by Sheryl Lynn
“So you set up a kidnapping and provide the murder weapon. Only you don’t tell the hired hit man he is a hit man?”
“And I also make sure that the payoff cannot be traced to me. No matter how deeply anyone digs.”
“So the only way the kidnappers get paid for murder is to return Penny.”
“Exactly.”
“Max is well acquainted with the kind of people who’d pull off a kidnapping.” Her eyes acquired some shine, and color seeped back into her face. “He’s been in the private security business for over twenty years. He must know every criminal in the state. That’s where your risk factor comes in, doesn’t it? He can’t risk having witnesses who can name him or blackmail him or whatever.”
“He would put the risk factor as close to zero as possible. Which means minimal contact. So I’m betting the kidnappers don’t know who he is. Either he went through intermediaries or wore a disguise or made all the arrangements via secure communications. In any case, the kidnappers are left twisting in the wind. They took all the risks and have nothing to show for it. That’s our advantage.”
Her face expressed such hopefulness his belly ached. All attempts to shut out his emotions against her failed. He studied the toes of his boots. He wanted her friendship, high opinion of him and high regard. He wanted her trust. An image of himself on his knees, hands clasped, pleading for her forgiveness disgusted him. Yet, it held almost hypnotic appeal as well. He swiped a hand through his hair as if wiping away the thoughts.
“What can we do?” she asked hopefully.
“We have to get you out of here. No police involvement. No FBI. We can’t involve your family, either.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Two reasons. Caulfield ordered me to find evidence against you. It finally hit me this morning that he knows there is evidence to find.”
Her gaze turned inward. Her brow twisted. “Do you think he’s the man who called me? He got me out of the way so he could plant evidence in my apartment?”
“We better find out before the cops do.”
She shook her head. “No, not possible. I moved, changed my phone number. Max doesn’t know where I live.”
He cringed inside. The list of his inadvertent crimes against her was growing long and damning. “He does. A couple months ago he had me find out where you’re living and working.”
She rose to her feet. Standing on a step, she looked down at him.
“Address, phone number, Martha’s Pie House. Even where you bank.”
“Give me one good reason why I should trust a single word you say.”
He thought about last night. The sheer amount of emotion he’d felt troubled him then and troubled him now. She’d touched him. She’d roused long-dormant feelings. He’d go to the ends of the earth for her cause. If he could explain that to her maybe she would trust him. But he couldn’t even explain it to himself.
Her chin quivered. “How do I know this isn’t one of Max’s tricks to set me up?”
He had no easy answer. None she would believe, anyway. “All I have is my word.”
Eyes closed, she slumped. “Oh, who gives a damn. I don’t care if Max sets me up to get the death penalty. All I want is Penny back.”
“Then you have to get out of here.”
“The man they caught could be telling the police everything he knows. He can tell me where Penny is.”
“The other two won’t sit around waiting to get caught.”
“Do you really think they’ll contact me? It makes more sense to extort money from my aunt and uncle. They look wealthy.”
“I don’t know anything for certain. I do know the game has started over. Everybody is back to square one. If the man the cops caught does talk, then we will make some progress. If he doesn’t talk, who knows what can happen. I still think the kidnappers will attempt to contact you. You offer the lowest risk, since you have the most to lose.”
Her expressive face told him she was hooked.
“We’re running out of time,” he said. “If Caulfield planted evidence in your apartment we have to find it before the cops do.”
“They don’t have probable cause to search my home.”
“Mrs. Caulfield is putting on the heat. You refused to let the cops search your place before. It won’t take much nudging from Caulfield for them to decide your refusal is their probable cause.”
She let her head fall back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. She slammed a fist against the stairwell wall.
“If you’re arrested we may never get Penny back.”
A rumble of voices rose. He hurried to the corner and peered toward the private dining room. Two uniformed officers and an FBI agent argued with a group of people. Judging by the cameras and microphones the news media had discovered the connection between Julius Bannerman and Elk River Resort. The Colonel stepped into the hallway. His ringing voice demanded silence.
“Oh, no,” Frankie whispered. “How did they find out?”
“Doesn’t matter. We have to get out of here.”
“I can’t just disappear.”
“It’ll be easier if you do. Let’s go.”
Her head swiveled between him and the increasing noise down the hallway. “I don’t trust you,” she whispered. Her plaintive note hurt his heart.
He caught her shoulders and jerked her to him. He kissed her mouth, hard and hot, trying to tell her with his soul what his words failed to accomplish. She fought him, at first, then slightly, ever so slightly, she relaxed. He broke the kiss and stared into her eyes.
“We’ll deal with your trust issues later.”
“If you’re lying to me,” she whispered in reply, “I will kill you.” She twisted out of his grasp. Her eyes blazed. “And keep your hands off me. Last night was a mistake, and I never make the same mistake twice.” She pounded up the stairs.
It took J.T. only minutes to gather his belongings. Garbed in her ratty old parka, Frankie glowered at him from the doorway. He explained that he’d accompanied Julius and Penny to the resort in the limo, so they’d have to take her car. They slipped out the back way. Her car was covered in snow. They used their hands to clear the windshield and windows. He noticed she didn’t have gloves so offered his. She ignored him.
“I’ll drive,” he said. “Get down in the back.”
“Why?” she stammered, her teeth chattering. She fumbled a set of keys out of her pocket, but dropped them in the snow. Her hands were bright red except for painful looking white patches.
He scooped up the keys. “Because the cops might stop you from leaving.” He hoped nobody inside the lodge spotted them. “Get in.” He slid behind the wheel and waited. Seconds later she got in the back. “Cover yourself with those newspapers and stuff.”
He could barely see out the windshield, but didn’t want to waste time waiting for the defroster to kick in. He drove slowly around the lodge. News vans crowded the circular drive. Uniformed officers attempted to maintain order, but the reporters were like rowdy children trying for a shot at a pinata.
“What’s happening?” Frankie asked, her voice muffled.
“You don’t want to know.” Avoiding making eye contact with any law officer, he maneuvered the car through the road jam of reporters. He made it all the way to the highway before a county sheriff’s deputy flagged him down.
“Why are you stopping?” Frankie asked.
“Shut up and stay down.” He pulled out his cellular phone and rolled down the window. Before the deputy could say a word, J.T. waggled the telephone. “Hey, I got a story to file and the damned mountains are blocking reception. Where’s the nearest high spot—?”
“Get out of here!” the deputy yelled, waving him on.
J.T. gunned the engine and got out of there. He passed more news vans headed toward the resort. He pitied the Dukes.
“Can I get up now?”
He glanced at the rearview mirror. Her red curls bounced into view.
“I gotta clean o
ut this car,” she grumbled. She leaned an arm through the bucket seats. “If the reporters know about Elk River do they know about me, too?”
He met her eyes in the rearview mirror. He tried not to breathe too deeply. Her scent, heightened by the hot air blasting through the car heater, tortured him. He turned on the radio. He switched the radio to AM and fiddled with the dial until a station came in clearly.
“...live from Elk River Resort, scene of the heinous murder that took the life of the heir to the Bannerman jewelry fortune. Ellen, what have you got for our listeners?”
“Well, David, the rumors are true. Julius Bannerman was murdered in connection to a kidnapping. The FBI agent in charge refuses to confirm the identity of the kidnapping victim. The scene is tense. The sheriff’s department, state police and FBI are involved.”
In the background, people shouted questions, but due to the noise no replies were audible. Irritated, J.T. switched off the radio.
“Hey!” Frankie protested.
“Hold off until we get into town. Maybe we can find a station telling us something we don’t know.”
When they reached Manitou Springs he turned the radio back on. He found a station carrying the news about the murder and kidnapping. They were replaying Belinda’s press conference. A commentator named Penny as the kidnap victim. Frankie muttered from the back seat.
“You’re going the wrong way,” she said. “I’m up north.”
“We’re switching cars.”
“The police can’t be looking for me. They think I’m still at Elk River.”
“We have reporters to worry about, too.”
He pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex where he had an efficiency. He parked her car along the curb. Alert for anything that looked, smelled or moved like a cop he hustled Frankie to his car.
She wrinkled her nose. “This is a worse piece of crap than mine.”
“But it’s paid for. Get in.” He slung his duffel bag into the back seat. From the back seat he retrieved a black knit cap. He tossed it on Frankie’s lap. “Put that on and tuck in your hair.”
Obeying him, she asked, “Have you got a plan?”
“I’m working on it.”
Once on the road again, he handed over his telephone. “Have you got a neighbor who can tell you if anything is going on?”
“Sally might be home. She works nights.” She punched in the number. “Sally? Frankie. Yeah, yeah, it’s true. That’s my sister. I’ll explain it all later. I promise.”
“Any cops?” he prompted.
“Hey, I’m in a real jam. Is there anybody hanging around the apartments? Like a cop? No? Anyone asked you any questions about me? Good. All right, I’ll be home in about fifteen minutes. What? Since when? Okay, see you there.” She slapped the phone shut. “She says my cat is missing. She hasn’t seen him in days, but I know he was inside when I left.”
Filled with a sense of impending doom he couldn’t shake, he grimly focused on traffic. The storm had swept through the city and left behind six-foot-tall berms of frozen snowplow tailings. The roads were rivers of slush, and he turned on the windshield wipers to clear goop off the glass. At the apartment complex where Frankie lived, he drove slowly through the parking lot. After two passes he figured it was safe.
He and Frankie hurried across the parking lot. She stopped abruptly.
He reached for her arm. She twisted out of reach. “That’s Cat,” she said.
A big yellow cat lay in a small patch of sunshine on the asphalt. He had a huge round head and one ear had been torn in half. The tip of his tail twitched lazily. Scruffy and huge, he was the ugliest cat J.T. had ever seen.
She glanced at the second-floor windows. “I know he was in when I left. I know it.” Hand out, she approached the animal. He yawned, revealing rows of yellowed, needle-sharp teeth. “C’mere, Cat.”
She scooped him up and slung him over her shoulder. Eyelids drooping at half-mast, he regarded J.T. He reached up a hand to rub the cat’s ear and a half. Snake-swift, the animal hissed and swatted at him.
“He doesn’t like strangers,” Frankie said without much apology.
J.T. kept a safe distance as he followed Frankie up the stairs.
Chapter Eleven
The sight of her friend’s face was so welcome Frankie nearly wept. “Sally!” she cried and held out an arm. Cat rumbled a warning against her shoulder. Frankie kept herself well between Sally and Cat.
“Keys,” McKennon said.
“What the hell is going on?” Sally asked. Eyes narrowed, she looked McKennon up and down. She appeared to like what she saw. “Who’s your friend?”
“Sally, this is J. T. McKennon.” Half expecting to see a battalion of cops pounding up the stairs, she glanced nervously behind them. As soon as McKennon opened the door she rushed inside. Cat began fighting for release. She hustled him into the bedroom and tossed him inside before shutting the door. He yowled in protest.
“Now will you tell me what’s going on?” Sally asked. She flashed a smile at McKennon. “I wanted to call when I couldn’t find Cat, but didn’t know how to reach you.”
“Don’t touch anything, okay?” Frankie prowled the tiny living room and galley-style kitchen. The place looked dusty, and Cat had shredded a newspaper into confetti, but it looked the same as when she’d torn out of here the other day. She explained to Sally, briefly, what had happened.
“Man alive,” Sally breathed. “You don’t have any idea where your sister is?”
The question struck Frankie square in the pit of her belly. She caught the back of a chair and closed her eyes. Nausea churned her innards. At Elk River she’d felt helpless, but here she felt hopeless. The only person who seemed to have any idea about how to get Penny back was a man she should not trust. A touch on her shoulder made her jump. Seeing Sally’s intention to soothe and comfort, Frankie thrust out a hand.
“I’m okay!” She didn’t have time to fall apart.
“Check your messages,” McKennon said. He pointed with his chin at her answering machine. The blinking red light indicated calls.
She pushed a button. Four messages had been recorded. Each was from Bob at the Pie House. He grew more angry with every call. The final message informed her that her services were no longer required.
“Bite me, Bob,” she muttered.
“Record a new message on the machine,” McKennon said. He wrote on a scrap of paper. “This is my cell number. Tell anyone with information about Penny to call.”
She met his eyes. Ambiguity tore her apart. She didn’t want to trust him. Experience said trusting him meant danger to herself and to Penny. Yet, his steady gaze and strength invited trust. His kisses, the way he’d held her, the passionate words he’d whispered in her ears gave her the only shred of hope she had to cling to. Her ridiculous heart said to trust him. “Do you really think they’ll call me?”
“Yes.”
His conviction almost made her forget she hated him. Almost. She recorded a new message. Her voice quavered so much she had to start over twice. McKennon prowled the room, poking and probing.
He opened the bedroom door.
“Don’t—” Frankie warned, but too late. Cat shot out of the room and wrapped himself around McKennon’s ankle. The big man grabbed the animal. Frankie rushed in to the rescue, but Cat bit McKennon’s hand. Cat bounded away and jumped on top of the television set. There he sat, his yellow eyes narrowed in feline satisfaction. His scruffy tail slashed the air.
McKennon gawked at the cat. Blood dripped from his left hand.
Appalled and embarrassed, Frankie tugged McKennon toward the kitchen. She pushed his hand into the sink and turned on the water full blast. “I am so sorry.”
“That animal needs an exorcist,” Sally said. “He’s a menace.”
“I’ve never been attacked by a cat before.” McKennon winced as Frankie applied a liberal squirt of dish-washing soap to the wound. “Did you train him to do that?”
“He c
ame already trained.” Two neat punctures went all the way through the web of flesh between his forefinger and thumb. Touching him tortured her. She wanted to kiss him and hold him and beg forgiveness for her nasty pet’s actions. “Are you up on your tetanus shots? Scrub that, while I find the antibiotic.” She searched through the cabinet next to the sink where she kept first aid supplies. She found a tube of antibiotic cream. As she moved to close the cabinet, she noticed an unusual shape amongst the aspirin bottles and sunscreen. She carefully moved a box of Band-Aid strips. “Uh-oh.”
He looked where she pointed.
“That is not mine,” she said.
Sally crowded in behind them. “What is it?”
McKennon tore a paper towel off a roll and used it to carefully grasp a squat glass vial with a metal seal outfitted with a rubber center. It was a quarter-full of clear liquid. He maneuvered the vial in his palm, atop the toweling, until the label was readable. “Butunal,” he read.
“That isn’t mine,” Frankie repeated. “What is Butunal?”
“I’d guess some sort of barbiturate.”
Openmouthed and incredulous, she stared at the vial. Her brain locked up. She knew Max was capable of planting evidence. She knew he had a damned good reason to finger her for the murder. Even so, actually seeing with her own eyes his perfidy took her aback. “Do you think it’s the murder weapon?”
Sally backed away, her hands raised. “This is way too heavy for me.”
“Are you absolutely sure you haven’t seen anybody hanging around the apartment?” Frankie asked her friend.
“I haven’t seen a soul.”
Frankie looked to Cat. He washed a paw, but his baleful glare never left McKennon. Even though she’d had him neutered and he had no reason to prowl, Cat liked to dart outside whenever the opportunity presented itself. He could have sneaked out the door when Sally came to feed him, but she suspected somebody else had let him out. Somebody like Max. She wished the cat could talk.
Frankie made quick work of doctoring McKennon’s hand. Sally armed herself with a rolled newspaper to keep Cat in line while Frankie and McKennon searched the apartment. Frankie checked her closets and drawers with extra care, rifling through all pockets, nooks, crannies and even inside her shoes. The longer she searched the angrier she grew. Even if she turned over the vial of Butunal, the cops would never believe Max had planted it in her kitchen cabinet.