See Me in Your Dreams

by Patricia Rosemoor

  "We have the green," she murmured.

  His attention snapped back to the street and he started up the vehicle. "I'll tell whomever I deal with that I showed Cheryl's photo around until the guy in the newsstand recognized it," he went on. "I'll have dozens of copies made so they can use them to identify her."

  "And if the Chicago authorities refuse to help?"

  "Whether they do or don't cooperate, I'll still get my investigator on it. I'll give Bryant the go-ahead to bring in more men to comb the area. If the police won't do it, he can start a door-to-door search."

  Keelin nodded. Not that she believed the people living in the area would necessarily cooperate any more than the authorities would. But she also knew that Tyler had to have hope to hold onto, or he would go out of his mind with worry.

  And while he was busy setting up the actual search, perhaps she would delve further into motive.

  KEELIN FOUND THAT, despite her initial reluctance to come near a computer, she was able to move along the information superhighway, albeit at a crawl, with a bit of instruction. After Tyler had dropped her off at her hotel, she'd freshened up and had taken a taxi straight to the station. Skelly had finished his morning taping and had readily agreed to do a little more digging for her. At the moment, however, she was mourning the fact that she hadn't actually found anything of note.

  Skelly popped back into his office, waving a videotape. "Lookie, lookie."

  "You actually found something? You are an amazing man."

  "I found a big something." Skelly popped the tape into the recorder and turned on the monitor. "Wicker Park rang a bell. I didn't have to go back very far into our video morgue to find the footage."

  Keelin watched with fascination as he punched in some kind of code on the equipment. The machine whirred softly, clicked, and an image gelled on the monitor.

  "... a tragedy in Wicker Park this afternoon," came the newswoman's voice. "An eleven year old boy died searching for his missing pet. It happened at this newly renovated Milwaukee Avenue building..."

  Keelin stared wide-eyed. The newswoman was standing before the commercial building that had caught Tyler's attention while they were waiting in traffic.

  Then the image changed.

  "Harry was just lookin' for his lost dog. My son didn't mean no harm to nobody. An' he wasn't doin' nothing wrong. If that stairway wasn't safe, why wasn't it boarded up or something?"

  The man speaking was stocky and had salt-and-pepper hair. His features were grief-stricken.

  And startlingly familiar.

  "A question that authorities want answered from L&O Realty, as well," said the newswoman, reporting from the rear of the building.

  The stairway in question was now boarded to block entry, but the broken railing on the second landing was still evident. Keelin swallowed hard, imagining a poor child falling to his death on the pavement below, even as Skelly stopped the videotape.

  "The man's name is George Smialek," he said. "And he's suing L&O Realty over his son's death."

  "Maybe that's not all he's doing," Keelin murmured, excited. She kissed Skelly's cheek and hurried to the door. "Thank you, cous," she said, picking up his Americanism.

  "Let me know if you need something else. This detective work kind of reminds me of why I became a journalist in the first place."

  From the doorway, Keelin flashed him a grateful smile before rushing off to share her conclusions with Tyler.

  THE CHICAGO POLICE PROVED TO BE far less cooperative than Tyler had hoped...probably because he'd not been convincing enough even though he'd told them his daughter was being kept for ransom. Only a single team of detectives would make the rounds of the Wicker Park area looking for anyone who had seen Cheryl. And though the squad patrols would keep an eye open for her, as well, he didn't consider that nearly enough action to find his daughter fast.

  Even Jeremy Bryant was being elusive. He'd called the private investigator's office three times, so far, but the man seemed to be unavailable.

  So it was up to him, Tyler figured, rereading the missive that had been waiting on his desk when he'd returned to the office.

  Get your act together – and your money – fast. The kid's one in a "million". I'll be in touch.

  A million dollars!

  Not that he wouldn't pay any amount for Cheryl's safe return, Tyler thought. And not that his net worth wasn't far more than a million.

  The problem was his getting his hands on that kind of cash. He could probably scrape together a few hundred thousand in a day or two. He'd already called his broker and, against the woman's advice, had told her to sell what she could. A second mortgage on the North Bluff estate would get him what he needed – as would a sale of his Barrington land – but either would take time. Still, he had his top agent checking on both possibilities for him.

  All of his assets were tied up in stocks and property.

  Or in the company.

  The company. Tyler was reminded of Brock's determination to dissolve their partnership immediately. Would he be willing to come up with several hundred thousand cold cash to make it happen?

  Though Tyler still wanted to work things out, he knew this was something to consider.

  In the meantime, Tyler planned on going door-to-door in Wicker Park himself. He didn't count on Keelin showing up unannounced.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Did you –"

  "No dream," Keelin said, deflating the small hope he'd nurtured that she'd have a clearer idea of where his daughter was being held. "But I learned something else that may be important. It has to do with George Smialek."

  Tyler started. "How did you find out about Smialek?"

  "My cousin Skelly."

  Of course. The mudraker. "What did he tell you?"

  "He showed me the news clip about the boy falling to his death on the L&O renovation site in Wicker Park," she said, her expression sympathetic. "How well do you know the father? Is it possible that he wants revenge?"

  "I'm sure he'll get it, big time." Though no settlement, no matter how much money, could bring back a lost child. "You did know he's suing us?"

  "Did you know he's been keeping a close eye on you personally?" Keelin countered, the claim amazing him.

  "What makes you think so?"

  "Monday when you left me waiting while you fetched the Jaguar, a man stood in the shadow of another doorway," she said. "He crossed after you into the car park. I had the oddest feeling, but then you drove out and I put it to coincidence...until I saw Skelly's footage. The man was definitely George Smialek. What could he have been up to?"

  Figuring out how to plant a ransom note?

  Tyler swore under his breath. After telling her about the second note, he said, "Maybe we should ask Smialek about it in person."

  He called Pamela and asked her to check the legal documents for Smialek's address. When she didn't get back to him immediately, he grew fidgety.

  Five minutes later, he said, "Wait here and I'll see what's taking so long."

  Tyler found his assistant in a close huddle with his partner at the end of the hall. He stopped and stared at Brock's intense expression. His partner seemed to be angry with Pamela about something. What in the world was going on? Denise was Brock's assistant, while Pamela worked exclusively for him.

  Then Brock spotted him and broke up the secretive huddle. With a curt nod to Pamela, Brock strode into his own office and slammed the door.

  Leaving Tyler wondering.

  Brock had been acting so strangely the past few days. Desperate perfectly described the man's emotional balance.

  Takes one to know one, Tyler thought, running a hand through his hair.

  Desperate enough to kidnap his partner's child? a small voice asked.

  Tyler shook the unconscionable thought away and approached his assistant. "So what the hell is Brock giving you a hard time over now?"

  Pamela flushed. "Nothing important. Brock and I get along fine. He's just not in the best of moods tod
ay. Not for you to worry, okay?"

  When had Brock last been in a good mood? Tyler wondered. No doubt the man was merely taking his dissatisfaction out on the people who worked for them. And Pamela was correct. Getting involved in employee relations was too much for him to handle at the moment.

  "Did you find the papers?" he asked.

  "Right here."

  She handed him the legal documents apprising him of the lawsuit against L&O Realty. He quickly took note of George Smialek's Wicker Park address.

  "Thanks." He handed the document back to her.

  "That's it?" Pamela asked, eyebrows raised.

  "All I need. Keep trying to get hold of Bryant for me."

  With Keelin at his side, he left the building, tension mounting fast.

  After pulling from the garage a few minutes later, Tyler drove down the city streets like a madman, praying no cop would interfere. George Smialek. A grieving father wanting to give the source of his anguish some of the same. It made sense. If Smialek were the guilty one, he wasn't really after the ransom money – he'd undoubtedly get plenty through the lawsuit – he was after revenge.

  Torturing him with Cheryl's disappearance might only be the beginning, he realized with a sick feeling.

  Tyler hoped talking would keep his blood pressure down.

  "The building on Milwaukee was an old department store that we're renovating into a retail shop and loft apartments," he said. "Harry Smialek's death was a tragedy, but it was a terrible accident."

  One over which he'd had a few sleepless nights himself.

  "The boy was looking for his dog, was he not?" Keelin asked.

  Tyler nodded. "He must have thought he heard the mutt in the building. He climbed the construction fence in back and went up the rear porch. The second floor landing's side rail was in place but apparently not fully secured. Harry must have leaned on it. He fell through. The dog found him and stood guard over his broken body until the next morning."

  "How horrible."

  Tyler couldn't agree more. He'd arrived on the scene himself before the boy had been body-bagged. Even now, the vision haunted him.

  "My crew chief swore that railing had been properly attached."

  "Perhaps he was covering for his men's carelessness. Or his own."

  "Someone was sure careless," Tyler agreed. "City inspectors went over the place, found several other things wrong, as well, including an electrical circuit to the retail area that wasn't grounded. I don't understand. I only hire the best and these men have all worked for me before. It's like I'm cursed or something."

  "Or perhaps someone..."

  Keelin didn't have to finish the thought. When he'd gotten the bad news, he had wondered himself if someone hadn't been out to sabotage the project and give L&O Realty a bad name.

  Or him? he suddenly considered.

  The renovation side of the business was his baby, after all, as Brock had reminded him.

  Brock.

  Surely not. Surely a dissatisfied partner wouldn't chance damaging the reputation of his own company, not when he wanted to split everything, taking both assets and current clients with him.

  Arriving in the Wicker Park area, Tyler gathered his scattered thoughts and set his mind back on their present mission. Rather than wander about looking for the address that was not familiar to him, he stopped to ask directions. And before they even arrived at George's apartment house, he figured they were on a wild goose chase.

  "Wrong side of Damen," he muttered, catching the steering wheel in a death grip. "The newsstand guy said Cheryl came from the opposite direction."

  "Perhaps she crossed Damen and circled around," Keelin said, though she didn't sound convinced. "That part of the vision is so shadowy, anything is possible."

  Tyler pulled up before a six flat with a front stoop and wondered if Keelin could be right.

  Chapter Eight

  GEORGE SMIALEK LUMBERED TO THE DOOR on unsteady bare feet, never expecting the high and mighty owner of L&O Realty to be on the other side. Him and that same little chippy he'd been dragging around lately.

  "What're you doing here?" he thundered, taking a swig of beer.

  He'd been drinking a lot since Harry's death. He'd even lost a good job over the booze. The boss had told him to come back when he meant to be sober. He weren't going back though, George told himself. When this was over, he and Ida would disappear and he wouldn't ever have to work again.

  "We have some things to discuss," Tyler Leighton said.

  George snorted. "This ain't your type of neighborhood. Unless you kin make lots of money on it," he amended. "Thinking about buying the building and renovating it?"

  "Who is it, George?" his wife called from the kitchen.

  He held the son-of-a-bitch's gaze as he yelled back, "The man responsible for our boy's death."

  "Mr. Smialek, that's not fair," returned the woman in a lilting voice. "Nor truthful."

  He narrowed his gaze, thinking that in her floaty, flowery dress and little boots she wasn't the rich man's usual sort. "That building was his responsibility. Who're you to say?"

  "My name's Keelin McKenna. Can we come inside for a moment? We'd like to talk to you."

  She was craning her neck, trying to get a good look around behind him. George all but closed the door with himself wedged in the opening.

  "My lawyer says I ain't supposed to talk to anyone connected to the realty company. You wanna settle some money on me, you talk to him."

  "We're not here about the law suit," Leighton said.

  George's hackles rose. "What do you want from me? You already took enough!"

  "I'm sorry about your son."

  "So you say. Words won't bring Harry back."

  Just as words wouldn't bring Leighton's daughter back to him, George thought, giving the rich man a once-over, searching for signs. A subtle tension radiated from him, and his eyes were haunted – George had seen that same look in his own mirror every day for weeks now, ever since they buried his boy. But the bastard seemed to be functioning like normal.

  No creases on his expensive suit. No beard stubble. No tell-tale smell of alcohol.

  George took another swig of his beer. Maybe the rules were different for the rich. Maybe they didn't grieve the same way ordinary people did.

  "I can understand your bitterness, Mr. Smialek, but –"

  "Cut the crap, Leighton! With your fancy clothes, your fancy house, your fancy car...you don't understand a damn thing about me!"

  He got great satisfaction from slamming the door in the big man's face.

  "George?"

  He turned to his wife, who lurked in the background, her expression worried as Leighton started pounding on the door behind him.

  "Smialek, I want to talk to you!" came his muffled demand.

  "Tough!" In a softer voice, he said, "Don't worry your beautiful head, Ida, I got rid of 'em."

  Her gaze shot to the door. "He's going to cause us big trouble."

  "Let him try. He'll be sorry."

  George kissed his wife, then drained the can of beer and stalked to the kitchen for another, ignoring the continued pounding behind...as well as the locked door between.

  Leighton would be sorry, all right.

  He'd get the bastard where it would hurt him most.

  KEELIN FOLLOWED TYLER into the temporarily abandoned renovation site. He'd voiced the need to visit the building, as if it would somehow bring him answers about his daughter. Keelin had seen no reason to object.

  As she gathered her long skirts to climb the open rear stairs, she thought about the boy who had died there. About the father who lost himself in drink to forget. And as they entered the interior with its sharp smell of new paint and varnish and the more subtle fragrance of cut wood, she tried to determine whether or not there was some connection between Harry Smialek's death and Cheryl Leighton's kidnapping.

  "I don't know," she admitted a short while later, when they stood at a newly installed fourth floor window tha
t opened an entire vista all the way to the city proper. "He was drinking ale like the man who kidnapped Cheryl..."

  "Hard to pin a crime on a man over a fondness for beer."

  She nodded in agreement as she scanned the surrounding rooftops that lay below them. "If only he hadn't closed the door on us before I could see inside, perhaps I could tell better."

  "What did you feel?" Tyler urged, "Take a shot at it."

  Keelin shook her head. "I can only say what I sensed through Cheryl in the dream," she told him once again. "I don't have the power to read peoples' minds."

  "She's so close...I can almost feel her." His voice was raw with worry. "Out there somewhere...in one of those buildings we can see...sick with fear. A father should be able to keep his child from harm. I would give everything I own to have her safe beside me. Damn it!"

  Tyler whipped away from the windows and slumped against the newly exposed brick wall, shoulders rounded in a gesture of defeat.

  "No one has the power to keep another safe always," Keelin assured him. "We can only do our best for those we care about."

  Light filtered through the glass, revealing bits of him. Just as he only revealed bits of himself at any given moment. But Keelin could see his unguarded expression. She needn't have any special powers to recognize the grief of disappointment that he could no longer hide inside.

  Her need to heal was greater than her hesitation at getting too close to a man whom she knew could hurt her at a very deep level.

  Keelin stepped into Tyler's personal space and placed a quieting hand over his heart, as if she could mute its thunder, could absorb some of his pain unto herself. She would take all gladly if she could. His warmth captured her even as his fingers closed around her wrist and tightened like a vise, threatening to keep her fast until he willed otherwise.

  Her pulse quickened and her breath caught in her throat.

  Then he stared down at her, and she could see that his pale eyes were shiny with unshed tears. He was hanging onto her lest he break. Unable to help herself, she reached up with her free hand and threaded her fingers through his thick hair.