by Shirl Henke
“Elvis P. Scruggs. And don’t ask what the P stands for,” he snapped. “My son is only seventeen and has been under the care of Dr. Reese Reicht for the past five years.”
Sam waited for him to give her the rest of the story. He drummed a set of well-manicured fingers on the desk, as if debating. “Dr. Reicht?” she prompted.
“He’s a psychiatrist. My son sees flying saucers, spaceships, even imagines he’s part of some kind of intergalactic war.” He pursed his thin lips in a tight line, then scoffed angrily. “A secret agent for the Confederation of Planets.” At her blank look, he explained, “Farley is a…a Space Quest fanatic. Has been ever since he was a boy.”
“You mean he’s a movie buff—loves sci-fi films and television shows?” Weird, but not as weird as a pal named Elvis Presley Scruggs.
“I’m afraid Farley’s situation isn’t quite as simple as being an avid fan.” Winchester grimaced. The drumming fingers stilled when he realized she noticed the agitated movement.
Sam bet if he had any papers on his desk they’d be aligned in perfectly straight rows. She’d lay a lot better than even money that everything on his computer was organized in perfectly ordered folders and every single item could be pulled up in an instant. And he had a double backup system.
“Farley has been known to use drugs—and I am not speaking of the medications Dr. Reicht prescribes.”
“That could be serious. When did he disappear?”
Winchester gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sometime in the past two days. I’ve been out of town on business. I returned late yesterday. The housekeeper informed me Farley hadn’t slept in his bed for the past two nights.”
A real concerned parent here. Doesn’t want the cops. No idea how long his kid’s been missing. “Does his mother have any idea when he took off?”
“I regret to say his mother passed away five years ago.”
The loss of a pet guppy would elicit more reaction from most people so she didn’t waste time offering condolences. “Any idea where he went? Is this Scruggs with him?”
“Yes. Farley’s been spending time with that illiterate cracker for weeks, perhaps longer.” The vagueness again irritated her as he continued, “Scruggs is from somewhere in the panhandle. Oh, I tried to put a stop to it, but my work requires me to be out of town frequently and my son has always been…difficult.”
With a dad like you he oughta be impossible. “You think Scruggs is Farley’s drug connection?”
“I don’t know. I do know that he’s a thief and I discovered quite recently that he may have spent some time in prison. In any case, Rogers, my chauffeur, informed me that Scruggs took my vintage Jaguar. Since Farley was in the passenger seat, he didn’t question it. That was Monday afternoon. When I was going over my personal records this morning, I found twenty thousand dollars had been withdrawn from a savings account to which my son has access.”
“You’re sure Farley took it?”
“Yes, and I’m equally sure Scruggs encouraged him, but I won’t press charges. I simply want you to recover my money, my car and my son. Quietly. No headlines. Do you think you can do that, Ms. Ballanger?” He glanced at his Rolex, indicating the interview was over.
“I’ll do my best to bring back your son, Mr. Winchester. But I will need a few names and numbers—his doctor, your housekeeper and chauffeur, the registration info on the Jag.”
He nodded, turning to the console at the side of his desk and pressing a button. “My personal assistant will be happy to furnish whatever you need.”
Sam stood up. Winchester didn’t bother. Neither did he offer to shake hands. “About my fee—”
“Ms. Ettinger will take care of that, as well. Send a bill.” With that he swiveled his chair around and opened his computer.
She’d been dismissed like a chambermaid in an English melodrama! “Where do I find Ms. Ettinger?” Sam said to the back of his head.
He didn’t turn around. “She’ll be along.”
As if on cue the door opened. A wraith-thin woman with gray hair pulled into a painfully tight knot on top of her head and the worst overbite Sam had ever seen, said, “Please follow me, Ms. Ballanger.” She didn’t smile, either.
The kid may be into Space Quest, but his old man and this staff could play in zombie movies.
Chapter 3
Ms. Ettinger furnished Sam with every name and address she requested, sniffing with obvious distaste when she came to Scruggs, whose last known domicile was in a trailer park in Liberty City. Sam had the distinct impression the old harridan imagined that she lived in a trailer, too…or under a rock.
Grinning cheerfully when she took the proffered fat retainer check from the older woman’s bony fingers, Sam couldn’t resist saying, “It’s been fun, Ettie. Let’s do lunch sometime.”
“Ettie’s” glasses slipped to the end of her thin nose when she jerked her head back at the moniker. Adjusting them, she peered over the tops with squinty eyes and said, “You may exit the premises that way,” pointing to a narrow door at the end of the hallway.
I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t open on an elevator shaft with a fifteen-story drop. Sam turned the knob cautiously and saw the door led to a dimly lit hallway near the service elevators used by cleaning staff. Considering how scruffy she looked, Sam was not surprised Upton hadn’t wanted her offending W, G & K’s elite patrons again.
Maybe she should use the service elevator. That had been Ettie’s clear intent. No way. She rounded the corner to the main hallway where the light was better and perused the directory. “Hmm, the shrink has an office a couple of floors up,” she murmured to herself, wondering if he was available. Maybe she’d hit the ladies’ room downstairs first and repair what she could before tackling a guy with an M.D. and Ph.D. behind his name. Half the alphabet, Roman numerals—did all rich guys have to be such pains in the ass?
Matt had come from money but he didn’t want any part of it. And she’d fallen for him. But he was part of the club when it came to the pain part. All that lovely money just going to waste in Aunt Claudia’s bank and he’d extracted a promise from Sam that she’d forgo the loot to become his wife. “He caught me in a weak moment,” she reminded herself as she rode the elevator to the main level. A weak moment all right…in bed.
Just remembering that interlude brought a silly grin to her face. She quashed it and pushed open the door marked Ladies. Once she eased up to a mirror in the washroom and inspected the damage she knew why everyone was treating her like a leper. Her hair was standing up in clumps, her suit was grease stained and ripped, and one cheek was bleeding slightly from where sharp pieces of concrete had grazed her when that goon had shot at her and hit the wall.
She wet a bunch of paper towels and set to work cleaning herself up, then went into one of the classy marble stalls and stripped off the snagged panty hose, jamming her bare feet back into the Via Spiga pumps. One knee was skinned and a dandy bruise on her shin had already begun to discolor. Oh, well. She glanced at her watch. It was late, but if she was lucky, the doc would still be in his office treating patients. Shrinks didn’t usually keep nine-to-five office hours.
Luck was with her. The receptionist, a plain middle-aged woman with a sweet smile, informed her that Dr. Reicht was with a patient at present, but would see her shortly. Upton Winchester must have called ahead. Reicht’s suite was not as large as W, G & K’s, but it still reeked of money. The smaller reception room was furnished with heavy oak chairs. To keep potentially violent patients from busting them up if they went off their meds?
The decor was all done in neutral tones of beige, tan and white as if a deliberate attempt had been made to offend no one. A wide array of magazines lay fanned across a massive coffee table. Ignoring the enticement of reading about the lifestyles of the rich and famous, she checked over her meager notes on Farley Winchester.
Age seventeen. High IQ, low self-esteem and a probable drug habit, if his father was to be believed. She’d been provided with a pho
to, taken several months ago, according to the harridan. He looked like a geeky kid, the kind the jocks made fun of in high school. Tall, skinny, bad complexion, even horn-rimmed glasses, for Pete’s sake! And he was dressed in some kind of weird getup with insignias on the shirt and a wide leather belt. It looked like cheap polyester fabric accessorized with plastic.
Not exactly a preppie, are you, kiddo?
Was it a “Spacer” uniform? Hopefully the good doc could give her more info before she set out to snatch the kid from Elvis’s clutches. Her perusal of the photo was interrupted when a short, stocky man opened the inner door and said, “Ms. Ballanger?”
Reicht had a fringe of graying tan hair ringing his oversize head. Sam guessed that was a requirement to hold the brains for acquiring all those initials after his name. There were pouches the size of Pony Express saddlebags under his eyes and he possessed jowls that would be the envy of an English bulldog. Reicht’s eyes were obscured by a hedge of eyebrows that flowed uninterrupted across his forehead. He wore a rumpled tweed jacket and even had a meerschaum pipe protruding from one pocket. Jeez, talk about a walking stereotype!
Sam stood up and offered her hand, which he shook heartily, grinning as he ushered her into his sanctum. “Please hold my calls, Heidi,” he said to the secretary.
The office was as cluttered as its owner, with piles of folders and loose papers scattered everywhere. She could identify with the unholy mess, but there was something about him that gave her a hinky vibe. “I assume your friend Mr. Winchester told you why I’m here,” Sam said as he offered her a seat.
“Indeed, he did. Most regrettable, most regrettable…” He seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment, then continued. “Farley requires close supervision and regular medication to keep in touch with reality.”
“I don’t think Mr. Winchester pays his housekeeper for babysitting while he’s out of town.”
“Mr. Winchester and I have agreed that Farley might do well in a private clinic, but such things take time to arrange. Of course, he’s been hospitalized on several occasions in the past….” Again his voice trailed away.
“Didn’t do any good?” she suggested.
“Well, you do understand about physician-patient confidentiality, Ms. Ballanger?”
“Yes, professional ethics and all. Like attorney-client, priest-confessor or P.I.-employer. Since his father’s greenlighted me to find him, I need to know what I’m dealing with before I retrieve him.”
The doctor sighed. “Farley has been delusional since childhood. Approaching his majority, he’s shown no improvement. In fact, he’s become worse.”
“You mean the Spacie thing? How long’s he been a Space Quest fan?” she asked.
“For as long as I’ve been treating him. Nearly…eight years. All he’s ever wanted to discuss during our sessions is that show and its characters. It’s his reality and the real world has ceased to exist for him…if it ever did.”
“His father said he tripped on drugs.”
Reicht nodded. “Cocaine, heroin, even methamphetamines.”
“What—no Drano? I used to be a paramedic and we never like handling guys high on meth. Any idea who his dealer is?”
“Farley has made some…less than appropriate friends recently. I suspect one in particular.”
“Elvis Scruggs?”
The giant caterpillar of an eyebrow crinkled when Reicht frowned. “Yes. When one is young, disturbed and wealthy, one can be victimized.”
“Do you think Scruggs kidnapped him?”
The doctor shook his head. “Probably not. The boy would go along with any harebrained scheme Scruggs proposed, I’m certain. Farley’s highly suggestible, particularly when he’s high on illegal drugs.”
“Suggestible to cleaning out one of his daddy’s bank accounts?”
“If someone like this Elvis Scruggs urged him to do it, yes. You understand why you must bring him home. I’ll see that he goes back on proper medication and provide supervision. In fact—” he began rooting around on his desk, pulling out a sheaf of papers with a grunt of satisfaction “—I have the forms here for Homeside. It’s a fine facility. I’m on the staff,” he added as if that guaranteed it.
“Will his father agree to commit him?” she asked.
“Of course. We’ve been discussing it for several weeks. Oh, we don’t call it ‘commitment’ any longer. The term is too…pejorative. Homeside is just as the name implies—a home away from home for troubled individuals.”
That might explain why the kid took off. It sounded to Sam as if his father’s house and the loony bin would hold about equal appeal. Still, the poor kid couldn’t be allowed to run around the country dressed like a sci-fi movie extra high on meth, with an ex-con chauffeuring him while he fleeced him.
Unlike Winchester after her interview, Reicht didn’t dismiss her. She would’ve preferred that he had when he launched into a panegyric on Homeside and how happy poor Farley would be once he was tucked safely in the marvelous facility. When he got warmed up, the doc really loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Finally, she glanced down at her watch.
“Sorry, Dr. Reicht, but I have another appointment shortly. Gotta run.”
“You will make Farley your first priority, I trust?” he asked intently.
“You bet I will. I’ll call if I need any more info. Thanks.”
As she rode down on the elevator, Sam considered the weirdness of the day—a pair of psychos tried to kill her, a snotty pencil pusher managed to snub her while enticing her with a hefty fee, the shrink played on her sympathy for a poor crazy kid. Did the thugs in the Olds have any connection to Farley’s case? Doubtful, but Sam never assumed anything.
And something niggled at her about the shrink, too. He put on a nice-guy veneer, the complete opposite of Roman Numeral, as she’d dubbed Winchester. Still Reicht was a cipher. Of course, he was a psychiatrist and that might explain the creepy feeling he gave her. Some of them were as loosely packed as their patients. She made a mental note to have Matt check out Homeside while she was searching for Farley.
The last thing Sam Ballanger ever intended to do was to deliver a client into a worse situation than the one she snatched him from.
“Yeah, that’s right, a 1980 Jaguar XJ6.” Sam ticked off the license plate number to an old friend at Metro-Dade Police Headquarters. “Bright maroon. Oughta stand out like a black tux in a room full of brown shoes.”
As she tapped a pencil against the edge of a front tooth, waiting impatiently for the cop to check the computer records, Matt watched his wife. Sam arched her back against the wreck of a swivel chair she insisted on keeping when she moved in. In spite of her small one-hundred-ten-pound body, the springs creaked precariously when she tipped it sharply backward. Her bare feet were propped up on the cluttered desk in her office and she was wearing a ratty old pink chenille bathrobe that he teasingly called her “Linus blanket.”
He eyed the ugly bruise on her shin and the scrapes on her cheekbone, worried but knowing there was no way short of putting her in one of those custom straitjackets she used on retrievals that he could keep her safe. They argued about her dangerous job almost as much as they did about his aunt’s money. Correction. She argued about the money. He argued about her safety.
Matt glided into the room and began massaging her shoulders while she leaned forward and jotted down information. What was a guy supposed to do with a bullheaded female like Sam? She wouldn’t even take his name—unless he agreed to “really let me in the family by accepting Aunt Claudia’s offer.” She’d signed Sam Ballanger on their marriage certificate. The woman had the instincts of a first-rate blackmailer—or a criminal defense attorney.
Sam hung up the phone and laid her head against his flat abdomen. The man even had a sexy navel. “Mmm, that feels good,” she murmured as he bent over her for an upside-down kiss. “Even better.” She held his head in her hands and returned the kiss for a moment before spinning her chair around and considering the notes
she’d scribbled on the page.
“Any leads on your lost boy?” he asked, then couldn’t resist adding, “Or on those two goons who tried to play crash-test dummy with you?”
“Strike out on the Olds, but I figured it would be. Bogus plates. I asked Pat to keep checking. Doubt he’ll turn up much on them, but he just might on Elvis Scruggs. I did come up with where Farley and Elvis are heading. A vintage Jag stands out almost as much as a flying saucer.”
“And a guy named Elvis doesn’t?”
“Depends on what part of the country you’re in. Nobody remembers him but thanks to my hacker pal, Ethan Frobisher, we have a trace on cash flow to back up the runaways’ destination. Seems Farley’s been using several of Daddy’s credit cards. Hotels, meals, ATM withdrawals in Tallahassee, Nashville and Louisville. The last was in some hick burg in southern Illinois. Then I used that info you so kindly dug up for me on the Net.”
She tossed him the printout of Space Quest conventions he’d pulled off the Internet for her. One was circled. “Big one in St. Louis. Starts tomorrow.”
He shrugged. “Your crazy job’s going to get you killed. I don’t know why I aid and abet you.”
“’Cause you can’t get enough of my bod,” she said, grinning as she stood up and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“You’re the trained health professional, Ms. Paramedic. What do you think?” he asked, prodding her with an erection that always grew like Pinocchio’s nose when she got within a dozen yards of him.
Sam rotated her pelvis against him and chuckled. “I think if I don’t take care of this immediately, you could suffer a serious…backup.”
“Speaking of backing up…” he said, turning her around while nibbling small kisses across her eyelids and down her nose to her throat. He backed her through the door and down the hall to their bedroom.
They were so engaged in the hot exchange neither saw the obstacle until their feet were tangled in it. They went tumbling across the threshold and landed on the carpet. Somehow Sam managed to come out on top. She always did. Matt looked down at what they’d tripped over—the ruins of her good black suit.