“Seven-nine-four.” Realizing she held Jay’s hand, she dropped it as though it crawled with spiders. Her breath caught in her throat. Keep him at arms’ length, girl.
“This way.” Jay's expression as he led her down the hall puzzled her. Did he want to keep her hand in his?
Considering the way her heart fluttered, she was glad she’d let go. What were they doing? Right. Searching for the suite number.
They halted outside a closed oak door. A brass nameplate advertised Vanessa T. Gaines, Attorney at Law.
“Hmm. Attorney. Chuck mentioned a lawyer.” Jay ran his finger under the name.
“We assumed he used LL for Lawyer Lady. After all, we called her Perfume Lady.” She stepped closer to the door. “I hear movement inside. Let’s go in.”
“I like the way you think.” Jay knocked then turned the door knob without waiting for an answer.
Waves of nauseatingly sweet air greeted them. They looked at each other and nodded. Yup. Found the right office.
A young, diminutive dark-haired woman stood in front of a file cabinet, rifling through the contents of the middle drawer. “Sorry, we’re closed.” Anger coated her words.
Unfazed by her off-putting tone, Lela asked, “Is Ms. Gaines here?”
The woman banged the cabinet drawer shut with her hip and stormed to the desk where she dumped a stack of folders on the cluttered surface before sitting. “No. The office is closed today.” She straightened the nameplate knocked over by the folders. Zoe Epps.
“What type of lawyer is Ms. Gaines?” Jay's warm smile had no effect on the frosty atmosphere.
“Are you deaf? The office is closed. Come back tomorrow and ask Mrs. Gaines yourself.” She gathered the folders and her purse then pointed to the door. “I have to go now. Please leave.”
Certain Zoe wouldn’t divulge any useful information, Lela said, “We’ll return another time.”
Zoe ushered them out, locked the office door, and trudged down the hall.
Leaning against the wall, Lela nodded. “This is the office where Chuck spotted the list of names and dates. Vanessa met with Man B, knew of Harry, gave Man A the envelope of photographs.” She poked Jay in the chest. “We’ve located a major player in Chuck’s journal, Mr. Vashon.”
“Yes, we have, Agent Ortiz. If our other deductions are correct, we’ve also uncovered an illegal adoption operation—the reason for Chuck’s kidnapping.”
“Exactly. I’ll alert IRO. They need to search Vanessa’s office before she destroys her records.” Lela dialed Sadie’s number and reported their discoveries while they rode down in the elevator.
Buckled in the pickup, Jay asked, “When we return to Beth’s, may I borrow your vehicle? I could ask Rachel to do my laundry, but I’d rather go home, pick up more clothes, read my mail, water my plants.”
“Sure. I need to collect more clothes, too.” She checked her side mirror and changed lanes, suppressing a giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“You have house plants?”
Jay crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Yes. Plastic ones my mom gave me when I moved into my apartment. Can’t understand why they don’t grow. I water them every day, set them in a sunny window.” He lowered his head. “Talk to them.”
Lela’s laughter filled the cab. “At least yours probably have green leaves. I gave up years ago when I couldn’t even keep a Pothos ivy alive.”
“Very sad. I only have two left. I dropped a container one day. Smashed ceramic pieces and this weird artificial soil littered my carpet. Don’t tell my mom, but I’d love to be rid of the others, too.”
He lived in an apartment. What did it look like? Did he leave his clothes on the—
Sea Ridge Drive. Lela braked and turned onto the Davenports’ street. That was close. Forget about where he lived. Change the subject. “When is your mother arriving?”
“Friday, I hope. She’s on standby.”
Lela parked under the portico, turned off the ignition, and handed the keys to Jay. “Take care of my truck.”
“I will. After I speak with Beth, I’ll take off. Should be back in time for supper with the family.”
They entered the house together.
Beth greeted them from the sunroom. “Come and tell us what you learned.”
Jay joined Beth and the children.
Lela hesitated then climbed the stairs. He could share the information they’d gathered.
Her phone rang as she entered her room. “Hi, Mama.”
“Lela, baby. Margie needs to talk to you. She’s desperate.”
“I have a little free time now. E-mail me her contact info. Has she talked with the police?”
“She said she did, but they dismissed her concerns. They blamed an overly active imagination.” Mama paused for a moment. “I haven’t seen her in person for many years, but I recall that she can be histrionic. However, if she says she’d being stalked, I believe her.”
Mama was a good judge of character. Margie was, in all likelihood, telling the truth. “I’ll call her later, after supper.”
Lela unearthed her laptop from her go-bag, plugged it in, and sat on the bed. Might as well take advantage of the little time she had before the meal. She ignored the long list of run-of-the-mill e-mail messages and opened the most recent one from her mother. Margie’s contact information. Before making the phone call, Lela conducted an online search of Margie Knox. Using skills learned from Sadie, she typed Margie’s name into several little-known sites. Interesting details peppered the screen. Margie’s husband of thirty-five years died two years ago. Since then, she’d lived in four Southern California towns, moving each time after complaints were lodged against her by local barbers. They insisted she stop protesting outside their establishments. Her concern—short hair allowed the sun to damage a man’s brain.
Lela set her laptop aside and chewed her bottom lip. Did Mama really know Margie?
28
Chuck’s jaw throbbed. He ran his tongue behind his lower teeth. Three were loose. He had limited vision in his right eye, and the rope burns on his wrists stung. Alone in the bedroom, he hobbled to the window facing the back. Listening for his captors and hearing nothing, he pried open the blind slats. The unkempt yard reminded him of his failed escape attempt. Would he get another chance? Probably not, considering the way Walter had reacted by giving the other thugs freedom to beat him.
He inventoried clues he’d stockpiled. Large field across the street he’d seen when they’d initially brought him to the house and the numerals 330 on the fence—fragments of info glimpsed when he’d peeked over the blindfold while Victor left him alone in the backseat to open the gate. Frequent droning of aircraft overhead, large planes, indicated the proximity to a major hub. San Diego’s Lindbergh Field? Earlier in the bathroom, he’d overhead the other guys arguing in the hall. Sometimes Harry referred to his companion as Lewis, other times as Stoner. His last name or a description of his pastime? Lewis mentioned he wanted the prisoner removed from his house. How could Chuck use that information?
Finding nothing else outside to aid him—he’d already discovered the windows were nailed shut—he tried the door. Locked. He’d long since figured his room was formerly the back porch, now enclosed, with the only access through another bedroom. Would that knowledge help in his next escape attempt? Who knew, but he was willing to explore any avenue.
He lowered himself to the floor. At least his wrists and ankles weren’t bound. Balancing on his uninjured foot, he completed a set of twenty pushups. Inactivity and poor nutrition had sapped his strength, but he must be prepared to make a run for safety. A second set of twenty and his ankle screamed for relief. He flopped onto his stomach and sucked in deep breaths. The rough carpet scratched his cheek, and dust tickled his nose.
So far Walter had complied with his requests. Chuck wanted his family to leave Ensenada, and he had to believe they’d returned to San Diego. He’d asked to talk to his kids. Done. Chuck rolled onto his back.
The carpet irritated his bare arms and calves. Muscles roiled in his stomach. Had Beth or Jay, or that woman from IRO been able to discern his hidden message in the video to Sean? Had one of them gone to his office, found the key, and opened the safe deposit box?
Using the chair, Chuck hauled himself upright and tore a piece of the peeling olive green wallpaper. How much more pain could he tolerate? If he could be certain the journal had been read, then he’d tell Walter everything he wanted to know. But until then, he had to keep his captors guessing.
Chuck balled his hands into fists and punched the air, hobbling round and round the room until he gasped for air. Slouching on the bed, he hung his head. What good would his feeble efforts be against rifles and handguns?
A door down the hall screeched open. Chuck lifted his head. Footsteps. The hairs on his neck itched, and his jaw ached in anticipation. If it was Walter, perhaps he could talk him out of another beating, but Victor and Harry would hit him harder if he begged for mercy.
When the footsteps kept going, Chuck let out his breath. Safe for now. He lay on the bed and curled up on the stained sheet. He had no assurance that after he gave them what they wanted his life would be spared. In his frequent prayers, he’d placed his life in God’s care. Trusting in His grace, he felt secure in the final destination of his soul. But he didn’t want to die. He wanted to see his kids grow up, enjoy life, and for each of them to find a soul mate to marry. As he had. How would Beth, his soul mate, his life mate, handle his passing? He touched the ring finger on his left hand. Walter had taken his wedding ring.
He rolled over and yelled into the pillow. “No, God. I don’t want to leave them. No. No. No.” A few minutes later, Chuck sat up and scratched his whiskered chin, an idea forming in his muddled brain.
While at the shack in Mexico, the woman from IRO heard the men’s names. Had Bowen done his job and investigated them? Would that lead to Chuck’s connection to Walter? One more chance. One more shot at communicating with his family and those helping with the rescue effort. Hope filled him like helium. He stood, puffed out his chest and yelled, “Walter Ferguson. I need to talk to you.” Waiting, he inhaled deeply, trying to diminish the quaking in his gut.
Rapid footsteps drew near. Bolt scraped. The door flung open.
“What do you want?” Not Walter, but Harry.
Sticking to his plan, Chuck raised his chin. “I want to talk to Walter.” Arms crossed, he eyed Harry.
The stumpy man glared. “Why?”
Unfazed by the pistol in the thug’s shoulder holster, Chuck kept his gaze locked with the man’s dark eyes. “Walter, and no one else. Got it?”
Slamming the door, Harry stomped through the other room and down the hall.
Chuck collapsed on the bed. One battle won. Patience eluded him. He kneaded his thighs, ran his fingers through his hair, stood, and paced to the window.
At length, the door opened again.
Walter entered, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it. “What do you want?”
Chuck approached Walter and searched his face. What happened to the man who had worked beside him, laughed when they blew a golf game, picnicked with his family? “I have a proposition for you.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t hold any cards in this deal. If you don’t tell us what we want, we’ll take Sean.”
At the mention of his son, Chuck’s gut revolted. He swallowed bile but continued with resolve. “Before I give you the information, I want to send one last video.”
Walter jabbed his index finger into Chuck’s chest. “You’re pushing it, Davenport. We’ve already given in to your requests. Why should we grant another one?”
Drawing on resources he didn’t know he possessed, Chuck said, “I know about your son. I know—”
“What? How? I didn’t tell you anything.” Sparring emotions flashed across Walter’s face. Grief, anger, even hatred. The ruts of his frown were deep enough for an ATV to drive in them.
“After you…left I kept tabs on you. I understood that the man who stole from the business wasn’t the man I hired and worked with for five years. If only you’d come to me, we could have sorted something out.”
Walter pivoted and punched a spot on the wall near the door, shattering the thin drywall. “You don’t know anything. Money’s not the answer to all of life’s problems. No amount would have made any difference. Sure, we could have paid the medical bills, but dollars couldn’t manufacture a kidney donor match for our Kenny or derail a divorce.”
“I’m truly sorry for your loss.” Chuck placed a hand on Walter’s shoulder. The man flinched but didn’t move. “I have a pretty good idea about what’ll happen to me. Your boss won’t let me live once I divulge my information. Please, Walter, I’m asking as a father. Let me talk to my family one last time.”
Shoulders hunched, Walter rubbed his bald pate.
His silence ate away Chuck’s hope. Would he allow one more video for old time’s sake?
Backing away from the man, Chuck’s calves bumped the bed and he plopped down, toes curling on the threadbare carpet. His last shot had failed. Beth, Beth—
“OK.”
The whispered word tickled Chuck’s ears. His head jerked up. “I can send a video?”
“Yeah. Later. I’ll let the guys go the bar around the corner tonight. We can do it then.”
Uh-huh. Walter made this decision alone. Good. He had a heart beating under that brutal persona he portrayed in front of his peers.
“Thanks, Walter. You don’t know how much this means to me.” Chuck stood and held out his hand.
Walter ignored the gesture and opened the door.
“I’m sorry about the way the, you know, your face.” Walter avoided eye contact with Chuck. “I’ll send Harry in with some ice.”
“Thanks. Um, one last question.”
“What now?”
Chuck stroked his swollen jaw. “Why did you abduct me in Mexico?”
“Of all the…” Walter shook his head. “Suppose I can tell you. It was easier there, away from your friends. Less law enforcement types to watch out for.”
“Guess that makes sense. How did you know we’d be there?”
Walter smirked. “We know a whole lot about you and your family. Your brother-in-law’s job in the national park in the Sierra de San Pedro Mártir—I had a postcard of the place. It’s magnificent. We know where your kids go to school, your wife’s favorite beauty salon.”
Lips pinched tight, Chuck glared at Walter. But he quickly hid his anger. He had work to do.
“I’ll come back later to make the video.” The door closed behind Walter, and the outside bolt slid in place.
In spite of Walter’s deadpan answer, elation zipped through Chuck as he mentally listed the words and signs he needed to incorporate into his message. It might be futile, but he had to provide the clues he’d garnered about his location to help IRO find him. Lindbergh Field, airplanes, playing field. Lewis Stoner’s house. He’d have to do a lot of finger spelling because some of the signs were too elaborate.
Harry stormed through the door and dumped a small bag of ice on the bed. Without a word, he sneered at Chuck then left and locked the door.
As Chuck picked up the ice, an unsettling thought troubled his mind. Would Walter notice the finger-spelling and abort the video?
29
The bright overhead light dispelled shadows from Jay’s living room. It was good to be home, plastic plants and all, if only for a brief time. He grinned as he recalled his conversation with Lela. After dumping his mail onto the dresser, he unearthed a suitcase from the closet and tossed it onto the bed. His thoughts glued on Lela and her Pothos ivy, he scrounged in his dresser drawers for clean underwear and socks. His phone rang, and he answered without checking caller ID.
“Hi, Jay. Is this a good time to talk?”
Kate. He did plan on meeting with her. Why not visit now?
“Sure. How are you?”
“So-so.
Um, you didn’t respond to my message.”
“I’ve been real busy. Chuck’s been abducted, and I’m involved in rescue plans.”
Kate expressed concern, but he knew her well enough to sense her distraction with her own problems.
Perhaps he should wait for a face-to-face chat. “I don’t know when I’ll be free, but let’s meet after Chuck returns home.”
“But, Jay, I need you now. Come by my hotel. I…I’m lonely.”
Phone on speaker, Jay gathered T-shirts and jeans, which he packed in the suitcase. “Sorry, Kate, I can’t. I need to get back to Beth in case there are any new developments.”
“Can’t you spare a few minutes for me? Remember when we—”
“Not today.” He zipped the suitcase and set it on the floor.
“You’re being very gruff with me, darling.”
Bundle of mail in hand, he plopped onto the bed. “We don’t have a future together, Kate.”
“I can tell you’re preoccupied with your family. Call when you can.” Without another word, she hung up.
Jay stared at the phone as if he’d find a solution to his dilemma on the screen. Why did she persist in resurrecting their relationship? He shook his head and sorted through the mail. Junk. Junk. Bill. Letter from—
Biting the inside of his cheek, Jay shoved all the mail into the side pocket of the case. How could Kate assume he would visit her hotel room especially after their discussion in Rosarito? Why had he ever thought he could be happy with her? Certainly, he’d loved her when he’d proposed, but now he had to question his judgment. He’d made no secret of the fact he wanted to marry a believer and raise their children in a Christian home. Had Kate’s Christianity been a sham to please him? He’d always figured he’d be married at this age, have two or three kids. Picket-fenced house in the suburbs, or a spread in the country. Family. Important. Would he ever have one of his own?
He sprang up, grabbed the suitcase, and hurried out to the elevator. In future relationships he needed to make sure the woman was a true believer before he landed in the same predicament again.
Day of Reckoning Page 14