Breaking News

by Fern Michaels

  “Hot damn!” Phil said as he released her.

  “Yeah. Hot damn,” Toots parroted. Tears filled her eyes again. “Phil, I . . . this is . . . Shit, I don’t know what to say.” That moment was definitely not the time to fall in love. Her daughter was missing, her life was hanging in the balance, albeit figuratively, and here she was, making out on the beach. Maybe she was in the early stages of dementia, because there couldn’t be a more inopportune time for something like that to happen.

  “Then don’t say anything,” he said as he took her in his arms again.

  Chapter 23

  Rodwell Archibald Godfrey, or Rag, as he was used to being addressed and referred to by this bitch and her coworkers at The Informer, paced the small living area. He’d been living in the two-dollar dump for four weeks. Steve, the owner of Steve’s Pawnshop, had given him a deal on the place because they’d done business together in the past. When Rag had spent every dime he had gambling in Vegas, Steve had always been there to lend him a few bucks for whatever piece of junk he dragged in. Looking at the place through the eyes of his captive, he truly saw what a shit hole it was. There he was, living on top of a pawnshop, about to pawn Miss Simpson off to some big-deal corporation for ten million bucks. The irony of the situation made him smile.

  He was actually surprised and, of course, delighted that in this day and age, LAT Enterprise, the faceless corporation that apparently had no face-to-face relationship with Abby Simpson, hadn’t told him to go to hell. No reporter was worth that kind of money. Hell, no editor in chief was worth that kind of money. He knew damn well that he would not have paid a single dime if one of his employees had been taken for ransom.

  He felt her eyes as she followed his every move. “What? You think I’m enjoying this?” Actually, he was, but he didn’t want Abby to know. “Don’t bother answering. Oops, I forgot, you can’t talk. Your big mouth is taped shut. It’s hard, huh?”

  He looked at her and could see the venom that shot from her eyes. For a brief second, he almost felt a pang of pity for her, but it passed as quickly as it came. Rag was not the kind to feel pity for anyone other than himself.

  He looked at the cheap gold watch on his wrist. It would be one of the first things he replaced once he had all those millions. Every time he looked at it, he thought about that cheap old floozy in Venezuela. He’d milked her out of most of her husband’s fortune, and she’d given him this watch on their one-year anniversary. The cheap bitch. She had enough money. She could’ve bought him a Rolex.

  Once he had that money, he would get himself a Patek Philippe World Time Automatic Platinum. Only the very best from then on. He wouldn’t have to depend on anyone ever again. He’d travel the world, stay in the finest hotels, eat delicacies, and if the urge hit him, and it did often, he would buy beautiful women who would do anything he wanted.

  He looked at the watch again, only this time, he actually looked at the time. He had less than two hours until he hit the lottery. Rag walked across the living room to the one lone window. Scanning the parking lot and the surrounding street, he didn’t see anything or anyone that looked out of place.

  Wait.

  What was that?

  Pushing his face against the grimy window for a better look, he couldn’t help but notice an extraordinarily shiny black Lexus, with tinted windows to match, parked in front of the shit hole across the street. Who would own a fifty-thousand-dollar car and live in a dump that even the rats had vacated? The neighborhood hadn’t improved much since the Watts riots took place all those years ago.

  He squinted. Wait a minute. This doesn’t look right. What if it’s the police, and they’ve figured out where I am? No, they weren’t that smart. And if they were, they weren’t so dumb that they would use a car that would stand out the way the Lexus did.

  Besides, he’d covered his tracks. Hell, no one knew what he looked like anymore. He barely recognized himself. He’d watch that car, just to be on the safe side. He’d come this far, and the last thing he wanted was someone trying to horn in on his master plan.

  Enough.

  Time to start phase three.

  Abby watched Rag as he paced back and forth, stopping to stare out the window. Something was about to take place. Nervous energy flowed from him like water from a spigot.

  Had Goebel found her already?

  No, it was too soon. Abby wasn’t sure if her mother or Goebel had picked up on her clue when she’d been forced to read Rag’s demands. She had stared out the window for so long, and something had kept nagging at her. That was when she saw the world-famous Watts Towers in the distance, and she tried to tell them that she was in South Central LA.

  Abby passed the time by imagining what she would do to this slimy excuse for a human being. First, she would yank those kinky hair plugs out of his head one at a time, but maybe not. She wasn’t sure where they came from. It really looked like pubic hair. Abby grinned in spite of the tape covering her mouth. Knowing Rag, he would’ve shopped around for a bargain, and it was quite obvious he’d found it. She wondered if it was donor hair, or leftovers from a Brazilian wax job. She couldn’t imagine a better home for all those lost hairs, considering he was a true dickhead.

  After that, she’d go for public humiliation. Her episode in the bathroom would be mild compared to what she’d inflict on him. Maybe she could have Sophie perform a séance and literally scare the shit out of him. He was terrified of the unknown and had always avoided talking about the afterlife or anything related to the paranormal. What a work of art, Abby thought. And to think, he was once her boss.

  Chester. She would sic Chester on him, and he’d chew his ass like a piece of gum. She smiled again, but this time she felt the tape as it tugged against her skin. She was quickly reminded of the seriousness of her situation. This wasn’t a game. This was real, and she’d already been hurt. But it was nice to think about what she would do, if she could.

  “Well, sweet cheeks, as they say, parting is such sweet sorrow, and it’s time for me to get the hell out of Dodge.” He walked over to the metal chair; Abby followed him with her eyes. “Relax. I’m just going to drag you to that closet over there.” He nodded toward a door that she hadn’t paid much attention to.

  Until then. Garbled sounds came from her.

  “Shut up and quit your whining. As long as Ms. LAT Enterprise doesn’t try to double-cross me, you’ll be home in time to catch the ten o’clock news. Maybe you can use this as your lead story. I can see it all now, ‘Previous Owner Found and Lost.’ I’m going to buy a private island for myself. Maybe I’ll even build a casino. You, of all people, know how much I like to gamble. It doesn’t really matter. I won’t be here, and you will.”

  He opened the closet door, then tilted the chair on its two back legs and slid it through the doorway. Once he had repositioned the chair, he spoke. “Yes, yes, I know it’s hot in there. I’m sweating, too. Now I’m going to close this door, and you . . . Well, try to relax. Someone will find you, I’m sure. And if they don’t, Mr. Steve will notice the stench eventually. Sooner or later.” He slammed the door shut and, for added measure, took another metal chair and shoved it beneath the doorknob.

  Abby Simpson wasn’t going anywhere.

  He removed the red envelope from the kitchen drawer, checking the numbers one last time. He wouldn’t want them to transfer all those pretty millions to the wrong account. Then he walked through the three-room dump one last time to gather his things. In the bedroom, he grabbed the leather satchel emblazoned with his initials. He stuffed a few dirty shirts and a change of underwear inside. In the bathroom, he took his razor and toothbrush and jammed them in, too.

  Well, that was it. Once again, he was running from Los Angeles. But this time, he wasn’t leaving empty-handed. This time, he’d leave a very, very rich man.

  Not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention to himself, he left through the back door and used the fire exit, which would take him to an alley behind the pawnshop, where he’d parked
his newly purchased wheels from a “buy here, pay here” car lot. His hair plugs had cost more than the car did. It didn’t matter, because he was planning on ditching the piece of garbage at the airport. The repo man would find it soon enough, and it would be up for sale once again.

  Inside the car, he adjusted the rearview mirror. When he saw that the black Lexus hadn’t moved, a trickle of alarm caused him to press down hard on the accelerator. He made a quick turn onto South Central Avenue, then another onto West Century Boulevard, which would lead him to the Pacific Coast Highway. From there, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to the pier, a quick walk to the Marine Science Center, and with luck, he’d be on his way to the airport no later than six o’clock. He’d hired a private jet to take him to an undisclosed destination.

  Money talks and bullshit walks, he thought as he drove along the coast. He’d spent most of his life looking at others from the sidelines. The rich, the famous. It was his turn now. He didn’t care about the famous, but the rich, well, he figured that spoke for itself.

  Traffic was still relatively light as the five o’clock rush hour was still an hour and a half away. He would arrive at the pier in plenty of time to plant his little envelope and blend in with the crowd. He might even have a bite to eat while he waited for the money to be dropped off.

  That would complete phase three of the plan to change his life from Rag’s to riches.

  Chapter 24

  At precisely four o’clock, Goebel told the hostess at Bubba Gump’s he’d like a table facing the pier for a party of eleven. Since it wasn’t yet dinnertime, she was able to show them to a table for large parties immediately.

  Once they were seated and had placed an obligatory drink order, Goebel produced a small black pouch. He looked from side to side, making sure that no one was paying attention. “This is how we’ll communicate.” He removed several mini two-way radios with earpieces from the pouch and handed one each to his and Chris’s three buddies from the police department, whom they knew as Ron, Keith, and Jeff. “I’m sure you guys know how to use these, but let’s check and make sure they work.” Goebel had every kind of surveillance equipment commercially available and some that wasn’t.

  Trying not to attract too much attention, each man slipped the earpiece in.

  “Dave, you hear this?” Goebel asked as he squeezed the TALK button.

  Dave replied, “Loud and clear.”

  “Ron, Keith, Jeff?”

  All three men nodded in the affirmative.

  “Dave, I want you to be the one who puts the money inside the garbage can,” Goebel said.

  “I checked out the place as soon as we arrived. The can is against the wall to the right of the door. You can’t miss it,” Dave informed him.

  “Keith, you’re going to have a bad case of the squirts. I’ll need someone inside the stall across from the trash can.”

  “Figures, I always get the shitty jobs.”

  “This isn’t the time for jokes, my man. A woman’s life is at stake,” Goebel admonished.

  “Sorry,” Keith said. “Just cop talk.”

  “Jeff, you and Ron blend in with the crowd. Wait for my signal to move in. After Rag retrieves the luggage containing the money, we’ll grab him.”

  Toots and Phil listened intently as Goebel orchestrated his plan.

  “How do you plan to get him to talk? I want to know Abby’s whereabouts the second you nab him.”

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Loudenberry. I’ve done this before. I promise we’ll get him to talk,” Dave said.

  The waitress arrived, carrying a large tray full of drinks. They’d all ordered Cokes to make it easy. This was anything but a social gathering.

  Sophie spoke to the waitress. “Is there a Ping-Pong table nearby?”

  The young girl, wearing denim shorts and a bright red T-shirt, laughed. “No Ping-Pong tables here. Did you ever see the movie Forrest Gump? Tom Hanks’s character became a famous Ping-Pong player in the movie and started the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. We use the paddles here for you to signal us if you need something. Red is for stop, and green is for go.”

  Perplexed, Sophie said, “So what you’re telling me is if we don’t need anything, we still have to hold up the green paddle, telling you to keep going because we don’t need anything?”

  Toots was about to lose it. “Sophia Manchester, could you shut the fuck up?” She yanked the green paddle from Sophie’s hand and placed it at the end of the table, so they wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Apparently embarrassed, the waitress hurried away.

  “Sophie, I know you mean well, but please let’s get Abby home. Then you can do whatever you want. You can play with all the Ping-Pong paddles you want.”

  “And balls, too,” Sophie couldn’t help but add.

  Toots had to laugh. She knew her dearest friend was as concerned about Abby as she was. She just hid behind her humor even more so when times were rough. It was how she’d managed to survive her abusive marriage as well as she had.

  Ida and Mavis, on the other hand, had yet to utter a word.

  Ida couldn’t seem to take her eyes away from Dave Thompson. Well, Toots thought, I’m just as bad, because it was only a short while ago that I was making out in the parking lot with Phil.

  “I want the rest of you to wait here. Phil, Chris, make sure they don’t go anywhere. I’m going to get Chester out of the car now so we can get into position. You guys ready?”

  Toots’s hands were shaking like dry leaves in a fall breeze. “Goebel, please, whatever you do, find out where Abby is. I don’t care what it takes. You know what I mean? I’ve got zillions of dollars and a stepson who just happens to be an attorney. You get my drift?” Toots didn’t know any other way to say it. If it meant finding Abby, no cost was too high.

  Not even the life of the perverted little son of a bitch who took her.

  Chapter 25

  Rag arrived at the Santa Monica Pier with plenty of time to spare. He saw that there were still open parking spots on the pier itself. Lady Luck was in his hip pocket that day. A spot at the end of the parking area was open. Planning his escape, he backed the hunk of junk into the open spot. Grabbing his bag, he removed the red envelope and tucked it in his back pocket. He didn’t want to be rummaging through his satchel inside the restroom. He planned to be in and out as quickly as possible.

  The faded, uneven boards on the pier made it difficult to walk. He wondered just how heavy a suitcase containing one million dollars was. If he was lucky, maybe the suitcase would have wheels. Damn, he should’ve demanded that in his note. Too late now, he thought as he walked as quickly as he could toward the Marine Science Center.

  As usual, the pier was crowded. People from all over the world could be found there. It was one of the reasons why he’d chosen the place. He wouldn’t stand out among the crowd of bums, surfers, bikers, even Goth freaks, you name it, who could be found at the pier any time of day or night. Sometimes his genius amazed him.

  Casually strolling past the pier, Rag almost tripped over the uneven boards when he spied the Santa Monica substation on the entrance side that led to the men’s room in which he planned to pick up the first part of his winnings. Trying not to be too obvious, Rag scoped out the police officers promenading up and down and around the pier. WTF? Have I been double-crossed somehow? If I have, he thought, prissy Miss Abby Simpson can kiss her ass good-bye. Giving himself time to consider the matter, he continued walking toward the Marine Science Center. Nice and easy, like you don’t have a care in the world. Just out for an afternoon walk on the beach, like everyone else. Rag crammed his hands in his pockets. Damn, the men and women in blue were all over the place!

  Forcing himself to calm down, he reasoned that if the cops were here for him, they sure as hell wouldn’t be wearing uniforms. Nope, they’d have the plainclothes crew out for him. He felt a burst of pride. They’d need the big guns to take him down. This was nothing more than a slight oversight on his part.

  A minor
flaw in phase three.

  Once he’d located the men’s room, as a precaution, he lingered outside the entrance for a couple of minutes just to make certain he wasn’t being watched. The coast was clear. Rag went inside.

  Continuing along in his mode of just a guy taking a stroll, now about to take a piss, by all appearances he was doing just that. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a father and son exit one of the three closed stalls. A pair of boot-clad feet in a second stall across from the garbage can was positioned in such a way that Rag knew the guy was going to be there for a while taking care of business, and doubted he’d even know anyone else was in the restroom, let alone someone in the midst of collecting the ransom from a kidnapping. Groans and grunts from the stall assured him that whoever was in there, he was concentrating on only one thing.

  Quickly, before anyone else came inside, Rag removed the dark green plastic lid on the trash can, took the red envelope out of his back pocket, and inserted the corner of the envelope’s edge at a seam along the base of the lid. Tape would’ve helped, he thought, but this would work. Placing the lid back on the can, he peered down and looked inside, just to make sure the envelope remained intact. It would totally ruin his day if LAT Enterprise, whoever the hell “they” were, failed to locate the note with the information about his offshore bank account.

  Yep, it was exactly where it belonged. He quickly exited the bathroom, glad for the breath of fresh air. As he walked away from the stench, he briefly wondered if the guy wearing the boots had ever heard of a courtesy flush, because it smelled like something had crawled up his ass and died.

  A short walk across the pier was an arcade that afforded him a bird’s-eye view of the men’s room. Looking at the carnival-style arcade, with all its noise, kids running around in circles, parents tossing away hundreds for two-dollar toys, Rag thought he couldn’t have picked a more perfect location to monitor the comings and goings of those in need of a place to relieve themselves.