You Can't Escape (9781420134650)

by Bush, Nancy

  Holy . . . shit . . .

  “I’m Detective Rafferty with the Laurelton PD. Are you leaving, Mr. Danziger?” she asked, pulling out her identification. “Didn’t Officer McDermott tell you I was coming to see you?”

  Danziger had frozen in place and Jordanna was suddenly very aware of her hands on his torso, helping hold him up. Beneath the thin hospital gown his muscles were hard and his skin felt hot. It had to look pretty intimate and from the detective’s expression, Jordanna realized that she believed she’d interrupted Jay with his wife.

  “Yes, he told me. I just was heading to the . . .” His eyes drifted to the bathroom.

  Detective Rafferty inclined her head and said, “I can wait in the hall.”

  As soon as she was gone, Jordanna released him and he sank back onto the bed. He whispered tautly, “Can you go to my house? Get me the clothes, shoes, definitely pants. They must’ve cut off the ones I had on.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “You know where my house is?”

  “Um . . . no,” Jordanna lied, keeping silent about all the times she’d spent surveilling him from afar.

  He told her the address, then said, “Take my keys. My clothes are upstairs in the master bedroom closet.”

  “What about your wife?” she asked quietly, throwing a nervous glance toward the door to the corridor.

  “I told you. She’s in Europe.”

  “That’s not good enough. What about the Saldanos? Surely they’ve contacted her by now. She has to have heard. I bet she took the first flight back.”

  “No.”

  “She’s your wife,” Jordanna insisted.

  “She’s my ex. We’re divorced.... We just haven’t moved apart yet.”

  “Huh.” Jordanna thought that over, possibilities flying through her mind that she tamped down. She was going to have to give herself a very stern talking-to about him. “She should still be here. Why isn’t she?”

  “Lucky for you, she’s not,” he pointed out.

  “I don’t care if she’s your ex. As soon as she knows, she’ll be back. Which could be any minute,” she finished, her gut clenching at the thought.

  “Well, what the hell do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. Give me a minute,” Jordanna whispered harshly.

  They stared at each other a long moment. I could get lost in those eyes, Jordanna thought, so she wrenched her gaze away.

  Danziger said, “Look, my bedroom’s at the top of the stairs, first door to the right.” Jordanna glanced back in time to see him gazing down at his thickly wrapped leg. Then he shook his head and looked out the window, where a watery May sun was half-shadowed by a small, stubborn cloud. “Pants aren’t going to work. I’ve got sweats in a bottom drawer inside the closet.”

  She nodded in assent. They were still going forward with their plan. She started toward the door, but he gritted out, “Wait,” causing her to freeze in place.

  “What?” she asked, looking back at him.

  He inclined his head toward the bathroom and said reluctantly, “I need some help getting there.”

  She immediately returned to him and slipped her arm around his torso once more. “We have to get you some crutches,” she said. Danziger was naked apart from the hospital gown, but Jordanna made a point of not looking. They moved awkwardly, Danziger barely able to put any weight on his left leg while Jordanna wobbled on her heels. When he was finally at the bathroom door, his head was hanging down and she was afraid to let go. “You’re not gonna pass out, are you?” she asked urgently.

  “No. Just . . . damn weak . . .” he muttered irritably.

  “Where are the keys?”

  “Probably in there.” He waved a hand in the direction of the tiny closet, then let himself into the bathroom.

  Exhaling a deep breath, she quickly ran through the drawers in the closet and found his meager personal belongings: keys, change, a cell phone, a shirt, a pair of boxers, socks, shoes, remnants of a pair of Dockers.

  Picking up the keys and slipping them into her pocket, she waited briefly for him to come out of the bathroom. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she headed back into the hall. She would have to put the license plates back on the car ASAP.

  Detective Rafferty was leaning against the opposite wall, staring down at the ring on her left hand. A nice stone, Jordanna thought, though the two lines etched between the detective’s brows said she might not feel the same way.

  She looked up as soon as Jordanna stepped outside the room. “Mrs. Danziger?”

  “Yes . . .” Jordanna’s throat was tight.

  “I understand Officer McDermott spoke to you earlier.”

  “Umm, yeah . . . I was looking for . . . Jay. I didn’t know which hospital he was brought to. It was all kind of confusing.”

  She nodded as she straightened from the wall. “I heard he’s being released today. That’s good. His injuries were the worst from the explosion.”

  Jordanna was racking her brain for something to say, for something his wife would say, a question to be asked. She was so nervous her palms were sweating, but she tried to merely look concerned. “Jay said it was a bomb?” she asked, playing her part.

  The detective nodded. “I just came from speaking with your father and brother. It was definitely a bomb and the ATF, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, is investigating the nature of it.”

  Hearing the words on the detective’s tongue chilled Jordanna anew. “Did . . . my brother . . . say what he thought about it?”

  “Your father believes it was a competitor, but I don’t want to speculate too much. We don’t have enough information yet.” Rafferty looked past Jordanna toward the room, where they both heard Danziger bark out a swear word as he stumped from the bathroom back toward the bed.

  Jordanna thought about turning back to help him, but already knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. She’d been tasked with a job and needed to do it quickly.

  “When did you get back from Europe?” Detective Rafferty said, sending Jordanna’s pulse shooting sky high.

  “Um . . . last night. I turned around as soon as I heard and it took a while to get here.”

  “You asked what your brother thought. What do you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to speculate, either.” Jordanna was starting to sweat. When it came to light that she wasn’t Carmen Saldano—and it would—this detective was going to be wondering who the hell she’d been talking to. “Maybe it’s a disgruntled employee?”

  “What about your husband?” she asked her.

  “What about him?”

  “He was the one directly in the line of fire.”

  “Well, yeah, but no one knew he was going to be there, except Maxwell. That’s a long shot. And anyway, why would it be about Jay? I mean, yes, he’s a journalist, and he’s made his share of enemies, but they couldn’t know he was going to be at Saldano Industries at that exact moment?” Was she talking too fast? She felt like she was talking too fast.

  “It’s a long shot,” Rafferty agreed, but the way she was looking at her, with a kind of intense curiosity, sent Jordanna’s pulse racing. “So, you think a disgruntled employee set the bomb.”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “What about a competitor?”

  “You’re really talking to the wrong person. I don’t work for Saldano Industries, and I don’t know that much about what’s going on. I do . . . interior design.” She glanced down the corridor. “Now, I’ve really got to get going. Lots to do . . .”

  Rafferty nodded. “I’ll talk to your husband, but I’ll call you if I have any further questions.”

  “My husband can give you any information you need.” She heard the tension in her voice and cleared her throat.

  “Don’t worry. This is all routine,” Detective Rafferty assured her.

  Jordanna nodded and hoped the woman didn’t notice her shaking hands. She was pretty sure Rafferty could see right through her, and it
made her want to run down the hall as fast as she could. With an effort, she kept her feet rooted to the spot and tried on a smile. “I’ll maybe talk to you later, then.”

  “Or someone from Portland PD.” She nodded. “It’s a joint effort right now. All hands on deck.”

  “Okay.” Jordanna’s chest constricted at that news. She only managed to stave off more of a reaction by turning as the remark was made. It took a helluva lot of concentration to walk away on her high heels as if she did it every day. Heart pounding, she forced herself not to look back.

  Dance watched the pretty police detective enter his room and kept his expression neutral. He’d seen her before, he realized, but it took him a moment to place where: Channel 7 News. With Pauline Kirby. She’d been the Laurelton Police Department’s new face last year. Dance had had his own dealings with Kirby, who was a grasping bitch jumped up from fluff reporting to hard news after sleeping with her boss, her coworkers, and anyone else she felt could give her a rung up, or so the story went. She’d certainly been uber-friendly to Dance when she’d interviewed him after a long investigation into political fraud, one he’d doggedly chased right up to the state level. Kirby had wanted to put Dance on camera, but he’d refused. He didn’t want to be more recognizable than he already was. Anonymity was the fuel that powered his ability to function in his job. If his face was plastered all over television, he wouldn’t be able to move through the shadows of an investigation.

  Still, Kirby had managed to get a small clip of him and had aired it a couple of times, though Dance hadn’t signed off on it. He’d gone down to the station loaded for bear and only the threat of a lawsuit had gotten Kirby to, reluctantly, and with repressed fury, back down. She wouldn’t give him the tape, however, and Dance’s paper hadn’t wanted a full-scale war with the television station, so she still had control, which pissed him off.

  Of course, since that time, other pictures of him had found their way to the Internet, so the question was basically moot, and this bombing would plaster his face on the front-page news. Still, he didn’t have to like it.

  “All right to come in now?” the young detective asked him, peeking her head back inside the room.

  He’d levered himself back into bed, more because he wanted to hang on to what little dignity could be afforded him in the airy hospital gown than because he needed support, though he was damn near immobilized without some kind of crutch.

  “I spoke with your wife just now.”

  “Oh . . . yeah?”

  “I asked her a little bit about her family, but she said I should talk to you. We’ve determined the explosion was caused by a bomb.”

  “Officer McDermott told me.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I just came from speaking with Victor and Maxwell Saldano. I understand the reason you were at Saldano Industries was because you were meeting with Maxwell Saldano?”

  “Yeah. We were thinking of playing golf, but Max suggested we meet at the office as it’s about halfway between my house and his.”

  “But Mr. Saldano was called away to be with his ailing father at his home in the West Hills.”

  “I didn’t know that at the time. I thought we were still on.”

  “He said he never called you because he was on the phone with Raydeen Abolear, your father-in-law’s nurse.”

  “Okay.”

  “There weren’t a lot of employees near the bomb site, which was at the front of the building, on the opposite side of the wall from the building entrance.”

  “Was it in Max’s office?” Dance asked.

  “It was against the west wall of the outside entrance. Is Max’s office on the other side?” she asked right back.

  Yes. Dance could feel his mouth dry as he thought about that meeting with Max at the end of last week and the audiotape he’d handed his friend.

  “What?” the detective asked.

  “Maybe this bomb was meant for Max.” Dance purposely didn’t tell her about the tape. “It’s lucky he wasn’t there.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “Do you know anything about the bomb itself?”

  “The ATF hasn’t given out details yet.”

  She asked a few more questions about his relationship with the Saldanos, but Dance’s attention was drifting away. He didn’t recall the explosion, but he remembered getting ready to meet Max. The golf game was just a reason to get together with his friend. He’d wanted to talk to him about Carmen and the truth of their living arrangement. He was tired of the deception. He wanted to be divorced, really divorced; he didn’t want to live in the same house with her any longer. He remembered walking out to his Highlander, hitting the remote button, and wishing he could blow up their relationship publicly, so to speak. He’d even experienced a wild moment of longing that he’d had some tawdry affair, or had been stinking drunk at some important social event, or found some other way to humiliate her so that Carmen felt compelled to throw him out, make a permanent end to it. He was sick of being careful, amicable, and polite. That’s what he’d been thinking, his last conscious thought before waking up in the hospital.

  “Mr. Danziger, you’re an investigative journalist. Who or what do you think was the bomb’s target?”

  “I haven’t had time to really think about it.”

  She gave him a straight look that called him a liar.

  “All I know is I was supposed to meet Max, but . . .” He broke off. “I need to talk to him. What’s his theory? Did he say?”

  “I’ll let him tell you,” she evaded smoothly. Tit for tat, he thought. He wasn’t saying anything and neither was she. “Mr. Saldano, Maxwell, said he’s tried to get in touch with you, but hasn’t been able to. The hospital isn’t putting calls through to your room, per our request.”

  And my cell phone’s probably dead.

  “We can lift that restriction,” she said now.

  “Yeah, sure.” He was going to be gone soon enough anyway.

  She circled around and asked a few of the same questions in other manners, but Dance had nothing more to add. Soon enough, she thanked him and left. He watched her walk away and then leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe deeply and evenly. His head felt clear, a bit achy but nothing truly troubling, which was a major relief. But his leg worried him. Cloaked in painkillers, he felt okay for the moment. However, his left thigh was going to hurt like a son of a bitch when the analgesics wore off, and he feared the damage to his muscles was extensive. He thought about Max again. His friend was trying to reach him. Deciding it was time to check his cell, he got up and bumped around, swearing some more, until he found the drawer that held his cell. He clicked the power button, but nothing happened. The battery was dead, as he’d expected. He was lucky the phone had survived the bombing at all, but then he’d had it in his right-hand pocket and all the damage had been to his left side.

  He stared at it for a long time, then searched around until he found a hospital-issued plastic bag, which he carried, along with the cell phone, back to the bed. He liberated a paper clip from the pages of the hospital documents strewn across the bedside table, then bent it straight. With the paper clip and his own brute force, he pulled the phone apart and took out the battery and SIM card. Afterward, he put all the pieces in the bag.

  Back in the bed again, he gazed at the hospital phone. No reason he couldn’t call out. Reaching over, he picked up the receiver, then sat frozen as he searched through his mind for Max’s cell number. It finally came to him, which cheered him up a lot as it said that his brain was still working pretty well, even if his cognitive ability had been dulled and slowed by the painkillers.

  He pressed the numbers carefully, pausing before the last one. When it was ringing through, he suddenly cut the connection. There was the matter of the audiotape, a private conversation he’d been given by a source inside Saldano Industries. A message that certainly sounded like it implicated Saldano’s import/export business in a smuggling operation. He’d given t
he tape to Max—actually a copy, though he’d lied and told his friend it was the original—and Max had listened to it and said it had to be fake. He’d wanted to know who’d given the tape to Dance, but Dance had answered that he’d received it anonymously. Max had then said he would put the tape in his office safe and he would figure out what the hell it was about. He’d assured Dance the accusations were entirely false.

  Were they? Dance had wanted to believe that with all his heart. He’d been toiling over the issue, and had half-convinced himself it was some kind of setup against his friend.

  But the bomb had blown out the east wall of Max’s office, the west wall of the building entrance. That was the wall where the safe was—little more than a filing cabinet with a lock—and if Max had put the tape there, then it was probably blown to smithereens.

  But there was that copy in a safe deposit box.

  Does Max know you well enough to know you would always make a copy? Yes. Is it too much of a stretch to believe he might try to destroy the evidence and you, too? An act of desperation to save his family?

  No.

  Yes.

  “I don’t know,” he said aloud, his chest hurting.

  Whatever the case, until he knew, he was putting himself in Jordanna Winters’s hands. He just hoped he wasn’t making a bigger mistake.

  Chapter Four

  The Danziger house was what the locals called Old Portland style with white columns and an imposing porch flanked by dual rectangular windows on either side of the massive front door. Jordanna held the keys in one fist as she pushed open the wrought-iron gate that surrounded the yard, looking around furtively at the sudden shriek of metal upon metal the gate made, as if it were seldom used. She’d parked down the block, where the houses were still stuck in the sixties or seventies with a predominance of split entries. This street, however, was in full gentrification mode. Though the Danzigers’ house’s style made it look as if it were from another era, it was newer than any of the rest and sprawled over what had once been two or three lots.