Sash’s attention returned to Brandon. He sat with his fingers steepled under his chin in deep contemplation. He had played the voice mail message for her that contained Sweet’s plaintive plea. Aware of Brandon’s close scrutiny, Sash fought the tears that threatened to flow at the sound of her brother’s voice. After sharing the voice mail Brandon had sat back, struck his present pose, then appeared to forget that she was in the room.
Sash wiggled impatiently in the leather office chair as Brandon continued to ignore her. He sat like a statue staring into space. Finally, she could take his silence no longer.
“Well what are we waiting for? You haven’t said two words to me since we got here. I want to know what’s going to be done about my brother? Are the kidnappers going to call again or what? If so, maybe we can have the call traced.” She tried to keep the rising hysteria out of her voice, but was unsuccessful.
Brandon was slow in answering as his attention returned to Sash. “I don’t have caller I.D. on this telephone, other than that only the authorities could trace the call and you said that you didn’t want them involved. Now I have a question for you, Ms. Adams. Are you a worried sister or an extortionist? Why don’t you just cut the crap and confess before this charade goes any further?”
Instantly, Sash saw red but just as quickly reason prevailed. She needed this man. Sweet needed this man. She had to keep it together. She answered calmly.
“As I’ve already indicated, I understand your doubts, Mr. Plaine. This all sounds so implausible, but I swear to you that every word that I’ve told you is true. The proof is on your voice mail.”
“No.” Brandon held up his finger in an effort to halt her flow of words. “What’s on my voice mail is a criminal offense perpetrated by a bunch of amateurs. You see, Ms. Adams, by recording this farce you and your friends have given me enough evidence to press charges against you and put you and your playmates away for a long, long time. Not very intelligent, I assure you.”
“And I assure you, Mr. Plaine that I’m quite aware of the law—local, state and federal. A law degree from Stanford University has provided me with that knowledge.”
“You’re an attorney?” Brandon looked doubtful.
“And I worked long and hard to become one. I had just gotten the news that I passed the bar exam the day Sweet and I were kidnapped. We were out celebrating. If you don’t believe me, just call Stanford. They have my records. I have nothing to hide.”
“Uh huh,” Brandon searched her face for any hint of untruth. “And where do you live and work, since you’re being so open with me? You see, as a former newspaper reporter, Ms. Adams, I’m a natural skeptic. I could call Stanford and I have no doubt that they would tell me that a Ms. Sash Adams graduated from their law school, but that doesn’t mean that would be you. Anyone could obtain that information. You haven’t shown me any identification. There’s no proof that you’re who you say you are.”
“My purse and billfold were in the van.”
“How convenient.”
“But I live here in Monterey, on Abrego Street. I’m unemployed. I’ve been living on some insurance money while I studied for the bar.”
“Oh, so you don’t have a job. You’re in need of money. Yet you said that you were carrying a gold plated writing pen. Those aren’t cheap.”
Sash tried to ignore the smug look on Brandon’s face. “You can call my landlady, Mrs. Rosemont, she’ll confirm that Sweet and I live there. As for the pen, it was a gift from a friend.”
“Your friend does have expensive taste, doesn’t she? Or is it a he? As for Mrs. Rosemont she could be in on this little scheme too.”
Sash fumed. “Mrs. Rosemont is seventy-eight years old.”
“Senior citizens need money too.”
“That’s it! I’ve had it!” Sash slammed her fist down on the top of Brandon’s desk. “You may not believe anything else I’ve told you, but there’s one thing you can believe. I wouldn’t be sitting here taking your insults if I didn’t have to be here! I need you to save my brother’s life. He’s an innocent little boy and he’s out there somewhere terrified, unable to understand what’s happening to him, and only God knows what is happening!” How could this man be so callous?
Brandon showed no reaction to her histrionics. This had to be some sort of scam and this woman was obviously part of it. All he wanted to know was how she and her partners could possibly be connected to Buddy. If not, how did they know about the butterfly? And of course there was that photograph.
Reaching into his pants pocket Brandon withdrew the photo and studied it. The entire setting with the child must have been staged. Yet, there was something about the boy. He looked from the photo to Sash. She had calmed considerably.
“Listen, Ms. Adams, this entire situation is too bizarre for me, but as busy as I am, I’m going to play along with your little game for a while.”
“Play along?” Sash looked confused.
“I’m going to take you to Abrego Street, and see if you really live there.”
Sash nodded in agreement. “I have no problem with that, but shouldn’t we stay here? The kidnappers might call back.”
Yeah, he thought so. She didn’t want to go “home.” Brandon rose to leave. “The boy didn’t indicate when there would be another call and if a call does come in they can leave it on voice mail like before. So there’s really nothing to keep us here. Is there? That is unless you have a reason for us not to go over on Abrego.”
Sash rose, determined to make this man change his mind about her involvement. Pushing past Brandon she led the way to the entrance. “Come on.” This time it was Brandon who followed her out of the door.
****
It was all too confusing for Brandon. Everything Sash had told him about herself appeared to be true. He had been on maximum alert when he and Sash arrived at the two story framed house on Abrego, which she called home. He felt fairly certain that if he ran into trouble that he could defend himself. He had earned a black belt in karate years ago. If this woman was setting a trap he was prepared. Yet, the only person he encountered at the place Sash called home was Mrs. Rosemont, her white-haired landlady who stood about five feet tall. Mrs. Rosemont had been relieved at Sash’s reappearance, although she expressed concern about her disheveled appearance. She confirmed that Sash and her brother had been unexplainably absent for a couple of days and she had been worried about them. Sash apologized for worrying her then informed the older woman that she and her brother had taken an unexpected trip to see a friend in the Bay Area. She told her that Sweet was staying with them for a while.
Mrs. Rosemont appeared to accept the explanation before turning her attention to Brandon. Sash introduced him as a friend then dismissed further questioning by explaining to her landlady that she had lost the key to her second floor apartment. After Mrs. Rosemont provided her with a spare key Sash hustled Brandon outside.
The second floor apartment had to be accessed from an exterior stairway located on the side of the house. The apartment Brandon entered was spacious with plenty of bay windows that allowed an abundance of sunshine to stream into its neat interior. The living and dining rooms were furnished in solid, comfortable furniture that appeared to be well maintained. Everything in the room had an African motif, from the colorful printed curtains at the window, to the mud cloth area rug covering the polished wood floors. African masks and finely weaved baskets decorated the walls, interspersed with framed prints by African-American artists. There were plants everywhere, hanging from the ceilings and trailing from planters on windowsills. There were two giant potted palm trees in the living room, and an elephant ear plant almost as large as an elephant in the dining room. All of the plants appeared to be healthy and thriving. It seemed that Sash Adams had a green thumb.
Brandon noted the numerous family photographs scattered throughout the rooms. Most were of Sweet at various ages. He picked up one picture of the boy seated between a handsome middle-aged couple. The three of them looked int
o the camera with wide, happy smiles.
Responding to the look of curiosity on Brandon’s face as he examined the picture, Sash walked over to him and took the picture from his hand. She smiled down at it sadly. “Those are our parents, Mildred and James Curry.”
“Curry?” Brandon raised a questioning brow.
“My brother’s last name is Curry,” Sash explained. “James Curry was my step-father.”
“Was your step-father?”
Lovingly, Sash placed the picture frame back on the table. “Our parents were killed in an accident two years ago. It’s just Sweet and me now.”
There was a moment of silence as Brandon struggled for something to say. I’m sorry seemed shallow, and he still wasn’t sure that he believed all that this woman was telling him. This could be another sob story.
Sash broke the silence. “Follow me, I’ll show you Sweet’s room.”
Still cautious of his surroundings, Brandon followed Sash down a short hallway, past a closed door—which he assumed was Sash’s room. They passed a bathroom strikingly decorated in zebra stripes, then stopped at a second closed door that Sash opened for Brandon. He stepped past her and over the threshold.
The boy’s walls were painted sky blue. Large, fluffy clouds made of cotton balls hung from the ceiling, suspended from thin, nearly invisible wires. A bright yellow sun, wearing black sunglasses and a toothpaste smile was painted on one wall, talking trees, dancing bears and flowers were painted on another wall. A colorful rug covered the polished wood floor.
Another wall contained a built-in bookshelf filled with books. Beneath it stood a wicker chest that served as a toy box. Except for a pair of small sneakers tossed haphazardly on the floor next to the twin bed, the room was neat and spotless. A lot of care and love had gone into creating this child space.
“Did you decorate this room?”
Sash nodded.
“And the murals?”
“I painted them.”
“You’re very talented.”
She shrugged. “Thank you. Art is my hobby.”
Fighting the emotions that erupted at the sight of Sweet’s empty room, Sash cleared her throat and pushed away from the doorway. “If you don’t mind, I’m barely standing on my feet. I’m going to grab a quick shower to keep me awake, slip into something clean and then we can talk about coming up with a plan to get my brother back.”
Sash stepped away from the doorway indicating that the tour was over. Brandon conceded, closing the bedroom door behind him. He followed her down the hall. She stopped at the first closed door that they had passed.
“What’s in that room?” Brandon nodded toward the closed door behind her.
“My bedroom.”
“Let me see.” It was an order not a request.
Defiant, Sash started to block his entrance, but then relented. She was too tired to fight with this man. She opened the door and Brandon stepped into Sash’s bedroom
The room’s held Sash’s decorative touch. Like the other rooms the décor was African. The drapes, bedspread and the skirt to Sash’s dressing table were all made out of the same zebra print material as the shower and window curtains in the bathroom. Murals of exotic plants and animals were painted on one wall. As in the other rooms, well-maintained plants were placed about. A picture of her parents was strategically placed on the nightstand next to her bed. A similar picture had been in Sweet’s room.
“Satisfied?” Sash’s voice was tight. As necessary as it might have been she still didn’t like Brandon playing inspector in her home.
He nodded and stepped back into the hallway.
“Well I’m glad I passed inspection.” It was Sash’s turn to be sarcastic. “Now if you don’t mind I’m going to take my shower. I won’t be long. Make yourself at home. There’s some bottled water and some juice in the refrigerator.” Without further ceremony she closed the door in his face.
Brandon returned to the living room his curiosity having increased even more about this defiant woman with the eclectic sense of style. Who was Sash Adams really? She had stepped into his life out of nowhere two and a half-hours ago with this fantastic story of hers and he could feel himself being pulled into her world. What was he doing here? The woman might be a criminal. But what kind of criminal takes you to her home and gives you a tour? Could the little old landlady be involved in this? Mrs. Rosemont seemed sincere. Of course that could all be part of the act. If so, he had to give them credit. They had planned this little caper with great care. Still, he didn’t trust this woman. On the way to her home she had questioned him as to whether anything in the notebook held any meaning for him. He had been noncommittal. He chose to give away nothing until he found out what was going on.
Settling on the couch, Brandon sat back to think this situation through. In the background he could hear the sound of the running water coming from the bathroom where Sash was bathing. For an instant a fleeting image of her shapely figure flashed before his eyes. Shaking the image from his mind, he brought his attention back to the matter at hand. He didn’t need to get distracted by a pretty face and a few well placed curves. He had to get down to business. Taking the notebook from his jacket pocket, he leafed through it.
The notebook contained random, scribbled notes that substantiated much of what Sash had told him. The word Buddy was written twice. She hadn’t capitalized it, not knowing if it was a description or a name. The word butterfly was scribbled only once, with no accompanying note to explain its meaning. Other than that she had written no substantial information as to how those words he recognized fit into the entire picture. Maybe the word buddy was a description and not a formal name. Maybe the butterfly reference wasn’t as relevant as he thought. Maybe this whole thing was an elaborate joke. But who would pull such a cruel prank? It all seemed too unbelievable to be true. This had to be some sort of scheme!
Closing the notebook, Brandon got up and roamed the room looking for any sign that this apartment wasn’t what it appeared to be. In his search he stumbled across several photo albums.
An hour later he had looked through all of them. They had chronicled the life of a woman who from all indications came from a happy, middle class family and who had accomplished a lot in her life. Sash Adams had excelled in both academics and in sports. She had been a cheerleader, a prom queen and had graduated from college Phi Beta Kappa. There were photos that showed that she had traveled extensively throughout Europe and the Caribbean. One entire album was filled with a pictorial chronicle of her having lived for a while in West Africa; but it was the pictures near the end of the album that brought Brandon the biggest surprise.
In several different poses that went from a friendly side-by-side pose to an intimate kiss, Sash was in the photos with a man—a tall, slender African whose dress fluctuated from traditional African attire to expensive, tailored suits. From the looks on each of their faces in the series of photos, a romantic relationship had evolved—a relationship that resulted in an engagement ring. In one photo Sash was all smiles as she stood wrapped in the man’s arms while she flashed a large diamond ring at the camera. An engagement ring? He didn’t remember seeing any engagement ring on her finger. Brandon’s eyes moved from Sash’s happy face to that of the man whose arms in which she was wrapped. From the look on his face as he gazed at her, this was a man deeply in love. This also was a man with whom Brandon was familiar. His eyes fell to the writing below the picture to confirm what he already knew. It read: Michael and me at the LaFoe party. Michael. Michael Ramuba. Sash Adams had been engaged to a member of one of the wealthiest families in West Africa. That could explain the expensive pen she had described to him.
Brandon knew Michael. They had conducted business transactions over the years, but neither had ever discussed their private lives with the other. Brandon’s eyes strayed to the day and date written beneath the photo. It had been taken two years ago, on Valentine’s Day. Brandon closed the album, his brows drawn in concentration. Finally, here was proof of
a connection between someone he knew and the mysterious Sash Adams. Yet, the discovery only deepened the mystery, not solved it. Was it just a coincidence that they both happened to know Michael? What were the chances of that happening?
He was sure that Michael wasn’t involved in any kind of plot. Money was no object for him. Then why would someone like Sash, who was ready to marry into money, be involved in one? If she needed money why didn’t she go to Michael for it? None of this made sense. He had to have some answers.
Laying the last album aside, Brandon withdrew his cell phone and dialed a number. A deep male voice answered on the second ring.
“John Nathan.”
“John, I’ve got a job for you and your security team. I need some information and I need it like an hour ago.” Filling him in on the details, Brandon disconnected, feeling more in control since Sash Adams had made herself at home at his dining table.
Glancing at his watch Brandon was surprised to see the amount of time that had passed since Sash and he had entered her apartment. The silence in the apartment indicated that she had finished her shower, but she hadn’t emerged from the bedroom. Deciding to hurry her along, he rose and walked down the hallway to her room, determined to get some of the answers to the additional questions he had.
One of those questions concerned the child, Sweet. Where was he really? Several of the photo albums confirmed that there was a little boy in her life. There were no pictures of him as a baby, but from the time that he was a toddler there seemed to be someone there with a camera to take photos of his every move. All of the pictures in the albums had a neatly scripted explanation of where and when each was taken. From what Brandon could discern Sweet must have been a change of life baby for his parents. Sash was at least twenty-nine or thirty years old when her brother was born. That would make her around thirty-four or thirty-five.
Sweet Sacrifice Page 3