The way she said it, smooth, emotionless—almost proud—was when Jack knew without a doubt that was exactly what she’d done. He dropped his hands to his side.
“How could you do something like this?”
“Oh, please,” Sandy hissed. “She was never in any danger.”
“Did you see the hellhole I dragged her out of? She’ll never be the same again.”
“Well, maybe that’s a good thing. You didn’t know her before.”
“You put her through hell!” Jack was shouting now. He couldn’t imagine what Twyla thought was going on in the hallway between her mother and her rescuer.
“She’ll get over it,” Sandy said, her voice low, glancing in the direction of Twyla’s room. “Trust me, money helps you get over anything. Someday she’ll thank me for this.”
“The feds want to talk to you,” he said.
Her face whitened. “What? You called the police?”
He shrugged. “We have Twyla back safely. I figured my vow of silence was done.”
She visibly struggled to maintain her reserve but her eyes sliced him with loathing. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Jack,” she said. “I don’t intend to go forward with any kind of prosecution. I have my daughter back. That’s all that matters.”
“I’m afraid it’s not up to you anymore.”
“You know,” she said, her voice an angry rasp, “It occurred to me this week why I dumped you in high school. God, if I had to endure one more back pat or arm rub from you I think I’d lose it. Do you and your girlfriend even have sex, Jack? Or did you turn Amish when you left Valdosta?”
He shook his head in bewilderment as he watched her transform before his eyes.
“Your own daughter. My daughter.”
“About that. She isn’t your daughter, she was Steven’s.”
Jack felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “Steven? Then…then why did you say she was mine?”
“What good would it have done me to have that loser responsible for child support?”
“But…I never paid you child support.”
She shrugged. “I knew you were good for it if I needed it.”
“Did…Steven know?”
“Whatever for?”
Jack felt heat flush through his body and his heartbeat speed up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two FBI agents walking down the hall toward them. Jack had already given his statement at the scene, now it was Sandy’s turn. Before they reached them, he leaned over and grasped her arm. She looked surprised that he would touch her. Her lip curled in repugnance.
“Just tell me why,” he said in a low voice. “Why did you do this?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m pretty sure the hospital has a family-only visitation rule. And I think Twyla made it perfectly clear she prefer you to leave.” Sandy jerked her arm out of his grip and disappeared into the curtained room. He nodded to the two federal agents as they paused before entering the curtained room.
As Jack turned away to head back to the parking lot, he pulled out Sandy’s phone and punched in the “Find Friends” function. He typed in Jay. Within seconds, a map generated on the tiny screen showing the bodyguard’s exact location.
He was at Sandy’s house.
Where Vernetta was.
Alone.
*****
Mia shivered. Even the walls of this room emanated evil. Her scalp prickled uncomfortably, but before she could fully process what she was feeling she heard a car’s engine outside the bedroom window. She ran across the room and dropped to her knees by the window, peeking between the edges of the curtains to the courtyard and the end of the driveway.
Shit! It was Jack and Sandy back in the SUV. Mia stayed perfectly still as her mind raced. Let them get into the house. I’ll let myself out the landing window, drop to the ground and be gone before—
She saw a man emerge from the gloom on the far side of the car and realized it wasn’t Jack. Mia watched the man approach the kitchen door. He stopped in front of the overturned garbage can, but instead of righting it he stepped over it. Her heart began to pound when he did that.
He had gloves on and a key in his hand. Even before she realized the man wasn’t going to knock, but let himself in, she was focused on his hands. It wasn’t cold—not glove-wearing cold. And his gloves were large and leather.
This isn’t good. This isn’t good.
As she waited for him to unlock the door so she could dart back to the landing window, he turned his face to pull at his collar. When he did, Mia saw it was the guy with Sandy in the deserted parking lot.
Why does he have a key? Why is he here when everyone else is gone? Why is he wearing gloves?
She ran out of the bedroom, hesitating for a moment in the hall, waiting for him to vacate the back kitchen porch so she could run to the landing window. The minute she heard him enter the house, she began to walk down the hall—and then, unbelievably, she heard him coming up the stairs.
Why is he coming to the bedrooms?
Her stomach quivered and Mia rubbed the sweat off her palms as she heard him climb the stairs. There was no way she could make it to the landing window now. Her only hope was to hide. She heard the man’s heavy tread as he reached the second floor. She pulled open the door nearest to her and darted inside, closing it hurriedly behind her. It was the old lady’s room.
Mia ran to the open closet and pulled it shut at the same time she heard the old lady’s bedroom door open.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
As he exited the hospital parking lot, Jack called 911 to report a possible break-in at Sandy’s house address. The dispatcher took his information dispassionately. Jack wondered if a suspicion of breaking and entering in a wealthy neighborhood would trump gang murders or retail burglaries or whatever else was going on in Fulton County today. He should have said he witnessed a murder and deal with the fallout later.
Too late now.
He gunned the SUV, heading south to Atlanta. Sixty minutes via Georgia 400. Thirty, if he hurried and there was no traffic.
In Atlanta, Georgia, that was a very big if.
How could he not have seen all the clues? Was he just so blinded by Sandy’s clinging adoration and the possibility of being a father that he hadn’t seen the picture forming over the last few days?
The ransom recordings—at least the last one and likely the one before that—were recorded in the other SUV—the vehicle Jay drove. The bodyguard who was ostensibly sent back to Valdosta when the kidnapping went down, but who was actually just removed from Jack’s direct surveillance, free to keep an eye on a hostage and carry out the necessary tasks leading up to Sandy’s bogus demands.
The photos Mia took showed Sandy and Jay were in on it together. If Mia had been able to get a little closer, and if Jack hadn’t been so open to believing the kidnapper was Eugene—exactly what Sandy wanted him to think—he might have widened his field of speculation to include the absent bodyguard.
Or would it even have occurred to him?
He called Vernetta’s phone and again it went to voice mail.
Were the cops on their way? He rang Maxwell but only got a recording saying he was out of the office. For one mad moment, he thought of calling Mia. Testimony to how desperate I am.
Best-case scenario, I’m forty minutes away and Jay is alone with an old woman who’s been drugged.
Vernetta was clearly the target and had been all along.
But why?
The kidnapping was a decoy to distract from the real crime going down. And Jack was to have been conveniently positioned to confirm both Sandy’s alibi for the time of the murder and, marginally, even Jay’s.
So Mr. Burton, can you please confirm for the court that you personally heard Ms. Gilstrap send Jarrod White away? And that you saw him leave and not return?
And of course, all calls to Eugene’s phone would go to voicemail. Sandy knew about his annual fishing trip an
d knew he’d be out of the picture for at least a week.
How long had she been planning this?
Jack watched the brown scrub of the winter Georgia pines fly by as he raced back to Atlanta. In his mind, he saw Sandy staring at him in the hospital corridor, her eyes haughty and disdainful. It occurred to him that she’d even affected a slump in her posture to project a meek demeanor during her weeklong charade with him.
But why? Why is Jay back at Sandy’s house? Did Sandy hire him to hurt Vernetta? Is that what this whole kidnapping was for? Why? It’s true Sandy and Vernetta weren’t close, but there didn’t seem any overt problems between them.
Not enough to kill over.
What was it Sandy said in the hospital—“Money helps you get over anything. Someday she’ll thank me for this.”
But Sandy’s rich, so did that make sense?
Jack exited onto I-285—minutes now from Buckhead—when the thought hit him: What if she wasn’t rich?
What if it wasn’t Sandy who won the lottery last year?
What if it was Vernetta?
*****
Mia could see the room through the slits in the louvered door slats. She had made it inside at the same time the bedroom door opened and could only pray he hadn’t seen the motion of the closet door closing.
Why was he in this room?
Her body shook among the dresses and winter coats as Mia fought to keep her breathing stable and quiet. The old woman groaned in bed and Mia saw the man walk stealthily to the bedside. Mia held her breath. He was young, early twenties if that. He was tall and blond, but his hair was cut so short it almost looked shaved. His face was handsome, but even from inside the closet she could tell his eyes were flat and clouded. Either he was on something or he was dull-witted.
In any case, the look he gave the woman in bed was one of malevolence. Even if Mia hadn’t seen his expression, she would have known that by the way he held himself—stiff and tense, ready to pounce.
He means to hurt her. Mia felt a sheen of perspiration form under her arms and breasts. She was overdressed for hiding in closets in warm houses. Her eyes never left the man. She watched him reach down to the woman—almost gently—as if not to disturb her, and slide a pillow off the bed. Mia’s heartbeat accelerated to triple time.
Oh, no, please no…
She watched him hold the pillow in both hands over the woman’s head, his face a mask of determination and focus. Only the sound of the old lady’s soft snores and Mia’s own heart pounding filled her head. He brought the pillow down on the sleeping woman’s face, hard like a tree falling—heavy and swift. Mia saw the woman’s arms flail out and claw at her assailant, who stood stiff-armed and leaning on the pillow over her face.
Mia jerked open the closet door and screamed. He released the pillow and turned to her, his face a comical distortion of surprise. At first she thought he would attack her with the pillow, but before the thought fully formed he tossed it aside, his face a visage of fury and panic.
He lunged for her.
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
Going against all her instincts, Mia stepped up to meet him and slammed her wrist, at a right angle to her body, into his throat. He staggered backward, exposing his midriff—just as Maxwell promised would happen—and she jabbed her elbow into his soft, unprotected gut. He doubled over and she readied herself for the next step—the one she’d never done for real but had to do now as her life depended on it. She stepped forward and thrust her knee as hard as she could into his groin. His arms shot out before she fully connected, and pushed her backward against the bed.
The old woman was screaming now—and someone’s cell phone was ringing—as Mia tried to scramble off the bed. She felt hard hands grasp her hips and yank her back. Her first thought was to escape. But she heard Maxwell’s voice in her head—find a soft part.
When she felt the man climb on top of her on the bed, she fought down the feeling of panic at being pinned, and flung her head back as hard as she could. His scream and the jet of blood that gushed over her shoulder told her she’d hit him where she needed to.
He released her to grab his broken nose, giving her a precious moment to twist around to face him. Blood pouring out of his nose, she grabbed his face with both hands and pushed her thumbs firmly into both his eyes. He catapulted off her, slapping at his own face and howling.
The audio portion of her mind kicked up in volume as he reeled into the bedroom wall, his hands covering his bloody face. His screams of profanity, the phone still ringing, and even the old lady’s whimpering as she tumbled from the bed to the floor mixed and rattled in Mia’s brain.
Mia’s eyes went to the woman on the floor, who stared at their assailant with horror—and recognition. Mia jumped to her feet and pulled the drawer of the bedside table open, spilling its contents on the floor. If there were going to be a weapon anywhere in the room, it would be there. But there was nothing, and now she’d allowed him time to recover.
“Bitch!” he snarled, pulling a knife from his waistband.
“Jay, no!” the old lady cried. “Why are you doing this?”
Jay glanced at the old woman and then back at Mia, the knife held casually in his hand like he knew how to use it. Mia had every reason to believe he did.
Maxwell never showed her this part.
“You do this,” Mia said, breathing hard, “and you won’t leave a crime scene with an old lady who died peacefully in her sleep. You’ll leave two bodies and a truckload of blood.”
Mia edged toward the bathroom, hoping there might be some kind of weapon in there. “You won’t be able to get in your car afterward. You won’t be able to wear your shoes, won’t be able to stay in your clothes. There is no scenario after a knife murder where CSI won’t find out who you are within the hour.”
Mia watched the man blink at her. He was really just a kid, probably not out of his teens. And he’d clearly watched enough forensic crime shows to believe what she said. She watched him glance over his shoulder toward the door, as if contemplating running.
Yeah, Gomer, why don’t you leave? That would be an awesome idea.
His indecision over, he glowered at Mia and repositioned his knife in his hand, ready to stab downward with it.
“You broke my nose,” he said, his voice guttural and raw, his eyes menacing. But when he turned, knife held high, he went for the old woman.
*****
Jack felt a sharp spasm in his neck.
At least he was in Atlanta now, and while flying down Georgia 400 at ninety miles an hour had shaved a big chunk off the time, now that he was in the city he might as well be back in Dahlonega. He sat behind a sporty Honda. The driver applied lipstick and chatted on her phone. The traffic was gridlocked down Northside Parkway for as far ahead of him as he could see. Jack ground his teeth.
He was two miles from Sandy’s house—just sitting here while Vernetta might be fighting for her life was bullshit. He pulled the SUV up onto the sidewalk, making a young African-American man who was waiting for the bus jump out of the way. Jack drove slowly on the sidewalk, passing the stopped cars, mowing down garage sale signs, weeds and balloons attached to condo opening posters.
He’d called in the suspected burglary over thirty minutes ago. Surely to God they’d have responded by now. He put another call in to Maxwell, and again it went to voicemail. He called Vernetta. He didn’t expect her to answer. She didn’t.
The only reason he could figure for the kidnapping was to give Sandy an unassailable alibi—that would be me—and to give her hired killer the opportunity to catch Vernetta alone. Jay was supposed to be out of the city. The prosecution would have its work cut out for it attempting to show he never arrived back in Valdosta. Hell, maybe he did. Just long enough for someone to see him and testify to the fact.
Jack slammed his fist against the steering wheel as he saw a group of school children standing on the sidewalk, watching him approach. Behind them, almost hidden by a small copse of Crepe Myrtles, was
the pulsating blue light of one of Atlanta’s Finest.
Damn it.
Jack drove to within thirty yards of the kids and stopped and hopped out of the car. The kids parted as he waded through them, their eyes big with curiosity and hope that something dramatic was about to happen. The cop—there was just the one, clearly on some kind of traffic duty—was young. Which was bad. The young ones were earnest. And the last thing Jack needed was an earnest by-the-book rookie determined to save the world from the kind of people who drove on sidewalks during rush hour.
“Officer,” Jack said, waving his driver’s license over his head. “I need assistance.”
The cop stood in front of his car, his hands resting on his Sam Browne belt as if to give the message: I’ll use force if I have to. The children, dressed in parochial uniforms from a nearby private school, formed a clot of eager faces and listening ears behind Jack.
“I called in a suspected burglary over thirty minutes ago to an address near here,” Jack said. “It is my belief that a crime is in the process of being committed.”
Give him time to do the right thing. Don’t spook him.
The cop waved for Jack to approach. That was smart. Get the unknown-and-possibly-dangerous-civilian away from the kiddies. Jack walked to the cruiser, where the driver’s door was open. The cop took Jack’s license and motioned for him to stand on the other side of the sidewalk. The layers of stalled traffic, delighted to have something else to look at other than rear bumpers, began honking their horns. When Jack looked up, some people were grinning and giving him a thumbs up; two shot him a bird.
“Jack Burton. Says you’re a private investigator.”
“Yes,” Jack said patiently, forcing himself not to glance at his watch. “If you could please check with your dispatcher to see that I called and that the call was responded to. I have reason to believe the situation has escalated. Please.”
The cop glanced at the kids to confirm they were not coming any closer.
“Sir,” he said. “I need you to go back to your vehicle and wait for me.”
Complete Mia Kazmaroff Romantic Suspense Series, 1-4 Page 59