[Elizabeth McClaine 03.0] A Stolen Woman

by Catherine Lea

  Now he knew he’d been wrong.

  He checked the rear-view mirror again and backed out. At the second set of lights he saw it again—the black Mercedes SL Coupe sitting right up his ass with a windshield so black it was like looking into a tar pit.

  Sweat broke on Frank’s brow and his pulse kicked up a couple of gears.

  When the lights went green, he pulled away and immediately turned left. The Merc followed. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence so he threw a right, a left and another right.

  The Merc stayed hard behind him – not even a hint of stealth.

  Frank sucked in a breath, held it, and told himself to stay calm. Sweat broke over his brow, and the throbbing in his head went up a notch. Staying calm wasn’t easy. Driving on the left-hand side of the road wasn’t easy. Keeping his eyes off the rear-view mirror was practically impossible.

  The second he hit the freeway, he slammed his foot on the accelerator. Outrunning the Mercedes was out of the question. A little number like that would leave his crappy Toyota dead in the water. His only hope was to lose it in the traffic.

  Fat chance. The thing was so close to his rear bumper that if he had hit the brake it would have rear-ended him. He slowed; it slowed. He sped up: ditto.

  He was going through every scenario that might get him out of harm’s way and was coming up short when an off-ramp to his left caught his eye. He hit the brake and swung the car so hard the Merc clipped his rear bumper and the Toyota’s tail spun out in the roadside gravel. He pumped the gas, and the car slid wide before regaining traction. He accelerated up the ramp and turned right onto an overpass. Down on the freeway he caught the brake lights of the Mercedes. Fifty yards on, the car changed lanes and the driver seemed to hesitate. Then it took off again.

  For the first time in twenty-four hours, Frank relaxed.

  But now he had no idea where he was. He had nine minutes to check in, and if he wasn’t on that flight, he was in Shit Street. He pulled over, tapped ‘Auckland Airport’ into the GPS, and followed the directions. He felt the muscles in his jaw relax and a wave of relief wash over him as the roadside signage flashed by, indicating he was going in the right direction.

  All the way out to the airport he rolled his neck and shrugged his shoulders, stretching his muscles out one by one. Finally, he swerved into the airport parking lot, maneuvering between rows and sliding into a perfectly positioned slot with a one-sided smile on his face.

  But the second he cut the engine, that same Mercedes swept down the row in front of him and stopped. The reverse lights came on, and the tires squealed as the car shot backwards to where Frank was parked. The doors flew open, but Frank was already out and running. He sprinted down the first line of cars, ducked between two cars and did a head-down scamper into the next row. The sound of footsteps pounded straight past, then stopped and backtracked, but Frank was already moving again.

  He dashed down the next row, cutting through a crowd of kids and their parents all towing their luggage and arguing about where they were supposed to go. Ducking around them, he gave the road a fleeting glimpse, dodging an on-coming car as he crossed. All he had to do was get to the terminal. Once he was inside, they couldn’t touch him.

  He dropped and ran across two rows. When he bobbed up between two stationary cars, he could see two leather-coated guys with buzz cuts on the far side of the park, searching the area and pointing this way and that. The taller one headed straight for the doors marked ‘Departures’ while the other skirted around to the left. Frank crept to the end of the row and peeked out.

  From here he could see the terminal. It was tantalizingly close. A brisk sprint would get him there. He checked his pockets: passport, credit card wallet—all there. So, he decided to leave his luggage in the car and make a run for it.

  The first goon heading for the Departure doors was just about to enter the terminal. Frank had lost sight of the other guy. He did a full three-sixty, searching for him.

  No sign.

  In desperation, he pulled out his phone. When shit got bad, there was only one person he could call on. He figured this was as bad as it got. He hit the speed dial, waited for the tones to blip through. The line opened to an echoing silence. Finally, somewhere way off on a distant line, it rang.

  One ring—the first goon exited the terminal, looked around and headed his way.

  Two rings—he spotted the second goon approaching from the right and moving fast.

  “Come on, come on,” he begged the phone.

  Three rings—the first guy spotted him and made a wide signaling gesture, motioning to the other. With the phone clutched to his ear, Frank sprang up, turned and ran.

  At five rings, the answer phone kicked in.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Sydney Schaeffer. I’m not in my office at the moment, but if you leave a message …”

  Frank ducked this way and that, weaving through cars and cursing and praying all at once. The message ended, and two beeps sounded down the line, just as the two guys loomed out of the dark to his right.

  “Syd,” he begged into the phone, “it’s me, Frank. Listen, I know you have every right to hate me, but seriously, I’m in deep trouble. Find me,” he yelled, but it was too late. Someone grabbed him. A silky black sack went over his head, and he felt the stab of a needle in his neck. His head spun and the ground swam up to meet him.

  And everything went black.

  In a rundown brownstone building in a suburban New York office, a desk phone sitting in a single shaft of sunlight let out a long series of beeps to indicate a waiting message.

  Syd Schaeffer, attorney at law, picked up the receiver, located the center button on the top of the console and depressed it. A thin, metallic voice said: “You have one new voice message. To listen, press one …”

  Again, she searched the keypad, found the #1 button and listened.

  The voice advised her of the time and phone number and the line opened.

  “Syd, it’s me, Frank,” his voice yelled down the line.

  This time her finger crossed straight to the #5 and she stabbed it.

  “Message deleted,” the voice said.

  Chapter One

  Syd

  Walt Vander was late. That was no surprise. Walt was always late.

  Syd hit the button on her watch.

  “The time is one-forty-six,” the tinny voice told her.

  Sixteen minutes she’d been waiting. She may have lost her sight, but she hadn’t lost her sense of punctuality. Some could learn a lesson from that. Frank could have, for one. His lack of appreciation for time management was the most … no, one of the most infuriating things about him.

  Dammit, now she was thinking about him again. The nerve of him, calling her up like that and expecting her to drop everything and come running. God only knew what kind of scheme he had going now. Well, to hell with him. Their relationship was over. He’d seen to that.

  When she heard footsteps and felt the table judder, she drew a breath and snapped herself back to the reason she was there. The seat opposite groaned under a heavy weight, and Walt said, “Hey, Syd, how ya doin’?”

  In her mind’s eye, she could see him. A big bear of a man, late forties, face like a St. Bernard, heavy around the girth, although she’d been told he’d lost thirty pounds since she’d last seen him.

  His bulk slid across in front of her. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up on a case.”

  “It’s fine,” she lied. “Long as you made it.”

  “Two coffees,” he called to a passing waitress. “You having coffee?” he asked Syd.

  “Thanks. Why not?” she said, despite the fact that she’d already had one and was impatient to get back to the office. Stacy Conroy was due at 2 p.m. so she could sue the ass off her cheating, lying ex-husband, and Syd wanted to go over the divorce papers one more time before they submitted them. The sticking point had been the dog.

  “You’re looking good,” Walt told her.

  Now who was the one lying
?

  “Always the smooth talker,” she told Walt and smiled. “I guess you know why I wanted to meet.”

  The sound of footsteps followed by the clunk of cups on the tabletop told her the waitress was back. She felt Walt reach across for her hand and guide it to the cup. She could have found it herself but didn’t say so.

  Instead she drew it toward her and smiled as the waitress said, “Anything else?” in a bored tone.

  “Thanks, we’re good,” Walt replied and waited for her to move away before continuing. “And here’s me thinking you’re just after my scintillating company,” he said with a dry chuckle.

  She forced another smile. “You know me better than that.”

  The sound of the sugar bowl scraping across the table was followed by the clink of a spoon.

  “I’m guessing this is about some work, am I right?” he said. “It’s like I told you, I’m happy to keep tossing a few clients your way. That’s not a problem. And you don’t even have to pay me.” She felt him lean in as he delivered the joke, trying to lighten the situation.

  The spoon rattled in his cup. The kind of stirring that indicated nervousness or irritation. Her instinct told her to go easy. But wasn’t that what she’d done the last time? And what good did that do?

  “Yeah, sure. And believe me, I’m grateful for everything you’ve sent me.” She could feel him tense up. He knew what was coming. “But I need something a little more … you know, challenging. Something I can get my teeth into.”

  The stirring stopped. For a second it was so quiet she wondered if she’d lost him.

  “C’mon. You think I don’t read the papers? You think I don’t know what you’re working on?” she added hopefully. “I need something big. You know, something white collar, or maybe a homicide. My Braille’s improved out of sight.” She inclined her head a little, acknowledging the pun. “And I can read fast, type up the notes …” Which they both knew wasn’t true because her PA, Leonie, read the notes and did all the typing. Syd could type, but if her fingers were positioned on the wrong keys, Leonie said her case notes came out looking like Yiddish.

  She could hear him moving uncomfortably in his seat. Perhaps looking around for an escape. “Y’know, I’d love to give you something big. That’s the truth. But all the cases I got right now have their own attorneys.”

  “You think I can’t do it. You think since I lost my sight—”

  His hand cupped over hers. “Hey, I didn’t say that—”

  “You think I can’t cut it. I’m telling you I can. I just need something solid so I can prove it to you.”

  “Syd, hey, hey,” he said, interrupting her. His hand gave hers a gentle squeeze. “You know I’d love to. You’re a hell of a DA. I know that. God only knows, when you were …”

  He almost said it—almost said sighted, but went with, “… out there working, no one could touch you. You were the best. I mean that.”

  The heat of fury rippled across her cheeks. “I’m not asking to be back there.” How many ways did she have to say it? “I’m asking you to give me a chance. Once you see what I can do …” Already she could feel him recoiling, sitting back, distancing himself. This was going exactly the way it went last time.

  Her voice rose, desperate now. “If you could just see how far I’ve come …”

  He suddenly sat forward, grabbed her hand in both of his and squeezed it firmly. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I gotta go.”

  “You just got here.”

  “I’m sorry, Syd. Believe me, if there was anything I could do for you, you know I would.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She pulled her hand away.

  After a tense moment, the table rocked as he got to his feet. “Listen, I’ll keep my eye out. Anything comes up I can give you, you’ll be the first. Meantime, if you need anything—”

  “Sure, I’ll call.”

  She thought he was going to say something else. Instead, he gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. And then he was gone.