Jilke would bet Tony had flat-out lied.
He laced and unlaced his fingers, feeling the dry rub of skin against skin. Understandable why Tony should lie today, but hardly forgivable. Jilke tightened his mouth. What could have gone wrong? The target was a mere unsuspecting woman.
Clearly, Tony was losing his touch.
Jilke sighed. He didn’t have time for this. Bryson Hanley’s campaign manager didn’t know the meaning of extra time. Every minute was spent toiling for the campaign. Hectic days, nights of little sleep. And it was only going to get worse.
But this was too important. Carla Radling could bring down everything he’d spent his entire life working for. And that would not happen.
Pushing a curse through his teeth, he swiveled back toward the desk. Picked up his cell phone and dialed. He got an answer on the first ring.
“Yes, sir.”
“You still watching Derrat’s wife’s place of work?”
“Just like you told me.”
“Good. I want to know if she leaves early. And whenever she does leave, follow her.”
“Right. No sweat.”
Jilke clicked off the line and returned to work. Not five minutes later, his cell phone rang with the news. Robyn Derrat was in the company parking lot, making a beeline for her car.
Jilke slammed a palm against the desk. I knew it. His mind roiled with repercussions. For the first time real fear edged up his spine.
“All right, listen.” His voice was low and tight — a sign to the man on the line that he’d better follow his assignment perfectly. “She’ll be going to the preschool to pick up their kid. Stop them in the parking lot. Tell them you’ve been sent by Tony’s boss to take them out for ice cream. She won’t believe you, but whatever you do, don’t let them get away. And call me the minute you’ve got them.”
“No problem.”
Jilke smacked off the call, resisting the urge to throw the phone across the room. Fury settled deep in his chest. Every thing within him wanted to call Tony Derrat now. If the man were here, Jilke would choke him with his bare hands. And enjoy every minute of it.
But no. He knew how to wait. He knew how to plan. When the wife and kid were captured — then he and Tony would have a nice little chat.
FIFTY-ONE
Brandon eased back in the PT Cruiser’s driver’s seat, knees spread, steering with one hand — the casual way he liked to drive when a customer wasn’t with him. But he hardly felt relaxed. All the way back to Spokane Valley his mind had spun questions about Carla-the-Crazy-Woman. One minute he thought she might be telling the truth, and the next minute he thought she was nuts.
If Brandon knew one thing, he knew women couldn’t be trusted. They could be all lovey one minute, downright insane, even dangerous, the next. He had the scars to prove it. He glanced ruefully at the crippled third finger on his left hand. Never healed right after the tendon below it had been cut almost through, even though he’d had surgery. The knife-wielding chick had been a girlfriend.
Still, Carla seemed different. Smart, first of all, and nice. Well, she could be nice if she hadn’t been so uptight. And she had a sense of humor. Brandon liked that.
He flicked on the blinker and moved to the far right lane on the freeway, preparing to exit. Hoping no one had discovered Carla’s car yet. Pretty big lot. Just depended on where the salesmen had met customers. Brandon figured the chances were fifty-fifty.
He veered off onto Sprague and up to Elizabeth, then turned left. He pulled into the Spokane Chrysler parking lot and returned the Cruiser to its empty spot. Out on the pavement, the Cruiser locked up, Brandon looked around for Carla’s car. He found it farther up the aisle, still unlocked, with a small red suitcase lying on the passenger seat.
He opened the driver’s door and slid inside. Before he locked up the car, he intended to check a few things out.
Leaning over the console, he ignored the suitcase for the moment and opened the glove box. Rifled through its contents. He discovered a white envelope that looked promising and pulled it out. Checked the papers inside. There they were —registration and insurance. Also some receipts for work on the car. He unfolded the papers and looked them over. Radling, that was her last name. Carla Radling. From Kanner Lake.
He pressed his lips together, processing the information. She hadn’t lied about her first name. And — hey, Kanner Lake. Maybe she really did know Leslie Brymes.
Replacing the papers, he returned the envelope to the glove box. Then he unzipped the suitcase. On top was a jumble of clothes, shoes, and toiletries. Underneath, a laptop case. He moved it around. Heavy. Computer must be inside. He spotted a cell charger. Oh, man, bad news. Carla’s phone wouldn’t last long without that.
He rezipped the case and sat back, thinking. The contents sure were messy — like someone had thrown in stuff in a hurry. Also, the laptop case seemed strange. Most people would carry that separately.
Brandon ran a finger back and forth across his lips. Couldn’t say he was totally convinced about her story, but . . .
He pictured Carla’s face, so tired and full of pain, as she stood at the hotel counter. He’d felt so bad for her that he hadn’t wanted to leave. Didn’t matter whether she was right on in everything she said or whether she was crazy. Either way she just looked lost. He’d wished he could do something for her.
Sighing, he focused on the suitcase. If he locked this car, that would be it — the suitcase would be locked up with it. Meanwhile Carla was in that hotel room with nothing but her purse and too afraid to come back here. At least that’s what she claimed.
Brandon rubbed his hand down his face. He should take the suitcase to her after he got off work at eight. He’d wanted to help her — well, here was a way. Still, he wasn’t real happy about the thought. How did he get himself into this?
Before he could change his mind, Brandon slid out of the Toyota, walked around to the passenger seat, and took out the suitcase. He yanked up its long handle, pulled it all the way down the lot to his car, and placed it in the trunk. His manager or some team member was probably watching from the showroom, wondering what in the world he was doing. He’d have some fancy explaining to do. Normally he’d be dying to tell everybody about his weird experience, expanding it in all the right spots. Can you believe it? I took this crazy lady for a test drive, and she flat-out insisted some hired hit man was looking for us. But a voice inside his head told him to keep quiet. Sometimes things weren’t always what they seemed — he’d learned that well enough.
Yeah, he had a great story to tell. But not yet. Not today.
He closed the trunk. For now, back to work. He really needed to sell a car this afternoon. How about two. So far he was top on the board for the month, and he aimed to stay there. Bringing in the most revenue would mean a $500 bonus.
Seeing no customers wandering on the lot, he set off toward the showroom — then slid to a stop. His chin dropped. Man. After all that, he’d forgotten to lock Carla’s car.
Irritated with himself, he veered back up the long aisle of cars. By the time he reached the Toyota, his thoughts had gone through a number of loops and ended up on another question. As long as he’d returned, was there anything else in the car Carla might need?
He dumped himself back in the driver’s seat, leaving one foot on the pavement, and reopened the glove box. Rummaged through its contents. Nothing much there he hadn’t seen the first time. He looked around the car — in the back, felt under the front seats. Nothing. And really, enough was enough. He had to get back to work.
Mumbling to himself for his idiocy, he swiveled toward the door to get out — and came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun.
FIFTY-TWO
An hour and a half east of Seattle, Tanya still could not relax. No matter that she was almost positive no one had followed. No matter that she sat high in the cab of a borrowed black Ford pickup, where she could keep an eye on all cars around her. The tension in her muscles went deeper than fear for he
r physical safety, even for her life. It went down to her soul. And it wouldn’t be loosened until she told Carla Radling everything.
She’d taken a taxi to a friend’s house, checking cars behind them all the way. Colleen worked at home, and her son was away at his freshman year at college, his pickup truck left behind despite his protestations so he’d “have more time to study,” according to his mom. Colleen, being the good friend that she was, had asked Tanya a few questions, then knew when to stop. Tanya had merely told her she needed to make a sudden trip, that it was personal in nature and couldn’t be discussed until it was all said and done. For reasons of privacy, she wanted to borrow a car and a cell phone. Colleen had given her both.
Tanya could only hope she’d be able to return them in one piece.
Part of her knew it was no use driving to Kanner Lake. If no one had heard from Carla Radling after all these hours, she was probably dead. Tanya knew it, but still wouldn’t allow herself to believe it. She had to see Carla. She had to tell her what happened all those years ago.
The traffic on Interstate 90 had thinned once Tanya had gotten well away from Seattle. She hadn’t been able to call Leslie Brymes’s cell phone yet — she’d been too busy watching traffic. Now it was time.
Eyes on the road, she rummaged in her purse for the phone and the piece of paper with Leslie’s number. Holding the phone in one hand, she used her thumb to punch in the numbers.
“Leslie Brymes.”
“Leslie, it’s Tanya.”
“Tanya!” The voice blended relief and anxiety. “Whatever you do, don’t hang up on me again!”
“I won’t. I have time to talk now.”
Tanya told her what had happened in the last two hours. Leslie related events in Kanner Lake. Checking Java Joint for extra bugs — none was found. A missing person’s bulletin issued for Carla. Leslie had been by Carla’s work, and the receptionist had allowed her to look through Carla’s desk. “The police were already here and did that,” the receptionist told her. “But maybe you’ll see something they didn’t.”
Leslie found nothing. Nor did she see anything that might hint where Carla had gone when she drove by Carla’s place. She’d talked to a few of Carla’s friends, but they knew no more than anyone else.
The last appointment Carla had kept was with some out-of-towner who’d wanted to see the Edna San estate the previous evening. But it didn’t appear she’d run into trouble there, because she’d spoken to Bailey this morning on the phone. In that conversation she talked like something had happened but wouldn’t say what. That was the last anyone had heard from her.
Tanya’s heart stalled at the news. Still she clung to stubborn hope. Somewhere, somehow she would find Carla — alive.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Leslie asked.
Tanya hesitated. How much did Leslie know of Carla’s past? If Leslie knew nothing, it wasn’t her place to tell. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair. Carla needs to be the first to hear what I have to say.”
“Tanya.” Leslie’s tone was low. “I just hope you have the opportunity to see her.”
“Me too,” Tanya whispered. “Me too.”
They fell silent. Tanya’s gaze bounced to the rearview mirror, the freeway lanes on either side. The constant checking had become habit.
“Look,” Leslie said. “You might not want to talk to me, but you do need to tell Chief Edwards what you know. I promised I’d tell him when I heard from you again. He’s got nothing to go on right now, and if you have information about who’s after Carla and why, you are obligated to tell the police.”
Dread sifted through Tanya. She understood her obligation to tell. She’d pledged to confess to Carla, hadn’t she? But a policeman was another matter. What would become of her once the information she’d guarded all these years left her lips? Who would Chief Edwards feel obligated to inform? Her life would so quickly unravel. How would the world judge her? Punish her? And Curt, her son. She couldn’t bear to think of hurting Curt.
What was she thinking? She couldn’t do this.
“Tanya?”
She clutched the steering wheel, sickness rising in her gut. Maybe she should just hang up right now. Take the next exit off the freeway and head south. Disappear . . . somewhere. Anywhere.
“Tanya, do you understand you need to talk to Chief Edwards?”
“I . . . Yes.”
“Will you do that now? Please? You should call him, at least tell him who’s after Carla. He has no leads, Tanya. What if your information could help find her?”
Of course she would call the chief. She was a responsible citizen. Someone who would never want to break the law. Someone who was always concerned for the helpless, had volunteered countless hours to prove it . . .
Her fingers curled around the steering wheel. If only she could play Superman, turn the world back sixteen years.
“Okay.” Tanya’s voice was pinched. “I’ll call. But I’m not going to tell him what I have to tell Carla. Not unless we find her dead will I tell anyone else first. Understand me?”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Leslie drew an audible breath. “But it makes me wonder what on earth you know. And I have to tell you, you’re scaring me to death.”
“Make that two of us.”
Tanya couldn’t write down the chief’s number while driving. Leslie told her she would call Chief Edwards right now, tell him everything Tanya had told her. He would contact Tanya for the rest of the information.
“He’ll phone in just a few minutes, okay?” Leslie sounded as if she wasn’t sure Tanya would answer the phone. With good reason. If only she knew how close Tanya felt, even now in the face of reason, to veering off the freeway and disappearing.
“Okay. I’ll be here.”
Tanya closed the cell and laid it on her lap. Knowing that its next ring would unravel years of tangled deceit — and more than a few lives would never be the same.
FIFTY-THREE
Where do I begin? How can I write down all the lies? My life will never be the same.
Yesterday I finally talked to Bryson. I called him at the office on his private line. When he heard my voice, he hesitated. Hesitated. My whole world came down to that second. Right then I knew he believed Jilke.
Bryson told me how sorry he was, and how he’d have given me the money if I’d asked for it. He might as well have cut me in a million pieces. I sobbed to him that Jilke set me up. That I still loved him. That’s when he said we couldn’t talk anymore — and hung up on me.
I’d lost him. For real. For good. Just like that.
Think that’s enough for one afternoon? Oh, no. God had more planned for me. I knew one day I would pay for my sins. Well, that day is now.
I had a meeting scheduled with Mrs. Demarco. I called her to say I couldn’t come. I was sick. Truth was, I couldn’t get up off my bed. She said we had to meet today — and she’d come to my house.
As soon as we sat down Mrs. Demarco told me. The Hanleys don’t want my baby anymore.
Right then, the baby kicked me hard.
I couldn’t even say anything. I already wanted to die. I just sat there while Mrs. Demarco told me the Hanleys felt it would be “awkward” to adopt my baby after I’d been fired for stealing from his office.
She patted my arm as I cried. “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll find other good parents for your baby. And the Hanleys said they’ll continue paying all your medical expenses to the end. Isn’t that kind of them? You don’t have to worry about a penny.”
Oh, yeah, so very kind.
Jilke did this to me. All of it. He never wanted me in Bryson’s life — now he’s got his wish.
If I could find a way to kill him, I would.
FIFTY-FOUR
Brandon froze, widened eyes focused on the gun pointed at his nose. Then to the fingers that held the weapon. The arm . . . shoulders . . . the face of a man he’d never seen before. Movie star looks, except for the bad sunburn. Dark hair. Mean, twisted mouth
. Guy looked like Pierce Brosnan on a very bad day.
Brandon’s hands rose to chest level, fingers spread. “Hey, man, what are you doin’?”
“Where’s the owner of this car?” The question pushed through gritted teeth. Nothing but the lips on the man moved, not the slightest twitch of his head. Brandon felt like a rabbit cornered by a salivating fox.
“I don’t know.” He poured disgust into his voice, as if he couldn’t believe this guy’s rudeness. “Would you turn that thing away from my face?”
The man’s expression blackened. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Where is the owner?”
Only then did Brandon get it. Maybe he was a little slow, but shock would do that to a person. This was Carla’s Thornby. The guy in the black Durango. The hit man was real.
“That’s a fine question. I’d like for you to tell me.” Brandon wagged his head. “I see this Toyota parked here in the middle of all our new Chryslers — not exactly where it’s supposed to be. Nobody on the lot or in the showroom knows anything about it. So I slip inside and have a look around. If the owner doesn’t show up soon, we’re going to have to tow the thing.”
“You’re lying.”
Brandon’s heart hammered against his ribs — let me out! —but danged if he was going to show any fear. This guy seriously ticked him off.
“Look.” He lowered his hands a little. “How about if I get out of the car? Then I don’t have to get a crick in my neck talking to you.” He started to shift his weight onto his foot on the pavement.
The gun barrel met his forehead. He stopped moving.
“I could kill you right here,” Thornby spat. “Leave your body in this car and be long gone before anybody even found you.”
The metal of the barrel felt cold. In his mind, Brandon saw the scene. The bullet firing into his skull, his body crumpling. His hands rose up to his shoulders.
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