by Nancy Bush
Maybe. Probably. If not yet, then he would be soon. He knew approximately where she lived.
Sitting down on the edge of a chair, she twisted the bracelet around her arm. Tucker had given it to her and wouldn’t take it back. Had he stolen it from Aimee or his mother? She needed to give it back. Pretty as it was, it was beginning to feel like a curse. She wanted to rid herself of it once and for all.
West waited, wondering if he should confront Callie. It was after six o’clock and he was hungry, tired, and frustrated.
The tea and croissants at noon weren’t hanging with him. Now that he knew where she lived, he could probably take a break in surveillance and grab something at one of the cafés that lined the streets down the hill. It kind of looked like she was in for the night, and he probably wouldn’t miss anything. Jesus. It was hell being a one-man team.
He thought about that last meeting with Victoria, who’d sat straight in her chair at the head of the long, carved mahogany table in the Laughlin dining room, her white hair and cobwebbed, papery skin belied by her sharp blue eyes. West had finally agreed to meet her at the Laughlin Ranch house, which he’d dubbed Laughlin Manor, which had pissed her off royally when he’d drawled the name upon entering the place. He hadn’t been invited to the house since he was a child, and he couldn’t help the desire to behave badly at this command performance.
Victoria had gotten right down to business. “Edmund Mikkels murdered your brother,” she’d said in her incisive way. “And Teresa set him up.”
“Stephen died in a hunting accident,” West had reminded her, but he had straightened in his chair and paid closer attention.
“I know what it looks like. But I’m just telling you, Teresa is behind it. God knows what she’s done with Stephen Tucker.”
“You can’t start an investigation on conjecture,” he had started to say, but she’d cut him off.
“Mikkels is crumbling. With the right amount of pressure, you could get to the truth. No one else around here’s interested. The sheriff ’s department . . .” She had flapped a hand in the air, dismissing them.
Laughlin Ranch was in the San Joaquin Valley, a little over two hours from Los Angeles. The family raised Angus cattle and sold beef across the nation. It was a huge operation and Victoria had handed over the reins first to Craig Laughlin, West’s father, who’d run the ranch until his sudden unexpected death in a hit-and-run accident, and then to Stephen, whom she’d expected to be as dedicated to the operation as Craig had been. But Stephen had only been lukewarm about taking over. He lacked the fervor and true enjoyment his father and grandfather had possessed. In the few times Stephen had met West in Los Angeles before his death, he’d clearly wished for a different life.
“I’m going to join you in LA,” he always promised, but it never happened, though it was Los Angeles where Stephen had met Teresa. Stephen had invited West to dinner with him and his fiancée when they were in town one evening, but West had already made other plans.
Victoria had done everything she could at that meeting, trying to get West to bring Teresa to justice and Stephen Tucker to her, but West had really only come to the ranch out of curiosity. He’d purposely slouched against the wall at the far end of the room, his jeans, boots, and two days’ growth of beard making the gulf between him and his starchy grandmother appear even wider. He hadn’t much cared. He owed the Laughlins nothing and vice versa.
And he’d thought her accusations were bunk.
“Mikkels was a fool,” Victoria had told him. “He believed Teresa was an angel. Somehow she got to him and talked him into killing your brother.”
“Why would she do that?” West had pointed out.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’ll learn the reason when you look for the boy.”
West had known little about Stephen’s wife except that she was very beautiful—and he knew that only because Stephen had sung her praises. Stephen had wanted West to come to the wedding but West had declined. Mixing with other Laughlins was something he avoided at all costs, especially since his father’s death.
“I’ve got a picture of her,” she had said. “I had many more but they’re missing. She probably took them with her.”
Victoria had then spread a number of photographs on the table in front of her. Reluctantly, because he’d felt her pulling him into family affairs against his will, West had walked to her end of the room. One picture was of Stephen with Teresa, the one he’d scanned, cropped, and put on his phone; the rest were of Stephen and a boy of about two.
“Where do you think she went?”
“LA,” she had answered promptly. “That’s where Stephen picked her up.”
West had gone back to Los Angeles armed with the information that Stephen had met Teresa in Santa Monica, at a coffee shop. He’d been in no great hurry as he wasn’t sure what he believed, but then he had the falling out with Roxanne and relations deteriorated with Paulsen, and suddenly he was free to look into Stephen’s death.
The first thing he’d done was pay a visit to Edmund Mikkels, the neighboring rancher who was “crumbling” from guilt, according to Victoria. West didn’t know the man, but when he had said who he was, Mikkels had turned white and had to sit down. “I pray every day that I wake up that it’s all been a bad dream,” he had told West, swiping at tears with the back of his hands. “Stephen was a good man.”
West had asked him about the hunting accident, but apart from the enormity of his grief three years after the fact, there had been nothing that pointed a finger at Mikkels as being in on some wild conspiracy with Teresa to kill Stephen.
West had been pretty sure he was feeding into Victoria’s own grief and paranoia and had been ready to say sayonara, when she had admitted that she had given Stephen’s personal computer to a local computer expert and asked him to open some files. The guy had easily accessed the files as Stephen hadn’t set up password protection on the computer itself. Stephen had kept a file that simply said “Accounts” where he’d listed the passwords for his two e-mail accounts, bank accounts, online shopping stores, you name it. Most of the passwords were in code themselves, so Victoria had skipped over those and had directed the expert to open other files. That’s how she had come across the list of Laughlin heirlooms categorized with their relative worth. The date on the file suggested it was somewhere around the time Stephen had given Teresa the bracelet and Victoria was convinced Teresa had seen the list and pressured Stephen into giving it to her as a gift.
He had stopped at the ranch after meeting with Mikkels. After explaining about the computer, Victoria had said, “Teresa as good as stole the bracelet. I never said as much to your brother, but he had no right to offer up a Laughlin heirloom. Lord knows what that woman’s done with it. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that the rest of the jewelry’s still in the safe-deposit box. Stephen was asking about it before she killed him.”
“If she wanted more heirlooms, why would she have him killed?” West had tried to reason with her, but his logic had fallen on deaf ears.
“She took the most important one with her. Stephen Tucker Laughlin. He’s worth more than all of them put together.”
West had been resistant to helping her, but with an insight into Teresa’s grasping nature, he’d told her he would see what he could do. He took the computer to a hacker buddy who broke into Stephen’s e-mail accounts and learned someone, after his death, was corresponding with someone else in Martinique.
An e-mail that originated from a Fort-de-France Internet café had started him thinking he should help find Tucker, if for no other reason than to assure himself that Stephen’s son was all right. But it was Teresa’s response that sent West to Martinique:
im on my way. take care of t and the b.
West had read that as “take care of Tucker and the bracelet.” It boiled his blood to think Teresa was bartering it for Tucker’s care. Seeing it on Callie Cantrell’s arm had made him see red, and it had been all he could do to keep from shaking her sensel
ess and demanding she turn over Tucker. But she wasn’t Teresa, unless Teresa led two lives. She’d said a friend named Aimee had given it to her, but he was almost certain she was lying.
He’d left for Martinique with only half-formed plans in mind: hanging out at the Internet café in question, if it still existed; asking questions of the patrons and personnel; showing Teresa’s picture around; checking with the local police. He’d called upon Pete Dorcas to help pave the way for him with the local police, but so far that plan hadn’t panned out. Dorcas was only willing to stick out his neck so far for West and a call to the gendarmerie was asking too much.
But then he’d gotten lucky, catching sight of Teresa, or the woman he’d assumed was Teresa, in his binoculars on his second day. If Callie wasn’t Teresa, she had to know something about where Teresa was. The bracelet, and Callie’s unwillingness to tell him the truth about it, was evidence of that. No other answer made sense.
He ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a bottle of water at an outdoor café, wolfed down the sandwich, and drank half the bottle in one gulp. He finished the last swallow of water standing over a recycle bin and then tossed the plastic bottle inside.
Then he retraced his steps to Callie’s apartment, checking his phone on the way. It was eight P.M., the dusky, gold evening light a memory. It was still hot, however, and he wondered how long it would be before he got a shower.
He realized her lights were out. Was she still there? Probably. He decided to wait around a while and be certain. A light came on around ten and he saw her silhouette walk through the room, but then she doused it again, most likely returning to bed. Around midnight, West gave up and caught a cab to his hotel. If something nefarious happened in the wee hours of the morning, so be it. But he doubted there was much chance of that happening and now that he knew where she lived, he could start again tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Andre received the call from Daniella around nine, listened for a few moments, then said, “Okay,” and hung up, his gaze flicking to Teresa. “Lumpkin’s headed north. Daniella will follow him until you take over. Call when he lands somewhere.”
Teresa knew enough about Robert Lumpkin’s habits to figure his final destination would be a bar in Venice or Santa Monica. She gathered up her purse and got to her feet. “Should I take the Xterra?” she asked, as Daniella had the Chevy.
“Yeah.”
Teresa’s pulse was starting to jack up. The thrill of the hunt. Andre was looking at her in that intense way he had. Once upon a time that expression had gotten her juices flowing; all she could think about was Andre and sex . . . sex and Andre. And then they would work their magic together. A long time ago . . .
Reading her mind, Andre came over to her and stood in front of her, running his hands down her arms, fitting her up against him. She had been slipping her right foot into one of her heels, but she stopped, waiting, anxious to go.
“You smell good enough to eat,” he said, inhaling deeply the citrus flavor of her perfume.
She quivered when his hand slid from her arm to her hip. Behind him, she sensed Naomi and Clarice move into the room. Good God, if Andre tried to claim her before she went out on her mission she might start screaming and never stop. He’d done it before. He had amazing radar when it came to sensing what she was feeling and he was feeding off her own adrenaline rush.
But she couldn’t stomach the thought of making love to him now. Her feelings for him had been eroding over time, like water eating away at rock. He’d grown obsessive and full of strange beliefs. It was just . . . over.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she kept her face expressionless, fighting her claustrophobic anxiety. It was the thought of Tucker, safe, sound, and waiting for her, that kept her from losing it.
Then Andre’s cell phone rang and he made a sound of impatience, taking a step away to answer it. At his curt “Yeah?” Teresa exhaled. So did Naomi and Clarice, though they probably didn’t realize it.
Teresa could hear the tinny sound of Daniella’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. Andre grunted an “Okay” then snapped at Teresa, “You’ve got a phone?”
They shared cell phones except for Andre. “Yes,” she said, recognizing his growing anger. He’d wanted to screw her, claim her right then and there, but he wanted to get Robert Lumpkin more. He didn’t know about the other cell phone that she had in her own name or the studio apartment she’d been renting for two months now.
“He’s in Venice at a place called Ray’s,” Andre said.
“I know it,” Teresa said. Andre’s eyes narrowed at her incautious answer. He clearly wanted to ask her how. Teresa preempted him. “I met Jonathan there a time or two.”
It was a lie. Jonathan Cantrell would no more have gone to a dive like Ray’s than fly to the moon. He liked the Peninsula Hotel, swank nightclubs on the Sunset Strip, expensive rooms with cabanas, pools, and girls in bikinis carrying trays of drinks, and humidors of cigars. Oh, yeah. Jonathan had liked the high life. He’d wanted to marry her and how Andre had laughed when she’d told him. “Well, he can’t have you,” he’d said, and Teresa, in those heady days before the handmaidens, had thrilled to his possessiveness. Jonathan had been the big mark before Stephen Laughlin, though there was something special about Stephen, from Andre’s point of view, that she still didn’t quite understand. She’d thought about it a time or two, but then had decided she didn’t really care. Stephen had been a sweet guy, truly in love with her, or at least the Teresa he believed her to be. Whatever Andre’s reasons for targeting Stephen were, they were his own.
Now she headed for the door, wondering if this was the last time she would cross this threshold. Hoping it was the last time.
She’d wanted to be that Teresa, the one that Stephen Laughlin had fallen in love with. She’d even thought she could be, for a while. That was when her love for Andre died, those few years she’d played at being Stephen’s wife. Swept into the part of Teresa Laughlin, she’d repressed thoughts of her old life so deeply that she’d almost forgotten them herself. She’d even gotten pregnant, and had managed to keep it a secret from Andre. She’d lived in fear that he would drive to Bakersfield or Fresno, or somewhere in the Valley, and then decide to cruise on up to Laughlin Ranch, but he never had. But then he’d been too busy amassing the handmaidens; she just hadn’t known it.
Then one day it was over. “Get the money and get back here.”
She’d heard the underlying warning in his tone, knew her time was over. She’d already drained her account with Stephen and had Tucker’s and her passports ready when Edmund told her he’d set up the hunting date. She’d been teasing him in heated meetings with a lot of sexual petting, telling Edmund she couldn’t truly be with him while Stephen was her husband. She’d put the idea in Edmund’s head without him knowing it that if Stephen were gone, say, then they could be together. But she hadn’t realized how primed he was, how ready to jump to have her. She’d been home at the ranch, actually having dinner with Victoria in the dining room, a chilly affair that nevertheless alibied her completely, when they heard the news. Stephen had given her the bracelet just two days earlier.
Victoria was beside herself, and Teresa was shattered as well. She hadn’t realized until the deed was done how much she’d fallen for Tucker’s father. Stephen’s death appeased Andre for a while, giving her enough time to fly Tucker to Martinique, and then return to Los Angeles. Andre had been disgusted with the paltry amount she’d come away with from the Laughlin affair after such a long time—she’d purposely left the bracelet with Aimee—but he hadn’t been as upset as she’d expected.
Strangely, it was more like he’d pretended to be upset, and she realized there was something else going on he wasn’t copping to. Some long-range plan that she wasn’t privy to, apparently. Or maybe he was tired of the Laughlin plan. Andre’s interest in anything was notoriously short.
Whatever the case, Stephen was gone, and she was sorry that she’d been a part of it. She’d th
ought that was the worst of it, but that was before Jonathan resurfaced and followed her to their house. Teresa had been so rattled to see him loping up the stairs to the front door after her, calling her name, she’d practically slammed the door in his face. He’d yelled through the panels at her that he wasn’t leaving and had made such a nuisance of himself that she’d had to step outside and confront him.
She’d tried to convince him that she didn’t live at the house, that she was just visiting a friend. He almost believed her. He wanted to punish her for leaving him, but even more than that, he wanted to pick up where they’d left off.
She couldn’t do either.
After she’d finally agreed to meet with him the next day, she’d gone back inside and encountered Andre, who was cool, cagey, and surprisingly encouraging. She hadn’t known then what his plans were for Jonathan Cantrell. She hadn’t known then she would be the one to execute those plans. A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of the little boy who’d died because of her. Because of Andre.
“What’s your plan?” Andre asked suddenly from behind her, yanking her from her reverie.
“I’ll—show up at Ray’s and see what happens.”
He turned her around abruptly just as her hand was reaching for the front doorknob. His lips were pinched. “This isn’t a long-term one, Teresa.”
“I know what it is.”
His eyes narrowed at her neutral tone, as if he were trying to fathom her thoughts. He was so good at reading her that Teresa blanked her mind to anything but the moment at hand. “Do you have the drugs?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Good. See you later tonight . . .”
“Uh-huh.”
No. Not tonight. Not ever again. A few more hours, she told herself, thinking of the money in the Bank of America account. She had a debit card tucked away deep inside the seam of the stuffed bear that Stephen had won for her at a fair. She’d told Andre she’d won it herself so that he wouldn’t take it from her. He hated any of them having personal possessions. Two days ago she’d swept up the bear and taken it to the apartment, pulling out the debit card and hiding it under a rock beside the garage.