by Karen Rose
He could forgo the income his men normally generated in a single day. Their customers might go to their competition for the day’s drugs, but they’d be back. If not, his people would eliminate the competition. ‘Do it. I have to get back to my lunch guests. They will be wondering where I’ve gone. What did you tell my lunch guests when you left?’ The men who were about to award him a lucrative shipping contract.
‘That you’d just received contracts from one of your Russian clients and needed me to translate them.’
‘Perfect as usual. Message me when you have the Segal boy and when you’ve planned the hit on Thorne.’ He ended the call and made his way back to his table, where his clients were finishing their meal. ‘I am so sorry, gentlemen. I hope the food has been delicious?’
One of them, a big barrel-chested man, pointed to his empty plate with a chuckle. ‘Hated it,’ he said with a smile. ‘Had to be forced to eat every bite.’
The other man looked appropriately wary. ‘I hope everything is all right.’
Because no sane businessman made such a lucrative deal with a man who catered to drama.
‘Everything is just fine. A minor issue, easily resolved.’ He waved to a server, who refilled their wine glasses. ‘Where were we?’
Hunt Valley, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 2.50 P.M.
‘We need to do something,’ Frederick murmured to Clay and Jamie. The three of them sat watching Thorne, who was miserably watching Gwyn, who stared out of the window on to Clay’s backyard with a vacant expression. They hadn’t heard anything from the Feds in Virginia who were searching for her son.
‘I can’t even imagine what she’s going through,’ Jamie murmured.
‘I can,’ Clay said flatly.
Frederick winced, because he’d been the cause of Clay’s pain. He was the one who’d hidden Taylor from Clay for most of her life. Gwyn had wondered if her son was alive or dead for a few hours. Clay had wondered for years.
‘Stop it,’ Clay grunted impatiently.
‘Stop what?’ Jamie asked.
‘I’m talking to Frederick. He gets this guilty look on his face. I wasn’t blaming you.’ Clay elbowed Frederick lightly. ‘It was our wife’s fault.’
‘Oh, right.’ Jamie shook his head. ‘I forget you two shared a wife as well as a daughter.’
‘Not my finest memory,’ Frederick said.
‘Nor mine,’ Clay added. ‘Besides, you understand what Gwyn’s going through. You spent sleepless nights wondering where Carrie was when she ran away.’
Pain, both remembered and new, speared Frederick’s heart. ‘I did.’ He glanced at Jamie, who looked curious but was too polite to ask. ‘My oldest daughter didn’t acclimate well to life on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.’
‘When you went into hiding,’ Jamie said. ‘To protect Taylor.’
‘Yeah,’ Frederick said bitterly. ‘For nothing. There was no threat, but I didn’t know that at the time.’ Because I didn’t ask the right questions. I simply reacted. A father, protecting his child. ‘Carrie ran away, back to Oakland, then to LA. She . . . OD’d. She didn’t make it.’
Jamie gasped softly. ‘I’m sorry, Frederick. I didn’t know.’
‘I don’t talk about her often.’ Because it still hurt so damn much. ‘But yeah, I know about that kind of worrying. I did it. Every night. Wondered if she was all right. If she was in the gutter somewhere. If she was homeless, addicted. All of which were true. I don’t have a happy ending to her story to cheer Gwyn up.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Clay said. ‘Because you recognized the signs in Daisy and got her help.’
‘No, Taylor recognized the signs in Daisy. I was too focused on turning my daughters into killing machines so that they could defend themselves against a threat that wasn’t even real. Taylor begged me to get Daisy help and that’s the only reason I let my daughter out of my sight long enough to go to rehab.’
‘But you did,’ Clay insisted. ‘And she’s well. Right?’
‘Right.’ At least according to the last reports he had of her. She’d stayed away from liquor stores. Her meal charges on her credit card had all been small – enough for food, but not booze. At least not inordinate amounts of booze. ‘But I haven’t heard from her in too long. Not in a few weeks. She’s not returning my calls or my texts.’
Clay’s brows rose. ‘Did you ask Taylor? They’re so close, maybe Daisy has been communicating with her instead.’
‘I have asked Taylor. She’s danced around the question. She has talked to Daisy, but won’t tell me why Daisy isn’t talking to me. She answers everything else or tells me how well Julie is doing in Chicago.’
Jamie frowned. ‘Call her and demand an answer. We can’t have you distracted with your own worries right now. You need to know your daughters are okay. All of them.’
It was a good point. Stepping away from the group, Frederick dialed Taylor.
She answered on the first ring. ‘Dad, what’s wrong? Have you heard anything about Gwyn’s son?’
He could hear road noise in the background. ‘Not yet. Where are you?’
‘In the car with Joseph. He picked me up at the airport.’
He frowned. ‘You’re coming home?’ It had been her plan when she’d left, but he’d really hoped she’d stay safe in Chicago. He should have known better.
‘Yes. Traffic’s snarled up, but I’ll be there soon. Bye, Dad.’
‘Wait. I called to ask you about Daisy. I need to know she’s okay.’
A beat of silence. ‘She’s okay, Dad. I promise.’
But there was something awkward in his daughter’s reply. Something she wasn’t telling him. ‘Taylor, I’ve just been advised that I cannot afford distractions right now. Please tell me what’s going on. Why is she coming home early? Why isn’t she talking to me?’
Taylor sighed. ‘You’ve been monitoring her, haven’t you?’
His defensive hackles raised reflexively. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, come on, Dad. You ask me for the truth and then you play dumb? You had someone following her around Europe, spying on her.’
His cheeks heated. ‘Not spying. Exactly.’
‘Then what are you calling it? Exactly? I’d be pissed too. You’d better not be spying on me,’ she added darkly.
‘I’m not. Look, I just . . . I wanted to be sure she was okay.’
‘She is. Physically anyway. But she’s awful mad, Dad. You’ve got some charred bridges to rebuild.’
‘Is she still coming home?’
‘Yeah. So be thinking about how to make this right. I need to go. Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ he murmured. Pocketing his cell, he rejoined the others. ‘Daisy is okay. Just angry with me.’
Clay’s brows went up. ‘What did you do?’
He slumped into a chair. ‘Had her followed around Europe.’
Jamie winced. ‘Even I knew not to do that, no matter how much I worried about Thorne back then.’
But Clay looked sympathetic. ‘I can understand the impulse. I can also understand why she’s angry with you. She’s twenty-five years old. Hardly a child.’
‘I was worried about her, out there with all that temptation. I wanted her to try her wings, but I didn’t want her to get them singed. France has such a drinking culture. There are bars everywhere.’
‘There are bars everywhere in the US,’ Clay said logically. ‘You’re going to have to learn to trust her, Frederick.’
‘I know.’ He rubbed his temples. ‘But at least I know she’s alive. So I eliminated the distraction. Replaced it with another, but I can at least push that aside enough to focus on them and this.’ He pointed to Thorne and Gwyn, then to the bulletin board, still covered with photos and string. ‘What can we do?’
Clay shrugged. ‘Find Tavilla and beat the shit o
ut of him, then leave him for rival gangs to dissect and dismember?’
Jamie nodded. ‘I like that idea. I kept wondering when we were talking to Joseph Carter and Lieutenant Hyatt if they know where Tavilla is. We know he hangs out at that restaurant sometimes. The one where the photo of Anne and Laura was taken.’
‘I’m sure they have that place under surveillance,’ Clay said. ‘While you were at the police station with Joseph, Alec and I spent the morning looking for records of Anne Poulin in Montreal. Alec found a report on a sixteen-year-old runaway with that name. He found a phone number for the family and I left a message, but their voicemail greeting was in French and my French is worse than nil. I left my phone number, plus Thorne’s and Joseph’s. We haven’t heard back. We haven’t found any birth or death records for her. It’s more difficult when you cross borders, which I’m sure Tavilla knew and took full advantage of.’
‘And tracing the kid in the bartender’s social media?’ Frederick asked.
Clay shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’
A phone buzzed on the coffee table, startling them. ‘It’s yours, Thorne,’ Jamie called, and Thorne rushed over to answer it. The expression of mixed hope and dread on Gwyn’s face as she turned from the window broke Frederick’s heart.
‘I don’t recognize the number,’ Thorne said.
‘It’s a Montreal area code,’ Clay told him as Thorne hit ACCEPT and SPEAKER with a trembling finger.
‘Yes?’ Thorne’s voice betrayed none of his tension.
Clay was on his own phone, texting, presumably to Alec, because the young IT whizz slipped into the living room from Clay’s office, his laptop open.
‘Hello.’ The voice was wobbly and . . . French? ‘I’d like to speak to Thomas Thorne?’
Yes, French, Frederick thought, his heart sinking along with Gwyn’s expression as realization hit that this was not about her boy.
‘This is Thorne,’ Thorne said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘My name is Fannie Poulin,’ the woman said, her speech stilted. ‘I heard your voicemail. I apologize for my English. It is not my first language.’
‘It’s fine,’ Thorne assured her. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked again.
‘Your voicemail . . . you said you were looking for my daughter Anne.’
‘We are. When did you last see her?’
‘Face to face, maybe ten years ago. But we speak on the telephone.’
Thorne frowned, clearly thinking the same thing that Frederick was – that this felt too convenient. ‘She hasn’t visited you? Not in all this time?’
‘No. She has let me know she is still alive. That is all. She ran away, you see.’
‘Why?’ Thorne asked. He looked at Alec, who waved at him to keep talking. He was recording the conversation, hoping to get some clues to the identity or location of the speaker.
‘Because her stepfather was . . . They did not get along.’
‘I see. Do you have an address where we might reach her?’
‘I do.’ She recited it and Thorne noted it down. ‘Why are you looking for her?’
Thorne hesitated, visibly weighing his words. ‘We have reason to believe she might be in danger.’
‘Oh no.’ The woman’s voice wobbled again, this time with fear. ‘If you would, please let me know when you find her.’
‘We will. Thank you.’ Thorne hung up and sighed. ‘Who believes that was legit?’
Frederick shook his head. ‘She didn’t even ask why her daughter was in danger or where you were located or how you knew her. I’d want to know all of that if my daughter ran away.’
Surprisingly, Alec disagreed. ‘It was legit in that her voice is consistent with the one on the voicemail greeting. That number is the one in Montreal’s phone listing. It was also the one listed in the police report on Anne’s disappearance. The i’s are all dotted. If you want to double-check, call the number back and see who picks up. If it’s spoofed, it won’t be the same woman.’
‘Call from one of the burner phones,’ Clay said. ‘See if the same person picks up for a stranger.’
Thorne did so, and they were all a little surprised when the same woman answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Madame Poulin,’ Thorne said quickly. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you had some photographs of Anne.’
‘Only old snapshots from when she was small. They are packed away.’
‘I see. You don’t have anything recent?’
‘No,’ the woman said sadly. ‘Nothing. I wish I did.’
‘Well then, thank you for your time.’ Thorne ended the call and turned to the group. ‘This could be a legit lead,’ he allowed. ‘Maybe it feels wrong because everything else we’ve had to find out the hard way. This just dropped in our lap.’
‘It hardly dropped in your lap,’ Alec protested. ‘Finding that missing person report was damn difficult. You act like I just pulled it out of my ass.’
Thorne raised his hands, palms out. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just . . . skeptical.’
‘Then be skeptical,’ Alec grumbled. ‘But don’t call this easy.’
‘Sorry,’ Thorne apologized again. ‘Don’t worry, Alec. I know how lucky I am to have you.’
Alec nodded, still disgruntled. ‘Anne’s address is an apartment building. Appears to be a walkup.’
‘Then I’m out,’ Jamie said, disgusted. ‘Give the address to Joseph. Let him investigate it.’
Thorne looked doubtful. ‘I’ll have him meet me there. But I’m not giving this away. If it’s a real lead, I want to find Anne. I want to find out who she is to Tavilla.’
Alec’s mouth flattened. ‘That’s smart, especially since it seems your Fed has been holding back on you. A bunch of black suits are searching the judge’s house as we speak. Got themselves a warrant and everything.’
Thorne’s mouth opened. ‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s on the police scanner and now the news. Reporters are gathered in front of Segal’s house. Nobody was home, so they broke the door in. They’re carting out computers and boxes of files. One of the reporters says the judge has a recent history of odd rulings, which Paige told us a few days ago. I was looking into it when Clay told me Ms Poulin was calling.’
‘Fucking hell,’ Thorne muttered. ‘I trusted Joseph.’
‘You still can,’ Clay insisted. ‘He has a Fed agenda, but he’ll do the right thing. I trusted him with my family, Thorne.’
‘You’re right. I know it.’ Thorne rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m edgy.’
‘You have a right to be,’ Clay said kindly. ‘We all do. Take a breath and think this through.’
‘Maybe Joseph just hasn’t had a chance to tell you yet,’ Frederick said.
‘He was driving the car with Taylor when you talked to her,’ Thorne said, unconvinced. ‘He could have told us then.’
Clay’s sigh was exasperated. ‘Maybe he’s busy. Let’s call him with Anne Poulin’s address and have him meet us there.’
Thorne made the call then huffed a frustrated breath and hung up. ‘Went straight to voicemail. He must be on his phone. I’ll text him to call me. I don’t want to leave this information on voicemail. I want to be sure he’s heard me. Who’s with me?’
Frederick and Clay said, ‘Me,’ at the same time.
‘And me.’ Gwyn followed them to the door.
Thorne stood in her way, blocking her path. ‘No.’
She looked up at him stubbornly. ‘Yes. The closer I stick to you, the safer I am. If I’m with you, it’s less likely I’ll be shot or carved into pieces or blown to bits, because he doesn’t want to kill you.’ She looked up at Thorne, her eyes stark. ‘And if I hear bad news about Aidan, I’m going to need you.’
Thorne looked like he’d say no again, but those last few words had his
posture softening. ‘All right. But stay close.’
Hunt Valley, Maryland,
Thursday 16 June, 3.10 P.M.
Shot or carved into pieces . . . Huddled in the back of their borrowed SUV, Gwyn choked back the bile that burned her throat. Either of those things could be happening to Aidan right now.
Because I care about him and because Thorne cares about me. She’d seen the devastation on Thorne’s face, because he knew this was true. His family, his friends, they were all being tormented because he cared about them.
He knew that sooner or later they would break, the strain too much to endure. So far no one had been seriously hurt, except for Agent Ingram and it appeared he’d survive. He was still in ICU, but had been upgraded from critical to serious.
But if one of them died? Then what? Thorne would walk away to protect them, she knew that already. He’d give himself up to Tavilla, and if that didn’t work? She didn’t want to think about it.
She glanced over at him, needing to see his face. Needing him to tell her that this was going to be all right, that Aidan would be found alive, that Tavilla would be arrested, and that all of this would stop. But his gaze was darting in every direction, trying to spot a threat in time to neutralize it. In the front passenger seat, Clay did the same. Frederick drove grimly, as if anticipating an obstacle course.
I shouldn’t have come. They’ll try to protect me first. She’d opened her mouth to ask Frederick to turn around, to take her back to Clay’s, when Thorne’s phone buzzed.
‘Joseph,’ he answered. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’ He told him about the call from Montreal. ‘I wanted to be sure you got the message. We’re just leaving Clay’s house. I want you to meet me at Anne’s address.’ Joseph must have told him to go back to Clay’s, because Thorne’s brow crunched in a frown. ‘No. I’ll see you there. Why didn’t you tell us that you were serving a warrant on Judge Segal’s home?’
Gwyn was distracted from Thorne’s conversation when her own phone buzzed with an incoming text. A photo. The preview screen showed a blanket-covered figure, and new dread settled over her. She opened the text and couldn’t stop the cry that escaped her throat.