No Good Deed

by Susanne Matthews

  “I’ve got someone working on that.” Andy paused. “Mike, Zabat knew the wedding ring would send you over the edge. He was counting on it, and you fell right into his trap,” he said. “You’re sure Richard has her?”

  “Yes.” He explained about the brandy. “I need to find her, Andy. Richard’s not only her jilted abusive fiancé, I’m positive you’re right and he’s the magician and the nip and tuck man Interpol has been trying to find.” He relayed everything Alexa had told him, including the possibility that Richard could be providing hardened criminals and terrorists with new faces. “It’s the kind of playing God thing that would appeal to him. Creating life, as it were.”

  “Christ, I hope to hell you’re wrong. I’ll contact Iraq, have them grab Bashir on some pretext, and check his prints. Where are you?”

  “About an hour from Montreal.” He couldn’t hide the defeat he felt.

  “Get to the Saint Antoine Hotel, register as Lucien Gravelle, and for God’s sake, stay there. I’ll catch a red-eye and get hold of Al. Don’t call anyone; don’t do anything until we get there. Is that clear?”

  “As crystal. I screwed up.”

  “You did,” Andy said. “Now, it’s time to get things unscrewed.” He hung up the phone.

  Putting the vehicle in drive, Mike veered back onto the road. He would find Alexa or die trying.

  Ninety minutes later, he pulled into the Saint Antoine, parked his car in temporary parking, grabbed his bag, and entered the hotel. So many things had gone wrong so far, all he could hope for was that this place had a room available. What he would do if it didn’t was beyond him. After all, it was Friday night—or rather, Saturday morning.

  “Yes, I’m Lucien Gravelle. I need a room,” he said at the desk.

  “Of course. Your usual suite is ready, sir,” the woman said, handing him a key.

  “Do you need anything from me?” Mike asked.

  “No, everything is on file. If you need anything, just call down. Enjoy your stay.”

  Mike glanced down at the keycard in his hand, nodded, and moved toward the bank of elevators. He had to insert the card in the slot to unlock the seventh floor. As soon as he was in the room, he locked the door and used the safety chain. Alexa hadn’t put it on because she’d expected him to come back. This room was a three-room suite—bedroom, bathroom, and living space, the ideal place for a businessman. Removing his coat, he tossed it onto the chair, noting the full bottle of scotch on the desk. He cracked the seal, poured a healthy shot into one of the crystal glasses, and downed it.

  Alexa had to be all right. No one would’ve taken care of her for so long if they just wanted to kill her. Richard—he had to be the one who had her, because if it wasn’t him, Mike was shit out of options. The doctor would toy with her before he killed her if that was what he planned to do, although Alexa was convinced he had a far worse fate in mind.

  If there was a God, he sure as hell hoped he would do a better job of watching over Lex than he had.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The vehicle stopped, rousing Alexa from her drug-induced stupor and then sending her into full-fledged panic mode when she could neither see nor open her mouth. Her face was covered by a tight-fitting mask, the opening near her nose barely large enough to allow her to breathe. Her ankles were tied together, while her hands were fastened behind her back. She tugged at her bonds, struggling to loosen them.

  Richard!

  “Stop struggling, Alexa. You’ll hurt yourself for nothing,” Richard said. “You’re back where you belong. Accept it.”

  Over my dead body.

  His voice was civil, as if he were discussing the weather and not the fact she was trussed up like some Thanksgiving turkey. His sanity must’ve returned since he’d used her name.

  “If you promise not to make a sound or do anything to attract attention while we gas up, I’ll remove the mask and let you have something to drink. One misstep, and it goes on again.”

  She nodded. Richard removed something from her head and turned her body so that her back was to him. The sudden movement caused shooting pain in her back, but she instinctively held her cry deep inside. He unzipped the mask, catching some of her hair in the teeth in the process, and she swallowed her yelp. No doubt he was enjoying her pain.

  “Good girl. You’re learning.”

  He undid the cuffs on her hands, and she rubbed her wrists, blinking in the dim interior of what had to be one of the most luxurious vehicles she’d ever seen. The limousine had two white leather bench seats facing one another. Richard, dressed in a gray silk suit with a black shirt and coordinating tie, sat across from her.

  Only a two-piece suit? He must be slumming tonight.

  Turning her body slowly, she sat back once more.

  “Thank you,” she said softly when he offered her the bottle of water. Would the words, which had slipped out automatically, be enough to make him change his mind? As soon as she had the bottle in her hand, she drained half of it, afraid he would take it away before she could satisfy her thirst.

  “Feeling better?” he asked. “You probably have a slight headache. That’s an unfortunate aftereffect of the sedative, but it should pass quickly now that you’ve hydrated.”

  She nodded, not sure whether or not she should speak.

  “Good. If you can keep that nasty mouth of yours shut and obey as you should, the hooded coat will suffice to hide your identity. We have a long way to go. Nancy will help you to the washroom. Don’t try anything stupid. Things can be far more unpleasant for you if you do. She has a syringe on her in case you fail to comply. Rufus, the door.”

  Within seconds, Rufus stood next to the open passenger door. Richard pulled the hood up on the anorak. She could still see, although her range of vision was limited by the fur trim that extended beyond her face. A woman, dressed in what could pass for a military uniform, stood beside Rufus, and between the two of them, they helped her into her wheelchair. Richard got out of the vehicle and stood beside her.

  “Don’t say or do anything to draw attention to yourself.” Richard’s voice was filled with steel. “You won’t like the consequences.”

  She shuddered.

  “Cold, darling?” he asked as the woman moved behind the chair.

  She shook her head.

  “You can speak when spoken to,” he said, smiling maliciously. “Just make sure your answers are the ones I want to hear. I’ll repeat the question. Are you cold?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine,” she answered softly, gritting her teeth to keep the rest of what she’d like to say inside.

  Rufus opened the door as Nancy pushed the chair. Unable to curb her curiosity, she looked around. People lined up for coffee glanced at them, but no one paid them any mind.

  From the color and design of the facility, they were in one of the service centers along the 401. This one was at Mallorytown according to the sign, and they were traveling west. It was light out. How long had she been unconscious?

  Rufus stood outside the bathroom door while the woman pushed her into the handicap stall.

  “You can wait outside,” Alexa said. “I can manage on my own.”

  “My instructions are to stay with you.” The woman folded her arms across her chest, her resting bitch face daring Alexa to make a fuss.

  “Fine.” If she did make a stink and it got back to Richard, she might be worse off than she was. She needed to keep her wits about her. If Mike were alive—and she refused to believe he wasn’t—he and Andy would come looking for her.

  At least the woman had the decency to turn her back. Not taking her eyes off her jailor, Alexa used the toilet and touched as many surfaces as she could. Unable to delay any longer, she finished and flushed. When the woman tried to hurry her out, Alexa refused to go without washing her hands and once more touching as many out-of-the-way places as she could, just as she’d done in the stall. In many cases, cleaning in these places was little more than a lick and a promise. Richard’s home was in Toront
o. That was the most likely place he would take her, and as thorough as Andy was, he would check every rest stop along the way. She just had to hope one print survived. After all, it only took one.

  When Alexa could delay no longer, Nancy wheeled her back to the limo. Once settled inside, she took a chance.

  “Where are you taking me?” she blurted out. Richard could mask her again as he’d threatened to do, but he seemed to see nothing wrong with her inquiry.

  “To the Buttonville Airport. There’s a charter plane waiting to take you to a small island off the coast of Belize. Rufus and Nancy will accompany you. You’ll stay there until my business here is concluded and I’m ready to join you.”

  Her heart ached as the truth dawned on her. If Richard sent her outside of the country, Mike and Andy might never find her. A profound emptiness filled her, bringing tears to her eyes.

  “Are you in pain? I’m sure the first part of the ride was less than ideal. I have your medication here.”

  “I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth, fighting the tears, and winced when she sat back.

  “Not the answer I wanted. Now, do you want some of your pain medication, or would you prefer the mask and another shot of sedative?”

  “My pain medication,” she answered hastily. While knowing what he had planned for her had thrown her for a loop, she would prefer to know exactly what was happening, as unpleasant as that might be.

  Richard gave her two tablets from the vial she recognized as hers, and she swallowed them with the last of the water.

  “The windows are tinted, and if you promise to behave and stay silent, I won’t mask you again. I suggest you lean back and relax. Your e-reader is on the seat beside you. I look forward to many years of silent happiness with you, Camilla, maybe even a child or two.”

  Alexa swallowed. What he suggested was a fate worse than death. Gritting her teeth, she reached for the e-reader and turned it on. The words on the page blurred as unbidden tears slipped down her cheeks.

  • • •

  Pounding on the door woke Mike, and he pulled the Glock out from under the sofa cushion. He’d polished off half the bottle of scotch before passing out, still dressed, on the couch. God, could he be a bigger fool? Here he was, getting drunk, feeling sorry for himself, and Alexa was . . . God alone knew where she was.

  The pounding sounded again.

  “Coming,” he said, looking out the peephole at Henri’s concerned face, and blinking twice. What the hell was he doing here?

  Slowly, Mike unlatched the door and opened it, his gun fixed on his former partner. There was no one else in the hall.

  “What the hell are you doing here, and how did you find me?”

  Henri’s eyebrows became the caterpillars he’d seen time and again as the color leached from his face. “Maudit tabernacle. Mike, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? What the hell are you?” he asked, lowering the gun, stepping aside to let his partner in, and locking the door behind him.

  “Two very official looking guys showed up at the house in a black SUV, flashed CSIS credentials in my face, and told me to pack because I’d be gone for a few days. They dropped me here and sent me up to this room, 713, to meet with Lucien Gravelle. Where is he?” He hefted an overnight bag and a reusable grocery sack.

  “That would be me.” Mike frowned and tucked his gun back inside his shoulder holster. The CSIS team had to be friends of Andy’s, but why would he implicate Henri in this mess? “What have you got in there?”

  Henri shrugged. “I told Mireille I’d been called in to do witness protection. She packed me a lunch.”

  Mike burst out laughing so hard that by the time he had himself under control, his sides ached.

  “Knowing Mireille, there’s probably enough in that bag to feed an army.” Mike put his arms around Henri. “Sorry about the icy reception. It’s nice to see you, old friend, but I really screwed up. I don’t know who to trust. As happy as I am to see your fat, ugly mug, it’s the last thing I expected.”

  “Saint Ciboire,” Henri cursed again and smacked himself in the forehead. “Some secret agent I am. I forgot to give the password. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He straightened his shoulders. “Phoenix called and told me my great uncle had died and left me a fortune.”

  “Well, he didn’t leave any to me,” he gave the required answer.

  As a kid, playing spy like this had been a game, but not one he’d expected to repeat as an adult.

  Turning away from the door, he motioned around the room. “Make yourself at home.”

  “What’s going on?” Henri asked. “Where’s the woman?”

  “I wish to hell I knew.” Mike ran his hands through his hair. “I screwed up. I was so upset about my damn wedding ring that I ignored my common sense and left her alone.”

  Without mincing words, he filled Henri in on everything that had happened since Sunday morning, including Andy and the CSIS connection and the truth about Alexa. When he was finished, he walked over and looked out the window. The sun was up.

  “I don’t even know how long she’s been missing. I left her around nine and got back after midnight.”

  “So she’s a looker, eh? I thought so. If she’d really been an old battle-ax, you wouldn’t have tried so hard to convince me. Keeping her locked up like that and videotaping her, that’s just sick. My God, I remember the seventies, and I can’t imagine being trapped there—although I did have nice hair.”

  Mike tossed a couch cushion at him. “Dork.”

  “Hey, I was a player. John Travolta, eat your heart out.” He threw the classic Saturday Night Fever pose, which lost a lot considering his size and weight. He sobered. “What do we do now?”

  “We wait for Andy. I think he sent you here to make sure I did just that.” He indicated the bag. “Do you have any coffee in there?”

  “Of course. Do you want a cup?”

  “What do you think? Let me shower and change, and then you can tell me what you’ve been up to all week—other than identifying my dead body and planning my funeral.”

  “Don’t joke about it. Mireille is still crying. She’ll have your balls for bookends when she finds out it wasn’t true.”

  Mike took clean clothing out of his suitcase and grabbed his toiletry bag. “Let’s hope she’s so happy to see me she’ll get over it. I won’t be long.”

  Ten minutes later, Mike walked out of the washroom, feeling like a new man and stopped cold at the sight of Henri on a cell phone.

  “Oui, j’comprends. Deux heures.” He ended the call.

  Mike held the Glock aimed at his friend once more. “Who was on the phone?” he asked, his voice low and deadly.

  “Your friend Phoenix. Is this how it’s going to be?” He indicated the gun. “The men gave me this phone when they dropped me off. We’ve known each other a long time, Mike. Either you trust me or you don’t.”

  This was Henri, the man who’d saved his ass too many times to count. He couldn’t be selling him out.

  Holstering the pistol, Mike reached for the large thermos and poured himself some coffee.

  “I’m sorry. Of course I trust you; it’s just . . . ” How did you tell your best friend you weren’t sure he was who he said he was? “What did he want?”

  Henri shrugged the way Mike had seen him do countless times.

  “He called your phone first, but you didn’t answer, so there must be a message on it if you don’t believe me.” Henri was obviously hurt by his lack of trust, but there was nothing Mike could do about that now.

  “Their plane lands at Trudeau at two, and Al’s picking them up. They should be here by three thirty. He said to tell you they have a lead on the girl, and she’s alive.”

  He exhaled, his spirit suddenly lighter. Being alive might not be the best thing for Alexa, but it was better than the alternative, and if she was alive, he would find her.

  Sitting back on the couch, Henri sipped his own coffee, his brows
drawn together in thought.

  “What’s bothering you?” Mike asked.

  “You mean other than you pulling a gun on me twice within half an hour?”

  Mike huffed out a breath. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Yeah, but I plan to milk it a while. By the way, that’s a new look for you.”

  Mike looked down at the Canadiens T-shirt he wore with a pair of jeans.

  “What the hell are you talking about? You’ve seen me in jeans and a T-shirt before.”

  “Yeah, but never when you didn’t smell like the bottom of a garbage bin. It’s nice to see you supporting a winning team for a change.”

  “They’re borrowed, hotshot. I may be sporting Canadiens togs, but my heart belongs to the Bruins. But I really don’t think it’s my clothes that are bothering you.”

  Henri shrugged. “I was admiring your good taste, but you’re right. I keep thinking about what you said, about this magician being a plastic surgeon who could be supplying people with faces belonging to someone else. A few days ago, I got a visit from Royal Poirier, the son of my old friend Justin. I told you about him, remember?”

  Mike nodded. Justin had been instrumental in getting Henri to join the SQ.

  “How is he?”

  “Enjoying winter in Florida. Mireille’s been after me to take her there for a visit. His son Roy’s with the major crimes unit and has been working on a case in Chicoutimi for the past nine months, that serial killer thing, and just got back a couple of weeks ago.”

  Mike nodded. “I read about that. Six girls, right?”

  “Yeah. They got the bastard, but there’s still so much paperwork to clean up. Anyway, before he got sent there, he was dating Florence, Doucet’s personal administrator. They kept it under the radar for obvious reasons.” Henri rolled his eyes. “I think I mentioned I knew her, but that her new position had gone to her head. Now, I think it’s more than that.”

  “Where are you going with this?” Henri liked to hear himself talk, but this wasn’t really the time or the place. Mike didn’t give a shit about some young guy’s love life or lack thereof.

  “Maudit. Give me time to organize my thoughts. He said he called her on Monday, and she brushed him off.”