Catherine Coulter - FBI 3 The Target

by Неизвестный

  There was a queen bed in the bedroom. It was Molly's old room, he realized. There wasn't a ruffle to be had. What there was were bookshelves all up and down one wall, filled with paperbacks and hardcovers, piled indiscriminately. On the other wall were photos, dozens and dozens of photos. Many were framed, most were arranged lovingly and carefully on corkboards.

  "Mama takes pictures," Emma said to Ramsey when he laid her on her back. "She took all these when she was young."

  "I see," he said, and leaned down and kissed Emma's forehead. He stroked her hair back from her face. "You go to sleep now, Emma. I don't want you worrying about anything, all right?"

  "You won't leave, will you, Ramsey?"

  He'd already made that decision, with Molly's help, but still, what if something happened? Something he couldn't foresee made him leave?

  She whispered, "You don't know if you should tell me the truth. It's all right. Everybody lies. Except Mama. She never lies."

  "Is that so?"

  "Yes," Emma said. "Mama, will you come to bed soon?"

  "Yes, love, in just a little while. Ramsey and I have bunches of things to discuss."

  She turned off Emma's light, but left the door ajar. Just a slice of light shone into the room from the three Tiffany lamps standing at intervals in the wide corridor.

  Ramsey said, "I won't leave you, Emma, unless I have to, and then I'll tell you first."

  Emma didn't say anything.

  "We can hear her if she has a nightmare," Molly said quietly as she followed Ramsey back to his room.

  "Now," he said once they were in his bedroom, "tell me what you think we should do."

  "Beat up Louey Santera again."

  "After we beat him up."

  She sighed. "I don't know, Ramsey. So much has happened."

  "One of the first things is to take Emma to a doctor and to a child shrink."

  "Yes," she said. "I've been thinking about that. I don't want to take her to her regular pediatrician. He's a man. I want to take her to a woman."

  "That's probably smart."

  "I'll make calls tomorrow, get some names. Where do you think those men are, Ramsey?"

  "If they're here, they're cursing a blue streak. There's just no way in here. Miles told me he has six men patrolling the grounds around the clock. I think this place is more secure than the White House."

  "I heard Mason tell Gunther to bring in another three men to patrol. He's not taking any chances."

  "He loves you and Emma."

  "Yeah, right. It's all a matter of possession. He just doesn't want anyone messing with something he sees as his."

  "Whatever it is, it's still a start. We'll see. Tomorrow-" He rubbed his hands together. "Tomorrow I'll get to meet dear Louey face-to-face."

  "It won't be one of the high points of your day. Trust me."

  "As Emma would say, you made a joke."

  "Sometimes truth's funnier than fiction."

  LOUEY Santera was furious and it showed. His mouth was tight, his lips a skinny pursed line. Then he saw a reporter and the fury was masked immediately by a charming smile and a little-boy shrug. "Hi," he said to the reporter, turned, and gave a smile to the accompanying photographer, then saw Molly and gave a wave.

  The reporter, a longtime friend of Ramsey's, said cheerfully, "I hear you flew back, breaking concert dates, when you heard your little girl was kidnapped."

  "I couldn't leave immediately," Louey said, nose sharp, on the alert instantly. "I naturally came back as soon as I could."

  "Is it true your little girl is safe and at her grandfather's house? Her grandfather is Mason Lord, isn't that right?"

  "Yeah, he is her grandfather, and yeah I heard she was at his house. It's over now, thank God. Did you hear? My concerts went great, too."

  "I've heard you've had your problems with Mr. Lord. Is that right, Mr. Santera?"

  A man came from behind Louey Santera to plant himself directly in front of the reporter. He was a young guy, stringy, with acne scars. "Mr. Santera just flew in from Germany. He wants to be reunited with his little girl. He's tired. He's said all he's going to say. Good day."

  The reporter said, "Come on, Mr. Santera, what's going on here? Your little girl was kidnapped over two weeks ago. You're coming back a little late, aren't you?"

  "No comment."

  The young guy with Louey actually shoved the reporter. The photographer flashed a photo.

  Louey Santera was white-faced. Ramsey smiled as he stepped up to him. "Mr. Santera? I'm here to greet you. I'm Ramsey Hunt, currently residing with Mr. Mason Lord. Do come this way, out of all this crowd of people. Ah, yes, here's Molly."

  "Get out of his face," the young guy said, and gave Ramsey a shove. The guy might look scrawny and too young, but Ramsey spotted the moves immediately, the watchful eyes, the stance.

  "That isn't polite," Ramsey said, and in a move that was subtle and smooth, he gently clasped the young man's hand and twisted his thumb back. The guy gasped with pain. He didn't move.

  "Now, back off," Ramsey said very quietly. "I'm not a reporter." He applied a bit more pressure on the thumb. "All right?"

  "Leave be, Alenon," Louey Santera said.

  The young guy nodded. There was cold hatred in his dark eyes. It seemed to be awfully easy to make enemies these days. Ramsey released his thumb. "Now, let's get out of here. Molly, say hello to your ex-husband."

  "Hi, Louey. How's tricks? Hey, I don't see your girlfriend. She doesn't have a passport?"

  "How did you find Emma?"

  She batted her eyelashes at him and put her hand on her hip. "I used my considerable sex appeal, naturally."

  Ramsey stared at her. Louey Santera barked out a vicious laugh. "Hey, that's a joke," he said. "You're always telling jokes, never serious. You didn't find Emma at all, did you? It's just all hype."

  "Why do you think that? I don't have enough brainpower? Not enough guts?"

  "Come off it, Molly. You know you didn't have a thing to do with getting Emma back. You wouldn't know where to find square one if it hit you in the nose. What really happened?"

  She leaned close. "Okay, Louey, the game's over." She leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Listen, you selfish jerk, I found my daughter, all by myself. You want to know what happened? The man who took her sexually abused her and beat her. What do you think of that, Louey?"

  "That can't be true. I didn't hear anything like that. No, you're lying, trying to make me look bad."

  "No one could make you look worse than you already look. You call from Europe and start bragging about your success there and all the women you're screwing. You're a toad, Louey, you don't give a damn about Emma."

  "Then why am I here?"

  "Because my father scares you all the way down to your crooked little toes. If he told you to be celibate for a week, I just bet you'd do it."

  "He's a murderer, Molly, shouts to the world that he's a big legitimate businessman, but he's nothing but a big-time crook, and you know it. You're no better. You took me for everything in the divorce, you're nothing but a-"

  Ramsey broke in. "All right, enough of the emotional sentimental reunion. It's time to get out of here before more reporters show up." He turned to the acne-faced young guy who was Louey Santera's bodyguard. "You get Mr. San-tera's luggage. You can drop it off at Mason Lord's place in Oak Park. Then you can go to a motel or something. Don't think you're included on Mr. Lord's houseguest list."

  Louey looked over at the reporter who'd been so rude. He recognized him. His name was something like Marzilac. He was from the Chicago Sun-Times. Hell. He was just standing there, speaking low to his photographer. What were they talking about? Maybe they were talking about whether to print any of this. Just his luck. Now he had to face Mason Lord. His kidney hurt just thinking about it.

  "Let's go," Ramsey said.

  "Do as he says, Alenon," Louey said. "Just call the house and tell me where you're staying."

  16

  AN HOUR AND a half
later, Louey Santera faced his ex-father-in-law across the huge mahogany desk in Mason Lord's study.

  "This cretin-" He motioned toward Ramsey, who was standing by the door. "He accosted me. He nearly broke my bodyguard's thumb. In fact, I'll just bet you he got a reporter to come there and ask me stupid questions. It cost me a bundle to leave Germany. I was busy, everything was going great with the crowds. Besides, there's nothing I can do for you. I've thought about it, and I don't know of anyone who could have done this."

  Mason Lord didn't rise. He sat there, tall and straight in his chair, weaving his black Mont Blanc pen, heavy with gold trim, expertly between his long fingers. He let Louey talk and talk. Finally, when he'd heard more than enough, he said, smoothly, "You're looking thin, Louey. Your eyes look too bright, the pupils too large. I hope you're well."

  "Touring is hard work, real long hours. Sometimes I have to take sleeping pills to calm me down. Listen, I didn't want to come here. What can you possibly want from me?"

  "I do hope you're not doing cocaine again. I really hate drugs, you know that. I told you that when you were married to Molly. If the coke doesn't kill you, then it's usually something else. Like the guys selling it to you getting pissed off. I've never seen simple sleeping pills dilate your pupils."

  "I'm not doing drugs."

  "Did you meet Ramsey Hunt?" Mason Lord waved a hand toward Ramsey, who was still standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest.

  "I told you, he was the bastard who-"

  "It's Judge Ramsey Hunt. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

  "No. Who is he? Some gigolo your young wife wanted?"

  "Ah, Louey, you do like to push the envelope, don't you? I suggest you think a bit before you open your mouth. If you ever mention my wife again, I'll have Gunther cut off the end of your tongue. Your singing wouldn't benefit from that. Now, since you appear to be ignorant as well as unwise, I'll tell you that Ramsey Hunt is the San Francisco Federal District Court judge whose picture was on the covers of both Newsweek and Time magazines a while back. He's a real hero, they say. Don't you remember? The big drug murder case in San Francisco? What Judge Hunt did all by himself when they tried to break the defendants out of the courtroom?" Louey looked blank. Mason Lord sighed. "Ah, Louey, I do pray that Emma didn't inherit your brains, your inability to recognize the importance of anything that doesn't pertain directly to you. It would be a pity."

  Ramsey said, "Ignorance isn't the same as stupidity."

  "In Louey's case, it seems to be."

  "She's got his talent, Dad," Molly said, coming into the room to stand beside Ramsey. "In fact, she's got all the talent that he could ever claim. And his talent is good even if his brain isn't."

  "Impossible," Louey Santera said, whirling around to see Molly standing beside that damned judge. The guy was too young to be a judge. She'd come in very quietly. How long had she been standing there? "Emma? She's a little kid, only what, five years old?"

  "Six, Louey. Your daughter is six years old."

  "Yeah, well, what talent?"

  "She can play the piano for you. She's incredible."

  "Enough!"

  Everyone looked at Mason Lord. He relaxed slowly, saying nothing more, knowing that he had all their attention again.

  Louey said, "Why did you want me to come back? You got Emma. What else is there?"

  "It appears there's a conspiracy afoot. Not just one kidnapper, Louey. Judge Hunt believes there are a goodly number of men involved since it appears to be a very professional operation, and they're all after Emma. Indeed, the men tracked Molly and Ramsey all across Colorado into California. Do you know anything about this, Louey?"

  "That's ridiculous! What would I know about that? Emma's my daughter, for God's sake. I don't know anything about any conspiracy."

  "Well, there's a problem," Mason Lord continued, his voice suddenly soft, oily with sincerity. It reminded him of Bill Matthias's voice, a lawyer in San Francisco unoriginally called Slick Willie. "I'm not behind any conspiracy, Louey, and there, quite simply, isn't anybody else. There's another little point that's really very disturbing. The man who had Emma. He abused her sexually and beat her."

  Louey lunged to his feet, his face white. "No! That's impossible. Molly said that, but I didn't believe her. There must be a mistake... not Emma, no one would dare touch Emma like that."

  Mason Lord sat slightly forward. "Didn't you bother to make sure that the man you hired to hold Emma in that cabin in the Rockies wasn't a child molester?"

  Louey collapsed back into the chair. "Listen, I didn't hire anybody! I don't know anything about any of it. Dammit, she's my daughter. I wouldn't have my own daughter kidnapped."

  "Oh?" It was Molly's voice coming from behind him, cold and hard. "You'd do anything for money, Louey. Anything. I'll just bet you owe some big shot lots of money and you left the country because you couldn't pay. Is that it?"

  He turned on her, so furious the pulse pounded wildly in his thin neck. "You have the gall to talk high and mighty about money. You took me for every dime I had. You didn't deserve anything at all. All you managed to do was get pregnant. Dammit, I didn't have Emma kidnapped!"

  Mason Lord slowly rose. He pressed his palms against the desktop. He said in that same soft, oily voice, "I think Molly's right. You're in big debt to somebody and this was your way of paying them off. Tell us the names of the men, Louey. Tell us who helped you pull this off. Tell us why they're still after Emma."

  "I don't know about any men! I don't know anything! Molly's dead wrong."

  "Gunther, please come here."

  Gunther, huge and menacing, his big hands relaxed at his sides, said, "Yes, Mr. Lord?"

  "Gunther, please take Mr. Santera to one of our guest rooms. He's weary from his long journey. He flew in from Germany today, you know. Yes, he's tired and needs to rest. Take him upstairs and put him to bed. Stay with him, Gunther. Remind him that life is sometimes very difficult. Remind him that I forgave him once, but patience is a precious commodity. Remind him that I'm not always such a patient man. Oh yes, he doesn't need to speak to that creature who is supposedly his bodyguard. Keep Mr. Santera quiet and apart. He needs to rest."

  "I didn't have Emma kidnapped!"

  "I'll see you after you've had a nice rest, Louey," Mason Lord said. He rose and watched as Gunther wrapped one huge hand around Louey Santera's upper arm and pulled him toward the study doors.

  Louey jerked around at the door. "If it's Molly who's claiming I did that, she's crazy. She hates me. Maybe this judge character is her lover and they wanted the money. Yeah, maybe Molly did it."

  Gunther quietly closed the study doors, and there was silence.

  Ramsey whistled. He said, "I sometimes forget the awesome power people like you wield. Every day I deal with people claiming that they're as innocent as their dear grannies, but you know they're lying through their teeth, you know that most of them are thugs, cons, just plain scum, and many times much worse.

  "And the thing is, of course, that in our justice system you can't just beat the crap out of them even though you know they're so guilty they're bulging with it. No, we play by rules that seem absurd in their gentleness, in their lack of focus and force. We use compromise and negotiation, not metaphorical thumb screws." Ramsey shrugged. "On the other hand, your performance hasn't yet resulted in anything, except to terrify one skinny little man. Molly would probably disagree with me on how often we get to it, but the truth is always there, somewhere. Don't beat the crap out of him yet, sir. Your threats are just as potent. I'd like a chance to talk to him myself. From what I could see, Molly should probably keep her distance. She's quite good with that pistol of hers."

  Mason Lord said easily, "Of course I know my threats are potent, Ramsey. They wouldn't be potent, however, if occasionally I didn't back them up, and the knowledge of that got around. Talk to Louey, see what you can dig out of the little bastard."

  Ramsey nodded, then said to Molly, "I'm thirsty. Would you like to dri
nk a glass of lemonade with me and Emma?"

  "Yes. Then I've got phone calls to make."

  * * *

  Dr. Eleanor Loo, a tall Chinese-American woman in her mid-thirties, was wearing a leg cast. She rose clumsily when they came into her office. Molly had gotten her name from Emma's new pediatrician. Her fingers were crossed when, after introductions were made, Dr. Loo turned to Emma. She just smiled at her, then said, "Let me sit down, Emma. My leg makes me a bit awkward and the cast is heavy. At least it doesn't hurt much anymore. I broke it skiing. It was a beautiful fall, right off a twelve-foot cliff. Everyone said I looked so graceful sailing off that cliff. I don't suppose you ski?"