by Odell, Terry
“Sit down, Mr. Brand,” she said. “I assume you know what you’re doing. I’m willing to go along with your charade.”
He sat, then took another bite of his apple. “Charade? I already told you—more than once—I’m trying to get a little distance from a lousy situation at work. How about telling me how you got into my room.”
Although she wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of an interrogation, she opted to let him ask his questions. “I’ve got connections with housekeeping.”
And thank goodness for that. Her leave of absence from the force would be over in a matter of days, and her funds had already plunged into the red. If not for the kind hearts in the housekeeping department, she wouldn’t have lasted this long. But the resort was full now, and the room they’d let her crash in was no longer available.
“The maid let you in?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I told her I was surprising my fiancé.”
He stopped, eyes wide, the apple halfway to his mouth. He shook his head. “You got half of that right,” he said. “The surprise half, in case you’re wondering.”
So the man had a sense of humor. Good enough. But she wouldn’t spring part B on him yet.
“Next question,” he went on. “Why did you call me Mr. Nix? Who’s he?”
The words were right, but the tone and body language were all wrong. Definitely not a seasoned investigator. “Eye contact would make your question more believable, Mr. Brand. Although if we’re engaged, I suppose I should be calling you Stephen—or do you prefer Steve?”
He stood, stomped to the wastebasket and slam-dunked the rest of his apple. “Damn it, what are you doing here?”
He did project the totally confused look quite well, she’d give him credit for that. Still, she thought Blackthorne would have sent someone with more experience. Then again, maybe they were simply going through the motions. Proving to their client they’d taken the requisite steps—or starting with the low man on the totem pole, planning to replace him when he failed, thus justifying charging the client even more big bucks.
She leaned forward, fished through the gift basket for more cheese and crackers. Food prices at the resort were astronomical—she wouldn’t pass up anything free. Chewing slowly, she let him wait. Watched him for any tells, anything to let her inside his head. All she got was confusion, with a touch of indignation. Perfect for an innocent man, but it wasn’t ringing true for her. Her radar was pinging. She swallowed. Wiped her mouth with a paper cocktail napkin.
“Looking for my sister,” she said. “If your cover says you’re Stephen Brand, then fine, be Stephen Brand. But I know Crystal Montlake disappeared from this resort at about the same time my sister did. I know Blackthorne, Inc. was hired to find Crystal. I know at least four other people who've gone missing from this resort in the last three months. I know the resort disavows any knowledge of their disappearances. According to the resort muckety-mucks, they all checked out on schedule, bills paid in full, and took the hotel shuttle to the airport. Where the trail goes dead.”
He hesitated too long before he spoke. Clearly trying to decide what to say. Finally, he broke the silence. “That doesn’t answer my question. Why do you think I’ve got anything to do with any of this?”
At this point, she was having doubts as to the man’s usefulness, but since she needed a place to sleep tonight, she was going to have to move forward. At least he had a suite, so she could sleep on the sofa bed.
Ignoring his denial, she pressed forward. “I want to find my sister. You want to find Crystal Montlake.”
He rubbed the nape of his neck. “You said you’re a cop. Prove it.”
She reached down and hoisted her purse to the sofa. She unzipped the compartment that held her badge and ID and pulled out the textured leather case. She tossed it at him. “This good enough for you?”
He studied it, comparing her with her picture, she imagined. She sat up straight and stared blankly at him, mimicking the pose in the photo.
He shuffled to the chair, tossing the badge case onto the coffee table, and sank down, elbows on knees, head in his hands. “Steve’s fine,” he said. “Give me my phone.”
She glanced around the room and lowered her voice. “Not sure that’s wise.”
A hint of confidence she hadn’t seen before crossed his expression. He matched her tone. “Which is why I’m going to text. I’m supposed to be here, remember. Getting my location isn’t going to tell anyone anything. And I’m calling the office.” His eyes narrowed. “Treadwell Communications. Where I used to work, which also shouldn’t send up any red flags.”
Okay, so maybe he had some idea of what he was doing. She accepted his arguments and handed over the phone.
While he did his thing, she occupied herself with the fruit and cheese. She’d eat the wrappers on the cracker packets if he thought he’d fooled her with that Treadwell crap. She’d bet a month’s pay he was calling Blackthorne.
Chapter 6
Jinx rubbed his neck, surprised again when his fingers found skin, not the longer hair he was used to tugging when he was upset. He toyed with the chain of his medal instead. He so wanted to get back to Blackthorne HQ, to his computers, where he knew who he was and what he was doing. Waiting while Zeke researched Elle twisted his shorts. That was what Jinx was good at. Okay, Zeke was good at it, too, but having to rely on Zeke still grated.
Cursing the limitations of texting and waiting—mostly waiting—Jinx tapped his bare foot on the carpet. Elle seemed content to make inroads into the food basket. Nothing about her demeanor indicated she was nervous about what they’d find. Unlike him. He was a tangled mass of nerves. In fact, she seemed pleased he was checking.
His phone buzzed against his hand, indicating another text from Zeke. He read the display.
AOK. Works Vice Riverside PD. Sister legit. Not returned home. Resort lures w/ free stays. Brothel recruiting common.
If the sister—Trish—looked anything like Elle, Jinx could see why she might have been picked up. He tapped ms recd and hit send.
“What brought your sister here?” Jinx asked Elle.
“A freebie from work. Trish works in HR. A lot of promo and perks cross her desk, and she decided to take advantage of this one.”
Jinx’s radar hummed. “Where does she work?”
“Cell Phone Solutions in L.A.”
And there was the connection. He sent Zeke a quick text, updating him. “You have a picture of your sister?” he asked Elle.
She set aside the orange she was peeling and reached into her purse. Jinx tensed, wondering if she was going to pull out the gun again. No, she’d have done that long ago if shooting him was her real motive. She pulled out her cell phone, fussed with it, and handed it to him. The display was a picture of a woman who resembled Elle enough to be her twin, although the woman’s hair was a lighter shade of brown with gold streaks, and cut super-short.
“She’s three years younger than I am,” Elle said. “And we need to find her. I doubt whoever’s taken her is going to care about finding the medication she needs.”
“Medication?” Jinx asked. “Is she sick?”
“Not sick. She has a genetic disorder called Factor V Leiden. It’s a clotting disorder, not usually that serious, but she’s had complications since she was a kid. Her health—maybe her life—will be in danger if she doesn’t have her meds.” She reached into her purse again and took out a prescription medicine vial, and offered it to him.
Jinx shook it off. He was no doctor, so it wouldn’t matter if he knew what Trish’s condition was, or if the medications Elle was showing him were the real thing. He’d have to trust that Elle’s concerns were genuine. The sense of urgency she projected rang true. If Trish was with Crystal, and if the team was alive and well, and if Fozzie’s plan worked, Hotshot, the medic, would take care of Trish.
If, if, if. Too many ifs.
Elle dropped the vial on the sofa and gazed at him expectantly. “You with me on this?”
But lesson number two that had been drilled into him was don’t trust anyone. He picked up the phone and texted the questions about Trish’s health to Zeke, although Jinx doubted he’d get much. These days, it would be easier to tap into Homeland Security than to breach HIPAA’s rules and regs.
Understood. All seems OK her end, Zeke texted.
Jinx tapped the question that was bugging him. How does she know who I am?
Ask her.
Jinx set the phone aside. He hadn’t had an appetite since this whole undercover nonsense began, but watching Elle eat had his mouth watering. “You want dinner?” he asked. “I can order from Room Service.”
A hint of a smile played at the corner of her mouth. She’d have a nice smile, he thought, if it reached her eyes. He tried priming the pump with a smile of his own, but got lifted eyebrows in return.
“All right,” he went on. “Let’s say I believe your story for now. Tell me why you think I’m your Mr. Nix, and what’s your connection to this Blackthorne company you mentioned?”
“Lobster,” she said. “Lemon. Plenty of butter. Over rice. Side salad. Vinaigrette. Chocolate cake.” She eyed the bottle of champagne, then removed it from the basket and studied the label. “This should do fine after it’s chilled.” She crossed the room to the kitchenette and put the bottle in the freezer.
Okay, so she was avoiding the current question. “Does this mean you’ll answer my questions in return for a lobster dinner?”
She came to the couch and this time her smile, although fleeting, was genuine. “If you’ll answer mine. Tit for tat.”
“Given you showed up holding a gun on me, I’m going first.”
“Not until you order the food.” She reached over to the end table and produced a padded binder, the resort’s name embossed in gold on the burgundy leather.
Jinx flipped to the Room Service menu. His eyebrows shot upward when he saw the prices. Blackthorne would pitch a fit at the expense report. Then again, he’d approved the tab for new clothes and travel without blinking an eye. Judging from the stories Jinx had heard from teams returning from ops, this might be his last chance for a substantial meal. He placed Elle’s order, added a steak and baked potato for himself. And a salad, to cover the “you need something green” his mother had drilled into him. And why not go whole hog? He stuck another piece of chocolate cake onto the order.
He hung up and set the binder next to the fruit basket. “Food’s ordered. We have twenty to thirty minutes. Why don’t we see how many questions we can get out of the way so we can enjoy the meal once it gets here.” He didn’t give her a chance to say no before he repeated his initial question. “Why do you think my name is Nix, and what or who is Blackthorne?”
“That’s two questions,” she said.
“Fine. I’m feeling generous. You decide which one to answer first.”
She smoothed out her napkin. “Blackthorne, Inc. is a private investigation and security company based in San Francisco. They’re well known for their results—and their prices. If I had the money, I’d have hired them to find Trish.”
Which told him nothing. Blackthorne did have a widespread and excellent reputation. If Elle wanted help finding her sister, Blackthorne, Inc. was a first-rate choice. It stood to reason she’d have checked into it. And, of course, it stood to reason she’d be willing to answer that question.
“How about answering the other question. Why do you think I’m Nix?”
“My turn,” she said.
“Go.” He braced himself, hoping he could keep a poker face. She might be a cop, and she might be looking for her sister, but she couldn’t be part of a Blackthorne op. Rescuing the lost team and finding Crystal—and maybe Trish—were two separate operations. Right now, his mission was to find the team.
Elle crossed her arms over her chest. “At this point, I don’t care who you are. Will you help me?”
He hadn’t expected that. Or the way her imploring eyes twisted something in his chest. He was trying to come up with an answer when a knock on the door interrupted his thought collection process.
“Room Service,” said an accented male voice from the hall.
Jinx exchanged a brief look of surprise with Elle. “That was quick,” he said. He opened the door to a uniformed waiter with a white-linen covered cart holding a large stainless steel dome.
“Señor, the kitchen it is being late. They send these appetizers as apologizing.” The waiter, who appeared to be at least eighty years old, shuffled across the room, supporting himself on the cart as if it were a walker. “Where I should put?”
Elle pointed to the kitchen counter. “There would be fine.”
Jinx fished his wallet out of his pocket and extracted a few bills.
The man shook his head. “Señor, no tip for special apologizing service.”
“It’s not your fault the kitchen is behind.” Jinx extended the money.
The waiter smiled. “Gracias, Señor.” He clasped Jinx’s hand in his as he accepted the gratuity. Jinx felt a brief prick, then nothing.
Chapter 7
Elle tried to get past the throbbing in her head and the roiling in her stomach. She lay there a moment, letting the memories weave through the tangle of barbed wire that seemed to have replaced her brain.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She’d accepted the waiter at face value—a harmless old man, trying to do his job. He’d seemed genuinely concerned for Jinx. Without thinking, she’d rushed to help. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A prick, then nothing.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She remembered the waiter’s eyes right before she felt the needle. Dull, expressionless. No misgivings, no remorse. Nothing apologetic in his gaze. How many others had he drugged? Had he taken Trish?
Elle had been in jams before. Working undercover in Vice had its inherent dangers. But she’d always had backup.
Start thinking like a cop.
Slowly, her head cleared enough to assess her situation. Darkness. Was it night? Her heart thudded. Being in unknown places—especially dark unknown places—had never been near the top of her wish list. Hell, it wasn’t anywhere near being on her list.
She blinked, felt cloth on her eyes. Okay, she was blindfolded. She could deal with that. Hands and feet bound. Duct tape? Probably. Lying curled on her side. On something hard. Cold seeped through her thin cotton slacks. Rumbling, vibrating. Engine sounds?
Another sound. A groan. Behind her? She tried to get her bearings, but direction had little meaning. Didn’t feel like she’d been tossed into the trunk of a car. She got the impression she was in something bigger. Not on a road—not bumping enough, no tire sounds. Not enough rocking to be a boat. Big ship? A possibility. She could be lying in the hold of a cruise ship. The port wasn’t far from the resort.
Good. You’re thinking. Keep it up.
A plane, she decided. Made more sense. Get her wherever they were taking her via the fastest route. If she was on a plane, then she’d been out longer than it took to get to the airport. She had no recollection of anything after the waiter pricked her with whatever he gave her.
Another muffled groan. Nix?
No, she had to think of him as Steve. Her fiancé. If he was working undercover for Blackthorne, she knew better than to blow it for him.
A groan wasn’t enough for her to recognize him, although if he spoke, she was sure she’d know it was him. He was tall and thin. Boyish. Cute more than handsome. But instead of the high-pitched tones she'd expected, his voice had resonated, rich and deep, when he’d answered her questions.
She squirmed, trying to work herself into a sitting position. She’d still be bound, but sitting up wouldn’t have the helpless feel lying down did.
She heard a thunk, and the engine sounds got louder. A door opening?
“Ah, chica, you are awake, yes?” A voice made itself heard over the noise. Definitely not Steve’s voice. Thick accent, filled with scorn and superiority.
Yeah, right. Lose the duct
tape and blindfold, and we’ll see who’s superior.
“I am awake, yes,” she said. “Where the hell am I, and where are you taking me? And what’s with the blindfold?” Two reasons she could think of. One, they didn’t want her to see her captor, which was good, if anything about this situation could be good. It meant they were less likely to kill her for being able to identify whoever had her. She was pretty damn sure it wasn’t the old waiter. Or, they didn’t want her to know where they were taking her. Or both, she thought. Or a third possibility. They simply wanted to be in a position of dominance.
“Trust me, chica, there is nothing to see. We will be landing soon.”
So, she’d been right about the plane. “Hey, aren’t you going to help me fasten my seatbelt and make sure my seatback is in the upright and locked position? And what about my tray table? And my fiancé? Where is he? If you’ve hurt him—”
A snort. “Oh, you have the fire. The patrón will like you. And maybe I will have—what is your word?—pleasure—as well.”
Footfalls faded away, followed by another ‘thunk’ which she assumed was the door closing.
Her head continued to throb, but not as intensely. She regrouped. Just because she couldn’t see didn’t mean she couldn’t use her other senses. She strained to take in as much as she could. A heady aroma of sweat had accompanied the voice, even though she hadn’t sensed him approaching. Good thing. His breath probably matched his body odor.
“Elle?” That was Steve’s voice, slurred, but distinctively his.
“You okay?” she asked.
Another groan. “Damn, get the percussion section out of my head.”
“It’ll fade with time. Mine’s down to a couple of kettle drums.”
She heard him shifting on the floor. Thumping. Scraping. “Are you taped up?” she asked.
“If that’s why I can’t feel my hands and feet, I guess the answer is yes. What the hell happened, and where the hell are we?”