by Stacy Green
“You’re kidding me. The tunnels?” Even as he asked the question, Nathan knew the answer. “The devil’s underground. He told Emilie he’d take her there.”
Nathan knew of the storm drain horror stories. Sprawling hundreds of miles beneath the city, the tunnels housed addicts, criminals, and the downtrodden. Few cops dared to venture inside.
“He’s in the wind now,” Chris said. “How did he find out about this?”
Johnson was on the radio again. “Vice is going to head into the nearest drainage ditch and see what they can find. We’ll be joining them.”
Nathan took a last look around the antechamber. The amount of research and planning that must have gone into the endeavor was staggering including a lot of time spent in the dugout tunnel securing the area. The path was a bank robber’s wet dream, but Nathan would bet a hundred bucks Joe had never known it existed.
“The partner’s been planning this for a long time,” Nathan said. “He didn’t care about money. He just planned on using him as a rouse to take Emilie.”
“I don’t think Joe wanted a hostage,” Sergeant Johnson said.
Nathan wiped the sweat off his face. “I’d bet he didn’t even know about this. Joe wanted out, and he said the partner slowed him down. If Joe knew about this, he’d have been down here and out of this place hours ago. This was the partner’s escape route.”
“Why didn’t the partner take Davis before we came in?” Johnson asked. “Why wait until we had a chance to catch him? And why leave her after all the effort?”
“I don’t know,” Nathan answered. “Some part of his plan must have gone wrong. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“I’ll tell the captain. Let’s go.”
Back inside the dim storage room, Nathan walked over to another SWAT officer. “Where’s Emilie?”
“In the hallway with Detective Douche-bag.”
“Avery. Christ.” Nathan made his way over to where Emilie sat. Her head sagged down, her scraped, shaking arms clutching her small frame. Her entire body turned away from Avery.
Nathan stepped forward and spoke softly. “Emilie?”
Slowly, she raised her head. Most of her wavy hair had escaped the knot at the back of her neck. Her right cheek was purple. Dried blood coated her raw bottom lip. Dirt marred the white, sleeveless top she wore. The heel of one shoe had snapped off.
A tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto her shoe. “It’s not over.”
4
AN ICY KNOT had formed in Emilie’s stomach and sucked all the warmth into its core, leaving her feeling frozen and numb.
Nathan sank down in front of her. His striking blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones belonged on a magazine cover. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? Covered in sticky, dried sweat, she sat on a discarded office chair in a dirty basement room. A crazy man had just tried to drag her into a damned hole underneath the bank. She definitely was not okay.
“What did you find?”
“I’m sorry.” He deflected the question. “I never dreamed there was an escape route.”
A dry, hollow laugh made her already sore ribs hurt even more. “Why would you? You’re not some madman who apparently moonlights as a dirt-burrowing mole.”
“Ms. Davis?” An expensive leather shoe tapped against the concrete floor.
Emilie glanced up at the detective. His tailored suit fit his narrow shoulders, and his blue-striped, silk tie was a perfect complement to the pale yellow dress shirt he wore. His pink scalp glistened with perspiration under his thinning hair. He looked out of place in the dank room.
“Detective Dalton Avery.” Avery cast a seething glance at Nathan. Emilie noticed the negotiator’s sympathetic expression flashed to one of intense loathing.
“Ms. Davis, did the partner say anything else?” Avery continued.
Another SWAT officer appeared. “Metro wants us to help search. Johnson says you should go to the hospital, but since you’re a bullheaded ass, he expects you to go with.”
“Right behind you.” Nathan reached toward her, almost touching her knee. “I’m sorry Joe hit you. I shouldn’t have pushed you on the phone.”
A weary smile made her swollen lips hurt. “My fault. Talking about my cat, of all things.”
Nathan’s grin relaxed his tense face, making his black SWAT uniform seem less intimidating. “I’m glad you’re both going to be okay. You take care, all right?”
“Wait.” Emilie grabbed his arm for the second time that day. She looked across the room to where the door now rested against the wall. The hidden passageway emitted an eerie glow as police set up lights between the earthen walls. “What did you find?”
Even if the tunnel connected to the building next door, police had the area surrounded, so how did Creepy Guy intend to escape? Perhaps her mole analogy wasn’t far off—maybe the man was still underground, dodging the cops in some sort of dugout maze.
“You should probably focus on answering Detective Avery’s—”
“Nathan.” Emilie cut in. “I deserve to know, and I’d like to hear it from you.”
Emilie’s skin warmed as Nathan’s eyes searched hers. They were bright blue and too sad for a man as young as he looked. “Please.”
“The hole goes to a room with a distilling machine.” His gentle tone reminded Emilie of a compassionate doctor. “There’s a second tunnel. It leads to a sewer pipe.”
“A sewer pipe? So there must be a manhole nearby, right?”
“Probably. But it looks like this pipe was re-used when the storm drains were built in the nineties.”
Dizziness swept over Emilie. “He was going to take me into the tunnels?”
“Nate.” The shout came from above. “Truck’s loaded and waiting.”
“Don’t think about the tunnels. Just tell Detective Avery everything you remember.”
He offered her one last smile before retreating up the stairs, the sound of his heavy boots rumbling through the hallway. Irrational fear flickered through her. Nathan had been her only source of hope in the past few hours. Now he was gone, and all she could think about was the cavernous hole less than twenty feet away.
Avery cleared his throat, his skinny face scrunched in frustration. “As I’ve already asked, did the partner say anything else?”
“Which time?” A stinging jab of pain tore through Emilie’s shoulder. She must have fallen on it when Creepy hit her.
“The partner said he’d come for you. Did you have any idea he was stalking you?”
“No.” She would have gone to the police. She led a normal, boring life. She didn’t go around looking for shadows to run from. “But this morning, I got flowers. Casablanca lilies with a William Blake poem attached. Blake is my favorite poet.” She shuddered. “I thought they were a mistake, but Creepy told me he sent them.”
“How many people knew you liked Blake’s poetry?” Avery scribbled in his tiny notebook.
“No one.” Her love of poetry was part of her private self, the one she didn’t care to show to anyone anymore.
Avery wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Did you ever get a good look at the man who tried to kidnap you?”
“No.” Emilie shoved her damp hair off her face, cringing as her fingers grazed her sore cheek. “He kept his mask on. I just saw a few glimpses of skin.”
“Any idea of his ethnicity?” Avery asked.
“Maybe Mediterranean.”
“Surveillance wasn’t able to get a good visual.” Avery curled his mouth in annoyance. “Can you describe him?”
Silent. Intimidating. Patient. But the detective wanted physical characteristics. She conjured up the image she’d been trying to keep away. “Tall and lanky. Clothes were dark and looked new, not like Joe. That guy looked and smelled filthy, but the partner smelled clean, like fabric softener.”
“What about his voice? Anything unique?”
“Pretty sure he was disguising it. He sounded too controlled.” Adrenaline rushed
through Emilie. “That’s right. When he first spoke, I could have sworn I recognized his voice. And he had this accent, this soft lilt that just rolled off his tongue.”
Avery wrote something else down, the sound of the pen scratching the paper loud in Emilie’s ears. “What happened in the basement?”
I thought I was going to die. “When he showed me the door, I tried to crawl away. We struggled. He…uh…” She surveyed Avery’s pristine appearance and refined mannerisms. He looked more like an accountant than a cop. His fidgeting and fast questions left no room for compassion. “He was excited.”
“Did he tell you that?”
Emilie looked up at Avery. “He didn’t have to.”
“Oh. Good to know.” Avery’s gaze flickered everywhere but on her. “Let’s get back to the basement itself. What’s the first thing you noticed aside from the…err… excitement?”
“The smell.” The basement never smelled great; the foundation was one of the oldest in the city. Mustiness was to be expected. But this smell was different: rank with age and decay and rotting earth. “I figured the cardboard boxes stored down there must have gotten wet and moldy. I tried to get away, and then I heard shouting from upstairs. I kept fighting.” Emilie closed her eyes. Her skin burned as she remembered the feel of Creepy Guy’s hands, his body pressing her to the floor, his erection rigid against her back.
“He didn’t understand, like he expected me to go willingly.” Thick film coated her mouth. She licked her lips. “Kept saying we were meant to be. I finally nailed him in the crotch. He said something about having it my way, for now. Next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor alone.”
She went limp, her head slipping down to her knees. Hopeless and alone and afraid. In one night, she’d become everything she’d railed against most of her life.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to harm you?” Avery seemed oblivious to exhaustion. “Ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, someone with a grudge?”
“No.” Emilie’s upper lip curled at the reminder of Evan. As if that good-for-nothing bastard had any reason to hold a grudge. “My ex-husband moved to California with his girlfriend two years ago.”
“What about your family? Are they well-off?”
“What?” A new kind of fear stung her with the ferocity of a hornet.
“A kidnapping is usually motivated by money,” Avery said. “If your family—”
“I haven’t had any contact with my family since I was eighteen.” Emilie didn’t want to hear any more. She’d endured enough hell for one night. “They are well-off, but that doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t be interested in a ransom.”
“Sixteen years?” Avery’s interested was clearly piqued. “We’ll need their names and addresses.”
Emilie had no idea where her parents lived anymore. Knowing Claire, she’d managed to wrangle an even bigger home out of her husband in a more elite neighborhood.
“Claire Davis is my mother.” Saying the words made her already tight chest ache even more. “She’s married to Sam Davis. He’s a criminal attorney. They live in Portland. At least they did when I left.”
“He’s your stepfather?”
“Yes.” Sam wasn’t a bad guy. Certainly better than her mother deserved. Emilie missed him sometimes.
Avery raised a thin eyebrow. “What about your biological father?”
“Never a factor in my life.”
“I’ll still need his name,” Avery said.
She sat up straighter, having trouble fending off her irritation. Every inch of her body cried out in pain, begging for relief. Avery’s questions felt like needles being stuck into her injuries. “Why? There’s no way—”
“We have to eliminate suspects, Ms. Davis. Your father’s name?”
“Mark Chambers.” She was surprised she remembered the name. She’d never met him. “No idea where he lives.”
“We’ll interview all of them as soon as possible.” Avery didn’t seem to notice her pain or have any concern she might be ready to snap.
Like hell they would. Emilie heaved herself to her feet, clutching the chair for support. Her right heel had snapped during the struggle down the stairs, and the remaining one wobbled dangerously. She grabbed the sleeve of Avery’s fancy suit. “Please don’t contact my parents.”
“It’s protocol.” Avery detached her soiled fingers and dusted off the sleeve of his suit.
“I don’t want them involved,” Emilie shouted. She swayed unsteadily. “Especially my mother. Please.”
Avery’s sallow face looked taken aback by her sudden vehemence. Good. “We have to talk to everyone to make sure money wasn’t a motivating factor and to rule them out as suspects. You won’t need to have any contact with her.”
“Do not give them my personal information.” Her loud voice bounced off the walls. Her skin heated the way it did when the spotlight was on her. She hated the feeling and knew she looked like a pathetic, hysterical victim, but she couldn’t back down. “I don’t want to speak to any of them.”
“We’ll protect your privacy.” Avery’s tone made the end of the subject clear. “Right now, we need your clothes.”
Emilie grabbed the stair rail. Her ears were ringing, so maybe she’d heard incorrectly. “Excuse me?”
“You had direct physical contact with the suspect,” Avery said. “The forensics lab needs to process your clothes for hair and fiber evidence. We’ll continue our interview at the hospital.”
“Now?” She just wanted to go home and shower. Sleep. Make it all go away.
“Yes, now.” He averted his eyes. “I’ll do my best to find something for you to wear.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Burning pain in Emilie’s ribs sucked away any embarrassment. “I keep a change of clothes in my office.”
Avery motioned to a woman in the hall. “Our tech will collect your clothes after you change.”
Upstairs, markers littered the hallway denoting bullet holes and shell casings from the partner’s gun. Fingerprint dust covered everything as technicians combed the lobby. Emilie thought the whole process looked far more glamorous on television.
In the privacy of her office, she closed the blinds and pulled her spare set of clothes out of her oversized bottom drawer. She didn’t have any extra shoes.
The tech knocked on the door. “I’ve got an evidence bag for your things.”
Emilie quickly changed and handed the tech her work clothes.
“That should do it.” The tech sealed the evidence bag. “Do you need any help getting dressed?”
“No, thank you.” Pain radiated throughout her body as she slipped the white, cotton T-shirt over her head. During the struggle, she’d barely been aware of the beating her body was taking. The hospital had better give her some good painkillers.
“I’ll tell Detective Avery you’re ready.” The tech disappeared.
Reality began to sink in. This couldn’t have been about money. Her stepfather was loaded, but anyone looking to suck funds out of him would go after Claire, not her long-absent daughter. And Creepy never seemed interested in anything beyond consuming her. Why?
A loud rap on the door sent Emilie scrambling to her feet.
Avery and a stocky paramedic assisted Emilie onto a gurney. Avery walked alongside as they headed to the bank’s east doors. “We tried to keep the press away from the ambulance, but they adapt like cockroaches,” Avery said. “I’ll stay in front of you.”
The doors opened, and the flashbulbs swarmed. Emilie shielded her eyes from the blinding flashbulbs. The voracious mob of reporters closed in shouting question after question. Queasiness struck and then vertigo. Her mother would know soon.
“I’ll see you at the hospital.” Avery closed the ambulance doors, shutting out the obnoxious noise.
Wonderful. Hospitals meant records. That meant everyone knowing about her last stay.
“Still feeling the same?” The paramedic softly probed her face, checking for fractures. “No new pain, nausea, l
ightheadedness?”
“I’ll make sure to aim away from you if I have to throw up.”
“I’m used to it. Last shift a drunk heaved all over my brand new uniform. It’s impossible to get the smell of Jack Daniels mixed with vomit out of your clothes.”
“Lovely job you have.” Emilie glanced around the cluttered ambulance. “Please tell me picking up drunks isn’t a regular occurrence.”
“I would, but this is Vegas.”
5
HE HID IN plain sight, blending into the crowd with little effort. The woman commanded his attention the moment she stepped into the room. Her auburn hair, swept into a loose twist, glowed under the recessed lighting. The white dress made her look like an angel. She walked with her shoulders back and her arms crossed over her chest. She was mesmerizing.
She stopped in front of the painting. Minutes ticked by, and still she remained. What was it about the Renoir that had captured her attention?
He moved forward, nodding to other patrons. He was appreciated, even revered, here. No one suspected his dark torment.
The woman remained in front of the painting. His eyes lingered on the smooth skin of her back and the exquisite line of her neck. She was lovely, although her profile was not perfect. Her lips were plump and slightly large for her petite nose, and a small mole—a beauty mark—adorned her naturally pink cheeks.
“Excuse me.” He pitched his voice low to keep from attracting attention. He drew out his words into formal English to hide his distinct accent.
She jumped at the intrusion and turned to face him. “Yes?”
Her eyes rendered him speechless. For a moment he was trapped in the past, unable to distinguish this new woman from the secrets that haunted him. He’d thought the resemblance would end when they were face to face, that he would be able to focus on the real business, if she were in fact who he’d been looking for all these years. But his prior plans floated to the back of his mind.
“Can I help you?” A modulated voice, laced with curiosity and apprehension.
“Forgive my intrusion, but I couldn’t help noticing your admiration of the painting. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”