by Juno Rushdan
She sent a message updating Miguel that they had verified Natascha’s story and the young woman could be released.
The team and Jackson made their way down to the boardroom and took seats, but they waited on Miguel.
Liam looked awful. Hair disheveled. Unshaven. He paced back and forth as though he’d had too much coffee.
Madeline turned to Nick, who was sitting on her left. “Did Liam pull an all-nighter?”
“The wedding is off as of right now,” he whispered. “I don’t have details about the straw that broke the camel’s proverbial back, but he’s torn up over it.”
Poor Lorelai and Liam. In spite of Madeline’s reservations about relationships, she hoped those two would get their act together.
“Madeline,” David said, “I don’t know if you had a chance to see the update I submitted earlier since it’s been such a hectic morning.”
“No, I haven’t seen it yet.” All alerts she prioritized. The rest she would read as soon as she had a chance.
“I was going over the rest of the interviews, trying to find any discrepancies, and found one thing. Ten employees mentioned seeing four people as part of the catering staff.”
“But there was only a crew of three,” Dash said.
David nodded. “I know.”
“Out of the employees, did anyone specify how many were men and how many were women?” she asked. They might be able to narrow down the gender. Reinforce her profile of the kidnapper or lead them in a different direction.
“There was no mention of gender,” David said. “Only that there were four people on the catering crew.”
Madeline drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “That’s how the kidnapper went unnoticed.”
“Led Emma away right in front of me,” Jackson said from his chair to the other side of her with his head down.
It was a key thread of information David had found. If they pulled on the loose end, there was no telling what else they might unravel. “Check with the catering company to see what type of vehicle they used for the event.”
“Do you think it’s the same kind as the one from last night?” Jackson asked.
The kidnapper using a service van to transport Emma made sense. Reduced the likelihood of anyone seeing her and wouldn’t have raised suspicion on ETC premises. “It’s possible.”
David pushed out of his chair and was moving toward the door. “I’ll go call them right now.”
Jackson scrubbed a palm over his jaw. His brow was furrowed with worry.
“I know the last message feels devastating, but this isn’t over,” Madeline said to him, keeping her voice low so that only he could hear her. “They’re not going to keep her. The kidnapper is toying with you.” Wanted to drag this out and wear him down. Break his spirit a little more with each message.
“Because he wants to make me as miserable as possible?” Jackson whispered.
“Yes.” And she was sorry for it, ached for what he was going through. For someone to use an innocent child as tool for revenge. This case was eating at her, digging at her from the inside out. They had to find Emma soon.
“Then I’m sure he’s imagined what kind of person could hurt a child,” Jackson ground out through clenched teeth. “What the psychological baggage would do to me. I’d never offload it, not for as long as I lived if something happened to her.”
“You can’t think like that.” She patted his hand under the table, and he covered hers with the palm of his other, his fingers squeezing hers. “No one is going to hurt Emma.”
“The kidnapper almost ran us down last night. That proves they’re capable of anything.”
“They have no reason to cross that line.” Not yet. “We will find her.” Madeline was willing to go to the ends of the earth to get his daughter back.
In his eyes, she saw that he believed her. She would do everything in her power to make good on her promise.
Miguel joined them, and Liam got started with his update by bringing the picture of Emma up on the screen.
“The photo the kidnapper sent was grainy, and it took some time to improve the resolution,” Liam said. “The sweat suit Emma is wearing is from the private label brand for a big-box retailer that has stores everywhere. The store also carries the doll and coloring book. So nothing to go on there.”
Jackson muttered a curse under his breath.
“After taking a closer look at the room that she’s in,” Liam continued, “I realized that there are no windows. I think the use of the newspaper on the walls was to hide that fact. Also, the floor is concrete.”
“Like she’s being kept in a garage?” Jackson asked.
“That’s a strong possibility,” Liam said.
Madeline stared at the picture. “Did you figure out which newspaper was used?”
“So far two. The Emerald City Times and the Seattle Chronicle.”
“Are those recent newspapers?” Miguel asked.
“I couldn’t make out the dates. So I started cross-referencing the ads and images that are visible. Found one dated last week. Here’s an article that wasn’t on the wall but was in the Chronicle for that day.”
Jackson straightened as the article came up.
The headline read:
New Emerald Tech Corp CEO Vows Cutting-edge Breakthrough This Year. Can He Deliver?
Whoever took Emma had a clear personal vendetta against Jackson, but one that was business related.
It took more than discipline and intelligence for Jackson to rise to CEO so young. It had required ambition. In her experience, ambition was a volatile fuel capable of great damage.
Maybe taking a closer look at AlbrechTech wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Questioning Charles Albrecht was one thing. Getting proof of a motive was better.
Madeline glanced at Jackson. Stubborn resolve was stamped on his face.
David opened the door and popped his head in the room. “I spoke to the owner of the catering company. Their staff only uses one type of vehicle for events.”
“Black Ford Transit?” Madeline asked.
“Yep, that’s the one.”
* * *
JACKSON SAT IN the passenger seat of the government SUV, more determined than ever to attend the event at AlbrechTech and see if Chuck was behind his daughter’s kidnapping. Chuck had sold out his own father to get ahead. Would he sell his soul, too?
Madeline turned onto his block, headed back to his house. “I don’t have anything to wear. After I drop you off, I’ll swing by my condo in Wedgwood to change.”
“Not necessary,” Jackson said.
“It’s black-tie. It is necessary. Unless you think this is appropriate.” Madeline swept a hand over her shirt and slacks.
A change of clothing was essential and that was precisely what Jackson was relying on.
She pulled into his driveway. “Who is that?” Madeline asked, staring at the woman standing on the porch.
The slip of a girl had two stuffed garment bags draped over her arm.
“A stylist,” Jackson said. “I didn’t think you had an evening gown stashed in your overnight bag, and we don’t have time for you to run home to get ready. I don’t want to miss Chuck’s big announcement.”
“When did you call her?”
“I rang Petra while you were in Miguel’s office talking to him about the party at AlbrechTech.” He’d made two calls from the landline in Madeline’s office since the FBI were monitoring his cell phone. “I’ve used her in the past for Francesca. She sent an assistant over with a couple of dresses for you to choose from.”
Madeline arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. “It’s that simple. One call and the store comes to you.”
“That simple. You’re a six, right?” He opened the door and hopped out.
Madeline killed the engine and walked around the front o
f the car. “A what?”
“Dress size. A six.” Being married had made him a good guesser in that department, but he’d asked Petra to send over options that ranged from a four to eight since cut varied by designers. All jewel-toned or pastel colors that would best flatter Madeline.
“I am a six,” she said, sounding a bit shocked.
He knew it. “She also brought some undergarments to go along. I didn’t know if a sports bra would work with the selections.”
“Did you guess my bra size as well?”
He had. Guessed a 34C. Clearing his throat, he thought it wiser not to respond.
On the porch, he made a quick introduction.
“Petra told me to give you this.” The assistant handed him a glossy black bag.
“Thank you.” He took the bag as Madeline eyed him. “A disguise to throw off the press,” he said to her and when she appeared satisfied with the response, he unlocked the door, letting them in.
Across the street, he spotted Larry leaving his house and making a beeline their way.
“Take your time, Madeline. I want you to be comfortable. If the selections don’t work for you—”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said, staring at him. Her striking face was a blank slate giving away nothing, her tone crisp and cool.
Once again, he had no clue what she was thinking.
Madeline headed down the hall and the assistant followed as the two disappeared around the corner.
Jackson went out onto the porch to greet his neighbor. “Hi, Larry.”
“Glad I caught you.” In the late daylight, his thinning blond hair and golfer’s V-neck burn were pronounced. He sported khakis with a crease sharp enough to draw blood, a blue blazer with a yellow-and-green lining, a matching pocket hankie that protruded like a clown’s water-squirting flower, and loafers with no socks. “This is for you, my friend.” Larry handed him a ten-by-eight black metal case with keypad access, along with a RFID wristband and key fob and a box of ammo. “If I had to recommend one handgun for the home, it’d be the Glock 19. Great for the range, your nightstand and on your person for concealed carry. There’s a Gen 5 inside.” With a bright white grin, he tapped the top of the metal case. “I always store my ammo separately, but some folks like to keep theirs loaded.”
“I appreciate it, Larry. What do I owe you for this?”
His neighbor waved a dismissive hand. “We never did get you a welcome gift when you moved in. Consider this it, a few years late.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I see the FBI agent is back. Do you keep the same one or do they rotate them?”
“If I’m lucky, there won’t be any rotation.” He hoped that was the case. Madeline had looked more annoyed than pleased. He might have overstepped by contacting the stylist, but that had been a risk he’d been willing to take. This was the only way to cover what he had done in making the second phone call, and he wouldn’t make Madeline complicit.
“I’ll say. I wouldn’t mind having her around 24/7.” Larry waggled his eyebrows, and his ruddy complexion deepened. “She’s a looker, that one.”
“Excellent at her job,” Jackson said. “I couldn’t ask for a smarter, more dedicated kidnapping expert committed to helping me get my daughter back.”
The small grin on Larry’s lips fell. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, let us know.” With a wave, he hurried down the porch steps.
Jackson put the chain on, making a mental note to have his front door replaced with a steel one without a window.
Passing the guest room, he overheard Madeline talking to the assistant. From what he could make out, it sounded as though it was going well.
In his bedroom at the end of the hall, he closed the door and set everything on his dresser. Pressing the RFID key fob to the reader, he opened the case, revealing the Glock. He picked up the cold matte black pistol. Lightweight with a low recoil, it was a solid choice for home defense. But he didn’t have a need for the gun tonight.
Closing the case, he turned his attention to the glossy bag.
Madeline had made exceptional points about why he shouldn’t attend the AlbrechTech event. All of them he had taken to heart. Inside the bag was a little something from Petra, the solution to the problem. A wig and fake mustache. Being noticed by the press wasn’t on his agenda.
Also in the bag was an envelope—the contents of which were a product of his second phone call that he didn’t want the FBI privy to. His contact had dropped the envelope off at Petra’s studio as directed and collected a twenty-five-thousand-dollar fee in return.
No record of money changing hands between Jackson and the contact would exist. But Jackson would receive a hefty bill from Petra.
He checked the envelope. It contained exactly what he had expected. His plan wasn’t aboveboard, nor was it definitive he’d have to go through with it. Always be prepared to seize an opportunity. That was what his father had taught him. A lesson that had served Jackson well for more than thirty years.
Jackson bathed and got dressed, putting on a tux. Applying the silicone-based adhesive to his face, he went slowly, working carefully to ensure the mustache wouldn’t come loose at an inopportune moment later. He slipped on the brown wig that was streaked with gray and looked in the mirror. A different man stared back at him.
He drifted down the hall. The shower ran in the guest bathroom and the assistant was gone.
Jackson sat at the piano and ran his fingers across the keys like it was an old friend. In many ways, it was. A best friend that had never failed him.
He struck a few chords, waiting for the piece of music to choose him. Then he played.
Opening himself, he let his focus become so singular it was as if the music reached out and took possession of him. Let every emotion pour out over the keys. He thought of his mother, as always. But he also thought of Emma. Of her smile. Her laughter. Her tears. Of the little things that made her special. Of all the great things he hoped she’d one day achieve. She was his hopes and dreams wrapped up in pure, unconditional love.
When he finished, emptied of the pressure, he was breathing hard and fast. And this was why he played. So that he could breathe.
“Tristesse,” Madeline said behind him, referring to the name of the piece, which meant sadness in French. “Also known as Chopin’s Etude Number Three in E Major, Opus Ten.”
It didn’t surprise him that she knew it, but it did warm something in his chest.
“I’ve never heard it played so beautifully in person,” she said. “Where did you learn?”
He lowered his head. “My mother. She went to Juilliard. Instead of realizing her full potential, she married my father and had me. She gifted me with her love of playing.”
“And her talent.”
Spinning around on the bench, he looked up at her and the breath stalled in his lungs.
A fuchsia sheath dress clung to her svelte figure. The vivid color contrasted beautifully with her radiant skin. A slit along the right side that ran from knee to midthigh was the one aspect of the sophisticated dress that wasn’t subtle in its sex appeal. With her long dark hair flowing loose and wavy around her shoulders, there was only one word to describe Madeline.
Breathtaking.
“You look stunning.” He stood and crossed the room. Her eyes were glassy with tears. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You don’t like the dress or is my disguise that bad?”
“I love the dress, though I would’ve preferred something black to help me blend in rather than stand out, and low heels would’ve been nice. Your disguise works. Quite effective.” She dabbed at the corner of an eye. “You moved me. Your playing touched my soul. If I could play like that I’d never stop. Why don’t you do this professionally?”
He frowned and the mustache tickled his face. “Could you picture me in a lounge playing for my
supper?”
She squinted at him. “No, I guess I can’t.”
“My father hammered into me the practicality of pursuing business over music. But Emma is free to follow her passion, wherever that leads. She has been playing since she was three. She’s quite good. You should hear her play.” His chest ached with the desire to make that a reality.
Madeline moved to him and cupped his cheek. Almost as soon as she had, she dropped her hand and stepped back. “Should we go?”
“I arranged for a car. It should be here any minute.”
“Why did you go to the trouble?”
“Force of habit for this sort of thing. Besides, my car isn’t exactly subtle.” His blue metallic Tesla was too recognizable to take to the event. “And I didn’t want you to have to bother driving yours. You’re going above and beyond already.” He gestured for her to proceed. “After you.”
Madeline smiled at him, warm and genuine, and headed for the door.
Jackson grabbed the invitation from the coffee table and slid a hand over his breast pocket, feeling the outline of the contents from the envelope. Under the best set of circumstances, he wouldn’t have any need to use it. If push came to shove and he had to move forward, then and only then would he let Madeline in on the details. It wasn’t the most ethical plan after all.
The last thing he wanted was to jeopardize her career and burn the personal bridge they’d been building. The possibility of it made him sick, tore him right down the middle. He’d try to avoid that outcome.
But he was willing to do absolutely anything to get Emma back. Anything.
Nothing was more important.
Chapter Ten
In the confines of the back seat of the luxury sedan, Madeline was highly aware of how delicious Jackson smelled. She breathed him in, telling herself to relax and focus on the job.
The car passed a throng of protesters gathered outside of AlbrechTech and pulled into a line to drop them off at the entrance of the building.
Madeline scanned the crowd, looking for one of their prime suspects.
“She’s here,” Jackson said. “Samantha Dickson. Kane Tidwell, too.”