If Jackson needed a temporary job while he waited for the good ship “Blackmail” to sail into port, Keely was convinced he’d apply for one here.
The receptionist inside the limo office presented the same polished and sleek appearance of the cars pulled up to the curb outside. After attempting to press brochures for night club tours, anniversary packages complete with fresh flowers, and city sightseeing excursions on Keely, she consented to contact her boss by intercom.
“There’s a Kelly O’Brien here—”
“It’s Keely,” Keely corrected her.
Drawing plucked black brows together in irritation, the woman repeated, “a Keely O’Brien, Mr. Franklin, who wants to talk to you. I know you’re already in a meeting—”
Her smooth brow furrowed again, this time in puzzlement. “Yes, sir. Certainly. I’ll send her in.”
Directed down a hallway carpeted in royal blue, Keely knocked on a half opened door and entered in response to a brisk invitation. Ron Franklin sat behind a mammoth desk, incongruously perched on a leather car seat. The seat came from Franklin’s first limo, the one he himself had driven when starting up his fledgling fleet and whose sleek body was immortalized in bronze paint in the front yard. Keely was familiar with the story of Ron’s rise to success from a profile Flo Netherton had done on Franklin Limos.
“Ms. O’Brien!” Ron stood up and held out his hand. “You’re the photographer, aren’t you? A pleasure to meet you.”
Keely started to reply, only to sputter into silence when she saw that Franklin already had a visitor.
Max Summers, reclining on the passenger seat from the famous limousine, patted the cushion beside him. “Glad you could join me, honey.”
Keely stood frozen. Ron hurried over, chattering inanities as he escorted his guest to the wide seat and practically pushed her down beside Max. As Keely tried to acclimate herself to this new development, she became aware of an odd undercurrent of tension in the room.
“Keely, I was telling Ron about our little problem.” Max smiled. “Glad you could join me.” Under his breath, he added, “Great minds must think alike.”
Keely swallowed her shock and smiled a cardboard thin smile at the man behind the sleek mahogany desk. Max must have reached the same conclusion concerning Jackson’s whereabouts. The men continued their discussion while Keely absorbed the fact that Max hadn’t abandoned her. Her spirit buoyant, she belatedly tuned into a conversation concerning the hidden cost of running a fleet of cars.
“I can certainly sympathize, Ron.” Max crossed one sharply creased khaki pant leg over the other. “People don’t seem to understand that caterers have to pay for food. We don’t just pluck produce out of a backyard garden and collect eggs from the hen house. Then you’ve got to pay waiters, clean-up crew—”
“You think you’ve got it rough!” Ron seemed eager to top Max’s recital of woe. A compactly built man with a luxurious mustache and an unexpectedly full face with pouches under his eyes, Ron fidgeted on the limo seat. “Insurance companies charge enough to cover every car manufactured in Detroit, big engines have an unquenchable thirst for gas, then there’s full-time mechanics’ wages—brain surgeons work cheaper—not to mention the dry cleaning fees for fancy uniforms…”
When Ron paused to draw breath, Max said amiably, “Don’t forget protection money.”
Ron nodded automatically, then his eyes popped. “What did you just say?”
“Protection money, Ron.” Max gave him a buddy to buddy grin. “We know someone’s been putting the arm on you to cough up money each month.”
Their host’s prominent eyes hardened into blue marbles. He said in a flat voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Ron. We know about the threats, the payments.”
One hand raking at his mustache, Ron stood up and pointed toward the door. “Get out of here. Now!”
Max lounged back in a nonchalant pose, his fingers caressing the expensive Corinthian leather seat. “Someone’s already pointed out how easy it would be to sabotage your business, haven’t they, Ron? A cup of sugar poured into a gas tank, lighter fluid drenching the seats, windshields smashed, tires—those very expensive tires!—slashed, headlights punched out…”
“Get out before I call the police!” Ron yanked at his charcoal and red striped tie as if the knot choked him. With his reddened face and furious eyes, he looked as out of place in the opulent setting as a toad squatting on a ruffled dressing table.
If Max was trying to startle Franklin into coughing up Jackson, his tactics were failing miserably. Keely grabbed Max’s arm and gave it a warning squeeze. “Perhaps we’d better not take up any more of Mr. Franklin’s time—”
“Listen to the lady.” Ron’s putty soft features solidified into granite. “Don’t stick your nose into my affairs.”
“I like your first suggestion,” Max drawled. “Let’s call the police. Ask for Detective Gifford. She’ll be very interested in a discussion of the protection racket.”
Ron Franklin’s lips moved but no sound emerged.
“Or perhaps we could tell her a different story. I took a gander around your service yard before I came in, Ron. You’ve got enough goons out there to intimidate Hulk Hogan. A muscle squad capable of enforcing any demand you chose to make—”
Ron’s finger stabbed at a button on his desk. Max was interrupted in mid-sentence when a previously concealed door at the rear of the office burst open and two overall clad characters stormed in.
Speaking of goons! Keely, on her feet, flinched back, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in her throat.
Ron pointed at Max. “Make sure this guy loses any ideas about coming back here. Or about calling the cops.”
He turned his enraged glare on Keely.
Next, he’d be yelling “Off with her head!” No, that was the Red Queen in Alice. Keely wished frantically for a potion labeled “drink me” that would make her grow large enough to frighten these goons.
Like wind-up toys set in motion, the overmuscled specimens strode forward and yanked the still seated Max to his feet. Keely turned in desperate appeal to Franklin and found him smirking at Max who stood, unresisting, between his burly captors.
Max addressed her without turning his head, “I’m sorry, Keely. I shouldn’t have confronted this crook with you here.” To Franklin, he said simply, “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“That’s something I pride myself on.” Franklin spat out the words. “No regrets.”
He jerked his head in curt dismissal. Max was yanked nearly off his feet and propelled through the door which slammed shut behind them.
Keely darted over to the desk and snatched up the phone. Franklin was equally quick. His fingers closed over her wrist, his nails biting into her flesh until, with a cry of pain, she dropped the instrument back onto its cradle.
Franklin looked at her as though she’d just spilled a strawberry milk shake on his beloved leather seat cushion. “I suggest you stay put for a few moments, Ms. O’Brien. Then you may leave.”
Keely wrenched herself free. The man was a maniac. A maniac with a concealed bolt hole and hired muscle. “If you hurt Max—”
“No empty threats, please. If you plan on coming back with the police, I can’t guarantee Mr. Summers will be here. No one will admit to having seen him. By the time my boys are through with your loose-lipped friend, he won’t have the inclination or the ability to spout any more of his nonsense.” Franklin exhaled heavily, ruffling the fringe of his mustache. “Just have a seat, Ms. O’Brien. Be reasonable.”
Keely took a step toward the concealed door and the limo service owner moved on the balls of his feet to block her path. Franklin had thick wrists, a broad chest, and an air of unassailable confidence. In a contest of physical strength, she’d be a certain loser. With the push of a button, the expensively furnished room had become a plush prison cell.
Keely felt like a lamb who’d wandered into the den of a fox. Sh
e’d meant to make a few inquiries, casually bring up the subject of whether Franklin Limo had recently hired any new drivers. Max certainly had another agenda. Keely’s brain reeled. Ron Franklin, respected businessman, the mastermind of the extortion scheme?
Clearly he was up to no good. Keely had to save Max, but first she had to help herself. Feeling the blood drain from her face, she glanced frantically around the spotless room.
Inspiration struck and she bent double, making a choking sound, her right hand cupping her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick!”
Ron recoiled. “Hey, none of that! Not in here!”
Keely gagged and moaned convincingly, staggering closer to the seat behind the desk, Ron’s ostentatious symbol of success. “My stomach’s heaving! Ugh, I’m going to throw up!”
Ron Franklin waved his hands in a frantic shooing motion. “Not in my office! Get away from that leather! Go! Second door down the hall.”
Groaning and clutching her stomach, Keely stumbled down the corridor in the direction indicated, aware Ron watched her from the doorway of his office. She pushed open the door marked “Ladies” and reeled inside. Here, the decor was strictly utilitarian, but Keely was interested in a fast exit, not sightseeing.
She almost wept with relief at the sight of a frosted window which opened outward. The window was unlatched, pushed ajar.
Keely shoved the pane open and hoisted herself up. Tossing her purse out, she wiggled through, head first. Her hips stuck momentarily, but with a vigorous twist, she catapulted forward, landing in a diving roll.
Keely grabbed her purse and scrambled to her feet. Get to her car phone, dial 911, save Max—
Orienting herself, she turned toward the parking lot and jumped back. Max, a completely unharmed Max, barred her way.
“Thank God you’re all right—”
The fervent words died in her throat. Despite a startling resemblance, this man wasn’t Max. Where Max’s mouth was full and generous, he had a thin lipped smile that was vaguely familiar. His nose was straight and sharp, his dark hair sleek and smooth.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me.” His smile broadened, but the voice held no inflection.
Keely gulped. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” The man threw his head back and laughed without humor. “I’m your worst nightmare, baby.”
Keely retreated, bumping into the building behind her. Despite talking like a character in a Grade B movie, he carried a distinct air of menace, power relished for its own sake. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm just above the elbow.
“Let go of me!” Keely winced as his fingers dug into her flesh.
“Not until you explain why you just dove out of the bathroom window. Are you a thief?” He grinned when he said the last word, a nasty-private-joke-at-someone’s-expense grin.
Keely’s purse pressed against her left hip. Shielding her actions with her body, she fumbled inside her handbag with her free hand until she felt the smooth coolness of a cut glass perfume atomizer.
She held the man’s gaze with her most earnest look. “The door stuck, I couldn’t get it open. I was too embarrassed to yell for help—”
“You decided to risk a broken neck instead.” His eyes were the color of clay and uncomfortably intent on Keely’s face.
“By crawling out a ground floor window? No risk.” Keely forced her lips into a cajoling smile. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“No, Ms. O’Brien. We need to talk. Let’s go inside and have a chat with my father.”
At the sound of her name on his lips, she shuddered. No wonder that smile looked so familiar—Ron Franklin was this man’s father!
She had a sudden image of a dark haired man turning away in a dimly lit corridor. A man who resembled Max. “How did you get into the Postwaite reception?” she blurted. “Not by invitation, I’ll bet!”
Startled into releasing her, he stepped back. “So you recognize me?”
With an effort, Keely firmed her trembling chin and voice. “We’ve talked before, haven’t we? Over the phone?”
He recovered his poise with the cat-like agility of a ski racer striking an icy patch. “Talking isn’t all I’ve got in mind.”
From his gloating tone, Keely realized she faced a man who thrived on control. Thanks to her unguarded tongue, he now knew she could place him in Flo’s company as the man in the videotape.
Then an even more horrific idea occurred to Keely. He had to be involved in the Sterling Ring. That’s why Daddy Franklin had gone ballistic when Max accused him of being the head honcho of the extortion racket.
Her captor’s smile disappeared and his eyes turned into chips of muddy glass. He was going to hurt her, would take pleasure in the cruelty. Unable to look away, Keely shrank back, at the same time noticing a red birthmark on his neck.
When he reached for her arm again, Keely reacted. Snatching the atomizer from her purse, she sprayed a generous cloud of White Shoulders into his face.
Coughing and choking, he recoiled and Keely darted past him, intent on reaching the haven of her car. She hadn’t gone more than fifty feet when she realized she was heading in the wrong direction. Somehow, she’d gotten turned around during her exit through the bathroom window.
Her pulse pounding in her ears, Keely glanced over her shoulder. Wiping streaming eyes and cursing, Max’s double pivoted blindly, oblivious to the direction taken by his erstwhile captive. Keely made a desperate survey of her surroundings. On her right was the building from which she’d just escaped, to the left the rear wall of what appeared to be a shed. She headed for the latter, hoping to circle around and get to the parking lot before Franklin Junior’s vision cleared.
Yanking her keys from her purse, she threaded them between her fingers, points out, and made a fist. If she went down, it would be fighting all the way.
Drawing a deep breath, Keely poked her head around the corner of the shed. No one was in sight and she darted forward quickly. Before she had taken three steps, a hand clapped over her mouth and she was dragged, struggling frantically, inside.
“Don’t scream! I won’t hurt you!”
Keely found herself face to face with Jackson. Too startled to do anything but gape at the chauffeur, she stopped resisting and he removed his hand from her mouth.
He sweated profusely in jeans and a black tee shirt. “They’ve got your boyfriend. Why did you two have to show up here? You’re going to ruin the best deal of my life!”
“Where’s Max?” Keely’s stomach heaved and she experienced a genuine wave of the nausea she’d faked before. “What are they going to do to him?”
“Nothing nice.” Jackson grimaced. “These people play rough.”
“What are you doing here?” Like Jackson, Keely kept her voice low.
“Picking up my paycheck for last week.” He scowled. “Now I’ve got to quit the best paying job of my life because you found me. I can’t afford to be connected with a murder.”
Murder? Keely swallowed. Was he talking about Flo’s death or did he mean they were going to kill Max? “Help me now and I promise not to tell the police I found you here.”
Jackson frowned. “What about the videotape?”
“I’ll pay your price, but you’ve got to help me escape.”
Over the man’s shoulder, Keely spotted a phone on the wall and lunged for it. Jackson made no move to stop her. Putting the receiver to her ear, Keely hit the buttons for “911” three times before accepting that the line was dead.
“Forget it.” Jackson shook his head. “There’s no outside line—Old Man Franklin got burned by too many employees making long distance calls.”
Only then did Keely notice a greasy piece of paper taped to the wall. The sheet contained cryptic references to “off,” “service yrd,” “Mr. F.,” “Mr. D.,” and “paint shed” along with single digit numbers.
She hung up the useless receiver and turned to face Jackson. “Look, I don’t care if you stole that tape or not. I need your he
lp. I can’t get away, but you could—”
“Call the cops? No way. The police record all their calls. If either of the Franklins ever found out I saved your cute butt, I’d be wearing cement overshoes at the bottom of Lake Hope.”
Both Franklins? Keely’s mind raced. “What’s the name of Ron Franklin’s son?”
“Damien. If you think daddy’s scary, don’t ever run into sonny boy after dark.”
“But I just did!” Keely wrung her hands. “He’s searching for me right now.”
Jackson cursed under his breath. “You’re nothing but trouble. Bad luck all the way!”
“Help me and I’ll help you,” Keely bargained, her ears straining to hear approaching footfalls. “I’ll pay you anything you ask, just help us get out of here alive!”
Jackson seemed to reach a decision. “Okay, I’ll stall Damien. Give me the keys to your car.”
His grin disconcerted her. Keely distrusted that smile but couldn’t think of any other choice.
He snatched the keys from her open palm. “I’ll draw Damien away. Then I’ll move your car around near the entrance of the service yard and leave the engine running. Head to the right.”
“Jackson!”
But he was out the door. Surrounded by dusty shelves containing oil filters, spark plugs, and headlights, Keely waited, perspiration trickling down her back and between her breasts.
Hearing Jackson’s voice, she stiffened. The rumble of another man speaking. Keely’s nails dug into the palms of both hands and she prayed. Would greed win out? If the chauffeur betrayed her, she was boxed in, with nowhere left to run. The voices gradually faded until the only sound was the buzz of a fly trapped with her inside the shed.
Reflecting that necessity makes strange allies, Keely opened the door and peered out. No one was in sight and she emerged into the sunshine. Moving at a jog trot, she remained alert for danger.
Up ahead, a burst of coarse laughter. Keely stumbled, then froze, statue still.
“Almost had a ringer, Pete! My turn.”
Another boisterous gust of laughter. It sounded like a spirited game of horseshoes was in progress behind a one-story wooden structure. Keely headed in that direction, hoping to enlist the game players on her side.
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 23