Swift Justice

by DiSilverio, Laura

  “Olivia? Yeah.” His gaze drifted toward the Hummer, where Gigi had the baby laid flat on the seat—my seat—and was efficiently changing her diaper. The smell drifted to me. I was not riding back in the Hummer. “I wasn’t going to hurt her, you know.” He seemed anxious that I believe him. “I was going to take her to New Mexico or Arizona and leave her at a fire station or hospital. I just needed to get her away from here.”

  “Because she linked you to Elizabeth.”

  He nodded. “But I wouldn’t harm a baby. I couldn’t.”

  “I think interrupting the kidnapping to buy a car seat will count in your favor,” I said, unable to totally despise the man. I believed him when he said he wouldn’t have hurt Olivia. On the other hand . . . “How did you hook up with Elizabeth?”

  He sighed heavily and wiped a hand down his face. “I met Beth soon after she started working for Melissa, and she was . . . well, no one would’ve guessed she was only sixteen. I bought her story about her husband being deployed and everything. You won’t believe this, but—”

  “She came on to you, didn’t she?”

  He arched his eyebrows into the shock of sandy hair dropping across his brow. “Yeah. How did you know?”

  I shrugged, leaning back against the warmth of the truck’s hood. Lloyd followed suit. “Lots of the folks I talked to knew she was trying to find her birth mom—your wife—and a few of them seemed concerned about her motives. It seemed to me that maybe she was looking for revenge?” I turned my head to watch his reaction.

  He looked at me as if I were a psychic. Just call me Madame Carlotta and cross my palm with silver.

  “That’s what she said! When she called me after the baby was born—I was in Arizona—and told me she needed money. She threatened to tell my wife about our affair and called it ‘delicious revenge.’ When I asked her why the hell she wanted revenge on Melissa, who’d never been anything but kind to her—giving her sewing work and all—she told me about Mel being her mom. I was floored. I had no idea. Mel never said—”

  The look of betrayal on his face made me almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

  “She spit out all this stuff about Mel abandoning her and her father getting killed on 9/11 and her stepfather being abusive. She blamed it all on Mel. When I tried to make her see reason, she slapped me.” He put a hand to his cheek as if still feeling the blow. Pale tan freckles sprinkled the back of his hand. “When she hit me, I lost it. I hit her back.” His hands shook, and he clenched them together in his lap. “She fell and—” He pointed down to a dent in the metal bumper directly beneath where we were leaning. I scootched away.

  “Would you please move that tank? I need to get out.”

  The owner of the Mini Cooper, a woman in a turquoise jog bra and nylon shorts that showed the tanned, corded legs of a marathoner, stood impatiently behind Gigi. Her tapping Pearl Izumi–shod foot and tight jaw told me she needed to try a little meditation or yoga to relieve her stress. Or maybe a Valium.

  “It’s a Humvee, not a tank,” Gigi said instructively, her attention still on the baby kicking her legs on the front seat. “Tanks are tracked vehicles, not wheeled, like—”

  “I don’t care what you call this mountain of steel that only an irresponsible, ecologically careless criminal would drive. Just move it! My lima beans are defrosting.” She flung a hand toward her Mini, piled high with bags of groceries.

  I stepped toward the woman, poised to grab her by the shoulders if it looked like she was going to turn violent. I couldn’t altogether blame her; shopping at Walmart had that effect on me, too.

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Gigi said, bringing Olivia to her shoulder and patting her. “As soon as I put the baby in her car seat”—she nodded toward us and the truck—“I’ll—Charlie!”

  The warning in her voice made me turn in time to see Ian Lloyd sidling between parked cars two aisles over. Shit! Cursing for letting myself be lulled by his penitent manner, I took off after him. His legs were longer, but I was more maneuverable, threading my way through parked cars and startled shoppers like an agility dog on uppers. Lloyd reached the edge of the parking lot before I did, cast a glance behind to check on my progress, and broke into a sprint that took him around the side of the Walmart. By the time I rounded the corner, breathing heavily, he was climbing into the cab of a Fluffy-Wip truck that had been off-loading crates at the dock stretching the length of the Walmart. Several other trucks cozied up to the dock like piglets to a sow, and a forklift shifted pallets from one with a Del Monte logo. The Fluffy-Wip truck’s driver, sprawled on his butt where Lloyd had apparently yanked him out of the cab, was scrambling to his feet.

  I pounded toward the truck, determined not to let Lloyd escape. The truck driver in his red and white uniform jumped for the door handle and missed as Lloyd engaged the gears and pulled away from the loading dock. A scraping, tearing sound was drowned by a metallic clatter as the truck’s ramp fell from the dock and began to drag across the asphalt, sparks flying as Lloyd picked up speed. I debated standing in the truck’s way but decided I couldn’t count on Lloyd to stop. His face, through the windshield, was set in grim lines, his brows drawn down and his lips thinned. I was suddenly not so sure Elizabeth’s death had been an accident.

  I was contemplating running up the ramp—but how could I get to Lloyd once inside the refrigerated truck?—when the Hummer squealed around the corner, Gigi gripping the wheel in white-knuckled hands. What had she done with Olivia? The thought barely had time to whip through my head before I saw her steer the Hummer onto a collision course with the truck.

  “Gigi, don’t!” I yelled. I watched helplessly as the two vehicles growled toward each other. The space between them shrank rapidly. When it seemed like they must collide, both drivers chickened out. The Hummer skidded to the right, leaving thirty-foot-long rubber marks on the pavement, but the trailer of the delivery truck, a victim of its own momentum and the sudden turn, came gradually up onto two wheels and then, as if in slow motion, listed toward the ground with a wrenching sound of wounded metal. With the popping of caps and a pressurized hissing, whipped cream oozed out of the trailer. The air filled with a sugary smell.

  I dashed toward the cab, still upright, and pulled a dazed Lloyd to the ground. He came unresisting, all fight drained out of him. “Olivia?” he asked, his eyes tracking toward the Hummer.

  “I hope not,” I said, steering him toward the Hummer with his arm twisted up, none too gently, between his shoulder blades.

  “I couldn’t risk hurting her,” he said. “I had to stop.”

  The man had some semblance of a conscience if he was willing to give up his break for freedom to avoid injuring the baby that might have been in the Hummer; maybe Elizabeth’s death was an accident. I’d let the courts figure it out.

  The pink-tiger-striped Gigi emerged from the Hummer, hands patting her hair into place, as we drew within ten feet.

  I peered around her into the front seat. “The baby?”

  “With Melissa,” she said.

  “Melissa?”

  “She drove up with Detective Montgomery just as you took off after the baby-napper here. I came after you because I thought you might need some help.”

  “I did. Thanks.”

  We smiled at each other as three police cars swarmed around the corner, light bars pulsing and sirens screeching.

  “Thank goodness,” Gigi said, and then, “Oh, my.”

  I looked over my shoulder to see a horde of happy Walmart shoppers snatching containers of Fluffy-Wip from the wreck, some spraying the froth into their mouths, others using it to coat their friends, and one enterprising young tagger drawing swirly whipped cream letters on the side of the trailer. He’d gotten a ten-foot high F-U-C spelled out by the time I handed Lloyd over to a uniformed policeman who cuffed him, Mirandized him, and led him away.

  “I love whipped cream,” Gigi said, watching the revelers wistfully.

  “Me, too.” The baby was safe. Lloyd w
as on his way to prison. What better way to celebrate than by spraying strangers with whipped cream substitute? “Let’s do it.”

  We hurried to the ankle-deep pool of whipped cream surrounding the trailer and fished for unopened cans. A Golden retriever, flocked with whipped cream, shook itself vigorously, coating us with a mist of sticky dairy product. Gigi lost her footing trying to get out of the line of spray and plopped onto her bottom, trying to hold her cast up to avoid the goo. She was giggling, so I figured she wasn’t hurt. Reaching down to help her up, I slipped, too. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em: I aimed my can at Gigi and depressed the nozzle. That’s where we were when Montgomery found us—and the news cameras. Swift Investigations made the Live at Five broadcast for the third time in a week.

  19

  (Saturday)

  The following Saturday, nine days after the whipped cream frolic at the Walmart and the rescue of baby Olivia, I was in the office early, planning to put in a couple of hours on paperwork before spending the afternoon basking poolside in the bikini I hadn’t gotten to wear yet this summer. An apartment complex just a mile from Swift Investigations had a resort-style pool and lax security measures: No one would know I didn’t live there if I showed up with my towel and Pepsi, acting like I belonged. It was ninety-five degrees, and I was rushing through my billing, anxious to slide into the cool water, when the door opened and a soft voice said, “Miss Swift?”

  “Charlie,” I said automatically, looking up to see Wes Emmerling standing awkwardly on the threshold.

  “C’mon in,” I said. “Want a Pepsi?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Wearing khaki cargo shorts and another Emmerling T-shirt—no mud accessories this time—he accepted the can as he sat in the chair in front of my desk. He placed a manila envelope on the desk to free his hands for opening the Pepsi. His bangs flopped into his eyes.

  “What’s up?” I asked, suspecting I knew. I eyed the envelope but didn’t reach for it.

  “I got the results.”

  I knew what results he meant without his having to say. He’d come in the day we rescued Olivia to tell me he was going to have the DNA test. I’d given him Olivia’s DNA profile Melissa had provided the day we met for his lab to use as a comparison. It probably wasn’t quite in keeping with the spirit of client confidentiality, but the courts would have ordered Melissa to produce the baby for a test if Wes went that route, and I wanted to spare Olivia any extra needle sticks.

  “And?”

  “She’s mine.” He barely breathed the words.

  Yowza. If I had a hundred bucks for every time I’d heard those words in connection with this baby, I could retire. My mind flashed briefly to Ian Lloyd and the desperate actions he’d taken, all because he believed Elizabeth when she told him Olivia was his. How different things would be for so many people if Elizabeth hadn’t lied. Or, I thought, maybe she truly didn’t know whose baby it was and chose to believe it was Ian’s because he was the one in a position to bankroll her new life. Would she really have gone to Virginia? I wondered. Would she have contacted Wes? I pushed back in my chair and took a long breath. “What are you going to do?”

  “What should I do?” He didn’t look like a father; he looked like what he was—a nice, naive kid on the verge of adulthood, a little more together than some, but an unlikely prospect for single fatherhood.

  “I can’t tell you that. Have you told your folks?”

  He shook his head. “No. My dad—”

  How come this guy couldn’t seem to finish any sentence that started with “my dad”? “Don’t you think they’re the best ones to advise you? Would they want to raise the baby, or help you raise her?”

  He shrugged again, looking frustrated.

  “Look, Wes.” I leaned forward, putting my forearms on the desk. “There’s going to be a battle over this baby. Right now, she’s with Elizabeth’s killer and his wife, Elizabeth’s biological mother, because everyone thinks he’s the father. Elizabeth signed a contract with a nice couple who are desperate for a baby, though, and they’re going to fight for custody in court. Even if you don’t want to raise Olivia, as her father, you could have some say in who gets her. I know it’s a lot of responsibility, but with knowledge comes responsibility.” I nodded at the envelope on the desk. “If you weren’t ready to take it on, you wouldn’t have had the test.”

  He rose and pocketed the envelope, looking resolute. And scared. He left his Pepsi untouched on the edge of the desk. “Thanks, Miss Swift.”

  “Charlie,” I called after him. I watched the door for several moments after it closed behind him, not sure what course of action I was hoping he’d take. Sometimes it’s easy to know what the right thing is but hard to make yourself do it. Other times, choosing the right course is a challenge in itself. As Elizabeth no doubt realized too late.

  (Sunday)

  The next night, Gigi and I sat at Albertine’s bar with its owner, drinking piña coladas, Pepsi, and martinis (the James Bond classics, not the frou-frou kind), respectively. The bar was closed, but Albertine had offered drinks on the house in return for the story of our capture of Ian Lloyd. Tonight, she shimmered in silver and aqua lounging pajamas and made quite a contrast with Gigi, who was in the outfit I thought of as her canary suit. She sported a yellow cast to match and was hopeful the doctor would take it off completely in another ten days.

  “So where’s the baby now?” Albertine asked when Gigi finished telling her how many showers she’d needed to get the whipped cream stickiness out of her hair.

  “With Melissa, for the moment. Since Ian’s apparently the biological father and is out on bail awaiting trial, the court ruled in their favor.” I threw in the “apparently” because I knew Ian wasn’t Olivia’s dad but I didn’t want to out Wes Emmerling. “The Falstows are fighting it, however, and who knows what’ll happen if Ian gets convicted.” Or if Wes comes forward.

  “If?” Gigi said. She looked at me wide-eyed over the rim of her glass. “What do you mean ‘if’? He killed Elizabeth. He kidnapped little Olivia.”

  I shrugged, inured to the capriciousness of the legal machine. “Oh, the DA will push it, but with no witnesses to Ian’s encounter with Elizabeth, he might well be able to convince a jury her death was accidental, and since the baby seemingly was—is—his, the kidnapping charges sort of evaporated. Melissa swore it was all a misunderstanding.”

  Albertine rolled her eyes as Gigi said, “That’s just not right.”

  I agreed with her, but what could you do? Melissa had felt guilty enough, though, or grateful enough, to let me borrow Olivia for the morning. I’d driven the baby—asleep in her car seat, thankfully—to Denver and introduced her to Aurora Newcastle. She was at Purple Feet, working, but an oxygen tank trailed her now, a clear hose snaking from her nostrils. Her skin was like parchment, despite the rosy glow reflected by her pink dress, but her eyes were still bright and clear and focused on Olivia as I handed over the awakening baby. Olivia stared up at Aurora, unblinking, her eyes unbelievably blue and wondering.

  “Let me tell you about your mom,” Aurora said, cradling the baby in her arms and walking down the nearest aisle, the oxygen cart trundling behind. “I met her when she was just a little older than you . . .”

  She kissed Olivia’s forehead an hour later when I told her we had to go, and a new sense of peacefulness wafted from her. I suspected she’d be dead within the month and felt sad.

  Albertine recalled my drifting thoughts.

  “What about that Johnson fellow?” she asked, sliding another Pepsi down the bar to me. “What was he doing at Elizabeth’s apartment? Didn’t you say some kid saw his car there?” She looked from me to Gigi, who was bobbing her head enthusiastically, remembering her role in finding Mikey the Spy.

  I popped the can open and took a long swallow before answering. “Well, since Johnson’s not talking to me and Montgomery tells me the police see no need to interview him, given how things turned out, the best we can do is speculate.
I’d guess he was having one last go at trying to convince Elizabeth to marry him. She was proven fertile, after all.”

  “You sound like she was a brood mare,” Albertine objected.

  “I think that’s basically how he saw his wives.”

  “He’s getting married again, you know,” Gigi put in.

  I blinked at her.

  She nodded and bit into the slice of pineapple decorating her glass. “To Hannah Wittinger. Her mom told me yesterday. They’re having a small private ceremony.” She grinned at our astonishment.

  “How old is this Hannah? Fifteen?” Albertine asked scathingly.

  “Twelve?” I guessed.

  “Seventeen,” Gigi said. “Dexter went out with her a couple of times.”

  We were silent a moment, pondering the stupidity of people confronted with money and power. Or at least I was. The Wittingers were letting Seth Johnson buy their daughter as breeding stock. I gave the marriage two years, tops.

  “Eighteen months,” Albertine said, apparently reading my mind. “Are they tying the knot at the Church of the Hypocritical Pastor and Domestic Abuse Perpetrator on Earth?”

  Gigi and I laughed at her renaming of Sprouse’s church.

  “Uh-uh.” Gigi shook her head. “The Wittingers are Catholic. Seth’s converting to marry Hannah.”

  I wondered cynically if Seth was that much in love with Hannah or if the Catholic stance on in vitro fertilization was more to his liking. Either way, it sounded like Pastor Zach was going to be up a creek without a sponsor. So much for his dreams of TV evangelist fame. I couldn’t say I was sorry for him, although I did pity his wife, who, as far as I knew, had still not even been able to see her grandchild.

  “Let’s get some dinner,” Gigi suggested. “I’m hungry. I’ve been doing that South Beach Diet and I could eat a whole loaf of bread with a giant helping of fettucine alfredo.” She patted her plump thighs ruefully.