soup?” he asked as the elevator moved up to my floor.

  I nodded. “My fridge and pantry are well stocked. I did groceries last night after work. I’m a pretty good cook, although I rarely do so. It’s too much hassle for just one person.”

  “Well, whenever you feel inclined to cook, just give me a call. I’ll be happy to help you eat it.”

  I grinned as the elevator doors opened. After I unlocked the door to my apartment, I kicked off my shoes and went straight to the living room, crashing onto the couch. The room spun slowly as I rested my head on the cushions, and sweat beaded on my forehead.

  Carter removed his shoes and followed me. He knelt down next to the couch and took my hand.

  “You’re feeling under the weather again, aren’t you?” he asked, worry creasing his brow.

  I tried to smile. “I’m just a little weak and dizzy. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine in a day or two. Why is it they’ve found ways to cure so many horrible diseases, yet still can’t cure a common cold?” I asked, raising my index finger. “But, while it isn’t a cure or a preventative, I’ve discovered something that gets me back on my feet in record time.”

  His eyebrows arched as he smoothed my hair away from my forehead. “What is it?”

  “A tea made from ginger, lemon, mint, and honey. Three cups a day of that brew and in forty-eight hours I’ll be fresh as a daisy.”

  “Really? The next time I get a cold, I’ll ask you to play nurse for me,” he said, winking, and got to his feet. “Now, I’m going to get you some more of that cold medicine and then I want you to rest while I lock myself in the kitchen.”

  He stood, left the room, and came back minutes later with the tablets and a glass of water.

  I sat up and took them.

  “Listen, Carter, you really don’t have to bother about me...”

  He pursed his lips. “I thought we had this settled already,” he said. “Do you really want to piss off your doctor?”

  I shook my head, too sick to argue.

  “Then stay here and rest while I get to work. Need anything else?”

  “No,” I said softly, snuggling under the blanket he’d covered me with.

  He bent down and kissed my forehead. Despite the damned cold, I’d never been this happy in my entire life. His presence filled me with comfort. His obvious caring meant more to me than anything any other man had ever done for me.

  The only danger I
foresaw was that I was falling faster for him than a runaway train on a downward slope. If he didn’t reciprocate, I would be devastated. Closing my burning eyes, I dozed off, the homey sounds of someone working in the kitchen lulling me to sleep.

  My eyes fluttered open. Carter smiled down at me. Waking up this way was better than any dream I’d ever had. He stroked my hair. This had to be how a pampered kitten felt in the hands of its loving master.

  “Good morning,” Carter whispered.

  My eyes opened wide, startled.

  “Is it really morning?” I couldn’t possibly have slept the day and the night away.

  He laughed. “No, it’s early evening. You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours. The soup is ready.”

  I sniffed the air. The incredible aroma of chicken and herbs penetrated even my stuffed nose.

  “God, it smells wonderful!” I said, sitting up. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, Carter.”

  He took my hands in his and took them to his lips. “Just get better, that’s all I ask. Shall we eat?”

  “Absolutely. You should have awakened me earlier,” I protested following him to the kitchen, where two bowls of soup steamed on the table.

  “You know the drill. Lots of liquids and plenty of sleep. Now try my magic elixir,” he prompted, pulling the chair out for me and sitting on the opposite side of the table.

  He looked at home in my kitchen, as though he belonged there and the thought filled me with a warm fuzzy feeling.

  Despite my cold, the first spoonful of hot, zesty soup nearly gave me an orgasm. Not even my mother could make soup like this, and I told Carter that. He seemed pleased, confessing that his mother had taught him how to cook.

  “I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her, so she decided I might as well be useful and learn something,” he said between spoonfuls. “This is her recipe.”

  “If you ever decide to quit journalism, you can probably make a living selling hot soup. Speaking of which, how did I do in the interview?”