Ryan's Rescue

by Karen Leabo

  This possibly career-making, extremely lucrative story. Damn.

  The sound of boot heels on wood floor made him jump, smoothing his own hair, positive that although he and Chrissy were standing several feet apart, Fran would know what they’d been up to. But she said nothing as she entered the office area where he and Chrissy had been holed up, making their phone calls. Fran was carrying Ryan’s laptop, which probably meant she’d read his notes and the embryonic story he was forming.

  “Any luck?” she asked, handing the computer back to him.

  “Yes!” The word nearly exploded out of Chrissy. “This place called Easy Duzzit Pawn has my jewelry. We’re getting ready to check it out. Thanks, Fran, for letting us use your phones and all. You’ve been a big help.” She threw her arms around a surprised Fran, who stood there like a tree trunk, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish’s.

  “Um, you’re welcome, Prin—” She stopped herself. “Christine.”

  “May I use your rest room?” Chrissy asked.

  “Sure. It’s around that corner, on your right.”

  “Thanks.” She practically skipped her way around the corner.

  When Ryan and Fran were alone, she looked at him long and hard. “Why’s she so nice to me? Why does she like us? We’re a public figure’s worst nightmare.”

  “Because we believe her,” Ryan said simply.

  “The story you’re writing isn’t particularly flattering, especially to Stan Greenlow.”

  “I know. The story’s evolving, though. The first version was scathing. I toned it down a lot. Did I tell you she submitted to a drug screening?”

  “Really?”

  “And we did find her engagement ring at a pawnshop, like she said. The pawnshop angle was my idea, not hers, so I couldn’t possibly believe she set this up as some sort of fake evidence. Fran, she really was kidnapped by ter rorists. I firmly believe that now, and I want to prove it.”

  “Watch out, Rye,” Fran cautioned. “You’re sounding suspiciously biased.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, well, who wouldn’t be? I can’t not like her. You can’t, either.”

  “Hmm.” Fran shuffled her feet, then admitted, “She’s not what I expected. So, are you sleeping with her or what?”

  The question startled him, but it shouldn’t have. Fran never minced words, “No. And that’s all I’m saying on that subject, all right?”

  Fran rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Well, if you’re planning to, better hurry. ’Cause you can sugarcoat the facts all you want, but this story will not make her happy with you. Maybe she’ll come out sounding okay, just a little flaky. But women don’t like it when you trash their daddies.”

  “I know,” Ryan said on a sigh. Did he want journalistic infamy, or momentary sexual bliss? He didn’t kid himself. That was what she represented. Good sex had come and gone in his life, but stories like this came along once in a lifetime. Yet the decision was surprisingly tough.

  “It’s going to be a great story,” Fran said, maybe sensing his vacillation. “It’s the best thing you’ve ever written. Don’t mess it up by getting your feelings all wrapped up in it, okay?”

  He couldn’t answer her.

  Ryan phoned his friend at the police department, who agreed to meet them in two hours at the pawnshop. That would give him time to get a warrant. It would also give him and Chrissy time to kill, and that worried him. Without something constructive to keep his hands busy, he was afraid they might wander.

  “Are we ready?” Chrissy asked brightly when she reappeared. She had her cap on, her sunglasses perched on top of it.

  “We meet my friend at the pawnshop at around two-thirty,” he said.

  “Oh. Rats. I wanted to go now.”

  “Yeah, me too. Want to catch some lunch?”

  That brightened her, as he’d figured it would. She’d only picked at the fourteen-dollar breakfast he ordered for her earlier. “Sure, I’m starved. Want to come with us, Fran?”

  “No, I’ve got work to do. Besides, three’s a crowd. But thanks. You guys can let yourselves out the back. I’m heading for the darkroom.”

  “Oh, Fran, what about the pictures?” Ryan asked. “I can fax my story at the last minute, but you’ll have to overnight the photos if you want to make deadline.”

  She fidgeted. “Oh, um, it’s taken care of. I Fed Exed them yesterday.”

  “All of them?” he asked suspiciously. “Before you showed them to me?”

  “Well, yeah. Don’t get all weird on me, Rye. I’m sure the editors will pick and choose, anyway, and you can tell them to ax any you...um, don’t like.”

  Great, just great. Primus magazine now had in their possession a picture of him and Chrissy kissing like a couple of randy teenagers. His credibility had probably just gone right out the window.

  “You sent them that picture?” Chrissy wailed.

  “I didn’t know it would be so controversial,” Fran said. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t really fit in with the story you’re writing—you were right about that. So I doubt they’ll run it.”

  Ryan wasn’t so sure. Maybe it wasn’t just Chrissy’s reputation on the line here, or her father’s. Maybe it was his.

  Well, he’d asked for it by kissing her when he knew there was a camera close by. A lot of people’s lives got screwed up by hormones running amok. Suddenly he knew what it felt like to be on the other side of the fence.

  He was sure Fran hadn’t sent the picture maliciously. She was excited about the story, like he’d been in the beginning.

  “It’s okay, Fran,” he said, aiming for sincerity. “We’ll work something out.”

  Chrissy stood by, arms folded, her sunny mood having evaporated.

  Suddenly Fran smiled. “I know. I’ll have to sign an agreement of some form, right? A release or something? I could refuse to sign one for that one picture.”

  Chrissy looked hopefully at Ryan.

  It was generous of Fran to offer, but he didn’t want her to hurt her reputation with the magazine. “We’ll work something out,” he said again.

  Chrissy, her face falling again, followed him silently out the back door.

  Christine’s elation over locating her ring had left her. For a while, she’d forgotten about the photos, about Fran’s role in taking them. Heavens, had she actually hugged the woman and thanked her? Her earlier anger toward Ryan had reasserted itself, too. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge, but she couldn’t completely put aside the fact that he’d deceived her about his intentions, allowing Fran to secretly tag along and record her admittedly odd behavior.

  “I will do something about that picture,” Ryan said as they got back into his car. “I never intended for that moment between us to be anything but private. I hope you believe that.”

  I do. I think,” she said on a sigh. ”Instead of lunch, can we go for a walk? I’m used to working out almost every day. All this sitting around has made me antsy.” Not to mention a few residual hormones she needed to chase off, or wear out, or something. What did hormones do when they weren’t needed, anyway? Did they disappear? Go dormant? Did they reproduce, like viruses? She was beginning to think that was what hers were doing.

  “Sure. We’ll go to the Mall. Since it’s a weekday, it won’t be too crowded. We can grab some hot dogs or pizza afterward, if you want.”

  She nodded. She’d never felt so torn in her life—crazy about Ryan one minute, despising him the next. Maybe she was falling in love with him. She’d always heard, though she’d never believed it, that falling in love entailed a lot of highs and lows, lots of extremes.

  It hadn’t been that way with Doug. She’d been sort of obsessive about him, and then it had been over suddenly and that was that..

  She chuckled at the idea that she was falling in love. So what if she was? Talk about a doomed relationship.

  “If there’s anything to laugh about, I wish you’d share it,” Ryan said. “I could use a good laugh.”

  “No, nothing,” she said
hastily, realizing she must have once again let her feelings out into the open. “Just more of those crazy, pent-up emotions escaping. It’s nice to feel things so...so fully, but enough is enough. I’m going to need a therapist if this keeps up.”

  “I’ll go with you. I’m feeling a little crazy myself—Oh, look, a parking place right on the street. How lucky could we get?” He expertly whipped the Vette into a parking place that a Volkswagen Bug had just vacated. It was a tight fit, but he managed.

  They were several blocks from the Mall, but Chrissy didn’t care. The air was brisk with a hint of drizzle, almost jacket weather, so she walked quickly, hoping to warm her blood. Of course, she could just look at Ryan. He tended to heat her blood right up.

  They walked without talking for about twenty minutes. By then, Ryan was breathing hard, though Chrissy was barely winded. Normally she did aerobics four or five times a week with a personal trainer, so this was literally a stroll in the park for her.

  “You really are in shape,” Ryan said. “I’m at least a weekend athlete, and I’m eating your dust.”

  She found the compliment enormously pleasing. Then she was irritated. No matter how hard she tried to dislike Ryan, she couldn’t, at least not for any length of time. She slowed her pace. If she walked much farther in the flimsy canvas shoes, her feet would regret it. “You said something about grabbing a hot dog?”

  “I knew that appetite of yours would kick in sooner or later.” He scanned all around him. “Ah, there’s a vendor truck. Hot dogs, pizzas, submarine sandwiches, take your pick.”

  “I’ll take pizza,” she said. The brisk walk had improved her mood. She vowed to work on the aspects of her life that she could change, and ignore the rest. The photos were out of her control.

  After the pizza, Chrissy talked Ryan into stopping at a bank branch. She had her account number memorized, so she could get a few hundred dollars with a draft to tide her over. She carefully wrote out the draft while Ryan paced the lobby. It occurred to her that she might need ID, which she didn’t have. Sometimes they asked for it, sometimes they remembered her and didn’t ask.

  “You’re Christine Greenlow?” the young teller said in an overloud voice, fluttering her fingers nervously. Her two-inch green fingernails glittered under the bank’s fluorescent lights. “The one in the paper?”

  “Shh! You don’t have to tell the whole city. Yes, that’s me.”

  “Cool. Everybody’s been wondering where you are.”

  “Well, they won’t wonder much longer, if you don’t give me my money and let me get out of here.” Her feet would root to the floor and she would become a tourist attraction.

  “Oh, sure. Sorry.” The woman punched in Christine’s account number with her nails, then frowned. “Um, there seems to be a problem. That account is closed.”

  “Closed? You mean...I can’t get to my money?”

  “Yes. Your cosigner—that would be Stanley Greenlow—closed the account because the checkbook was stolen.”

  It took a few moments for this news to sink in. She’d had this account since she was in college. Her father’s name was on the account for convenience’s sake, but he hadn’t bothered with it, or even looked at it, in years.

  Now, suddenly, he’d taken it away from her. She had a feeling she would discover the same thing with her credit cards—that all the accounts would be closed or frozen.

  “All right,” she said to the teller. “Thank you. And I believe that this bank protects the privacy of its patrons, yes?”

  “Huh? Oh, yes, ma’am. Christine who?” She winked conspiratorially.

  “I think we understand one another.” Christine walked back to where Ryan had found a chair to perch on. “I can’t get my money,” she groused. “Dad fixed it so I can’t. He’s trying to force me to come home.”

  “How can he do that?” Ryan wanted to know.

  “His name is on everything of mine, even my trust fund. I don’t get full control of that till I’m thirty.”

  “You’ve never established credit in your own name? No rainy-day fund tucked away that your dad doesn’t know about?”

  “No. It never occurred to me to do that. All my financial stuff was set up when I first went away to college, and I’ve never had reason to change it.”

  “Well...I guess that means you’ll have to go home.”

  “No way,” she said flatly. “He’s playing dirty pool, and that makes me even more determined not to knuckle under to him. I mean, I knew he could be underhanded and sneaky, but not with me!” But that wasn’t strictly true. He’d been lying to her for years about the drugs, more blatantly in recent months. He would tell her that he hadn’t taken any pills in weeks, or that he’d lost the bottle of tranquilizers, left them in a hotel room, whatever.

  She’d always seen through the lies, but she’d seldom confronted him. He’d been trying to protect himself, his addiction, which was what addicts did. What he was doing to her now, however, was different. It was nasty, almost malicious. He was trying to slap her down, bring her to heel, and he didn’t care if he hurt her in the process.

  At least that was how it seemed to her.

  Ryan was studying her, his expression a mixture of concern, compassion, and something more, something she couldn’t name. It was as if he were trying to put together a puzzle, solve a brainteaser.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t be out on the street. My sister will take me in until I figure out what to do. I won’t keep sponging off you.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that. Come on, let’s get out of this bank. I don’t trust Miss Green Fingernails not to call everyone she knows and tell them you’re here.”

  Christine shivered. “Is it almost time to go to the pawnshop?”

  “Yeah, we can start heading over there.”

  Easy Duzzit Pawn was only a few blocks from Peak Street, where she’d been the last time Denny tried to accost her. It was the same type of neighborhood, with boarded-up windows and not much activity. The few people who were walking around had the dead-eyed, hopeless look of the eternally impoverished. Even the children showed no excitement about life.

  Ryan parked in front of the shop. “We’re a few minutes early. We can go in and browse, but don’t ask about your jewelry until my friend Larry gets here.”

  “Okay.”

  She found the pawnshop fascinating—she’d never been inside one before. Here, you could buy every manner of electronic device, bicycles, household items, even movie videos, for what seemed like ridiculously low prices. She spotted an ultraexpensive vacuum cleaner. Her father had bought one for Connie, privately complaining that no vacuum cleaner should cost over a thousand dollars. The one here was priced at a hundred and seventy-five dollars.

  “Where does all this stuff come from?” she asked Ryan.

  “People bring it in as collateral for small loans. When they don’t return with the money after a certain period of time, the stuff comes out on the floor with a price tag.”

  She wandered close to the jewelry cases, trying not to look too interested. “Oh, look at all the old wedding sets. How sad. Once upon a time, each of those rings belonged to some blushing bride-to-be. Do you think they come from divorces?”

  “Mostly, I guess. I’ve heard a lot of merchandise at pawnshops is stolen, though.”

  “That’s even sadder.” At least she’d realized the huge mistake she was about to make with Robert before the wedding.

  The bells on the pawnshop door jingled, and a tall, pale man with thinning hair entered, looking around. Ryan waved. “Hey, Larry. Over here.” Then he motioned to the pawnshop’s sole employee.

  “Help you folks?” the clerk asked.

  Chrissy knew the minute he opened his mouth that he was the one she’d talked to. “Yes, I spoke with you earlier about a two-carat engagement ring?”

  The man looked down at the floor. “Ah. Funny thing about jewelry. It gets hot all of a sudden. Someone looks at a piece that’s been sitting around i
n the case for months, gathering dust. If they don’t buy it right then, everyone who comes in the shop wants to see it. It’ll sell within twenty-four hours. You put a vibration on it—”

  “Excuse me,” Ryan said, “but what are you trying to tell us here?”

  “I sold that set!” he said, his unlit cigar bobbing up and down with every word. “Not twenty minutes after I got off the phone with you, lady, a couple came in here, saw the ring and bought it right off. I couldn’t exactly turn them down. I’d be crazy to turn away a sure sale of that much money. But, now, I have another ring you might like. The diamond’s not quite so big, only a carat, but it’s really special.” He started going through his keys, trying to find the right one.

  “I don’t want another ring,” Chrissy said hotly. “I wanted that one.”

  The broker looked at her quizzically. “How could you? You never even saw it!”

  Larry broke in. “We have reason to believe the ring and earrings were stolen merchandise, originally belonging to this woman. I’m with the Metropolitan Police, theft division. Could I ask you a few questions about the jewelry?”

  The man nearly dropped his cigar. “You’re a cop? Honest, Officer, I didn’t know that stuff was hot. A guy came in here with a sob story about his sick granny—you know, the kind of thing I hear every day.”

  Ryan’s friend Larry held up his hand. “We’re not interested in prosecuting you, Mr., um...”

  “Franklin, Deke Franklin.”

  “Mr. Franklin.” The detective pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. Ryan did, too. Christine knew she should stay and listen, but she didn’t have the heart. Her jewelry had taken a hike, as Ryan had feared it might. There went her evidence. Maybe this Franklin character had smelled a fishy story and hidden the jewelry. If so, maybe Larry could get the guy to cough up her diamonds.