As he was about to sprint the last few yards toward her, a yellow VW streaked around the corner and into the lot, headed directly for Jake. The headlights caught him in the face, blinding him momentarily as he dived out of the way. The front fender caught his thigh as he rolled.
The car screeched to a halt and the driver jumped out. “Oh, man, are you all right? I didn’t even see you.” The driver was a young man, early twenties, with scruffy blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, black-rimmed glasses, baggy shorts, and an X Files T-shirt that proclaimed The Truth Is Out There. Techno-geek was the term that immediately came to Jake’s mind.
He walked toward Jake, visibly shaken. “Oh, man,” he said again. “Are you hurt?”
Jake struggled to his feet. On the other side of the VW, he heard a car door slam and the engine start up. The blonde was getting away.
The young man grabbed his arm. “You need a doctor? I can take you to the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” Jake said, shaking off the guy’s hand. The blonde’s car, a dark blue BMW with tinted windows, backed out of its slot. Jake started after her, but a searing pain shot up his leg. “Damn,” he swore as the BMW changed gears and shot forward, disappearing around the corner.
“Your girlfriend?” the techno-geek asked him. “What happened, the two of you have a fight?”
“Something like that,” Jake muttered, hobbling back toward the apartment building.
“Listen, you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital? I feel, you know, kind of responsible, here.”
“I’m fine,” Jake assured him. “Nothing a good stiff drink won’t fix.”
“Oh, well, hey. I got some Jack Daniel’s in my apartment. Keep it around for when my old man visits. Never touch the stuff myself. I prefer a little reefer. It’s easier on the liver.”
“Thanks anyway,” Jake told him.
“Well, if you’re sure—” Reluctantly, the young man headed off across the parking lot toward his own apartment. Jake waited until he was inside, then retraced his steps back to Michael Eldridge’s apartment.
The blonde had left the key in the dead bolt. He turned until he heard the click, then pushed open the door. Taking a penlight from his pocket, he closed the door behind him, then shone the thin beam around the room. From what he could tell, the layout was typical of such apartments. The front door opened directly into the living room with a small dining area and kitchen connected. A narrow hall led to the bathroom and one or possibly two bedrooms.
Conscious of the fact that the woman might return or send reinforcements, Jake hurriedly searched the living room, coming up with nothing. The space was neat, the furnishings conservative bordering on institutional. There was certainly nothing about the decor that even hinted at a personality partial to Vipers.
The bathroom was just as bland, yielding nothing more than a well-stocked medicine cabinet of first-aid supplies and toiletries. The first room past the bathroom was a small office with an elaborate computer system and several metal filing cabinets containing stock-market reports, investment portfolios, and computer printouts that were little more than gobbledygook to Jake.
He searched through the Rolodex on the desk, but found nothing. No name that leaped out at him. He turned on the computer and perused the directories, but again hit a dead end. It seemed that Michael Eldridge was exactly what he professed to be—a stockbroker.
The bedroom at the end of the hallway was a little more interesting, however. Here, Eldridge had allowed his imagination freer rein, decorating lavishly with animal prints, mirrors, and a video and audio system that must have cost a small fortune.
Jake searched through the dresser drawers, the nightstand, and then turned his attention to the walk-in closet, which was as ordered as the rest of the apartment. Slacks, shirts, jackets, and suits were all hung in some color-coded order, and shoe boxes had been neatly labeled and stored on shelves at the back of the closet.
Jake started with the shoe boxes. It had been his experience as a cop that shoe boxes were always the first place people used to store valuables and were, invariably, the first places crooks searched. But Eldridge’s shoe boxes turned up nothing but shoes—basketball shoes, tennis shoes, boat shoes, tasseled loafers, wing tips, sandals, boots.
Jake left the closet and went back into the bedroom, shining the beam of his penlight around the room again. He walked over to the stereo and television center, scanning the expensive equipment appreciatively before checking Eldridge’s musical and video selection. The music was eclectic, ranging from Steve Earle to Dead-Can-Dance, but the videos were a much narrower collection, mostly black-and-white gangster flicks from the thirties and forties.
There was a tape inside the VCR. On impulse, Jake turned on the TV, muted the volume, and pushed the Play button on the recorder. The picture scrambled for a split second, then straightened, and to Jake’s amazement, he saw Hope’s face come into focus.
His heart jumped into his throat. What the hell was Hope doing on a videotape in Michael Eldridge’s apartment? And it wasn’t just any videotape. It was the tape of her and Andrew’s wedding, shot ten years ago. The quality was strictly professional. No amateurish shaking of the camcorder, no in-and-out of focus, no shifting scenes. The lens stayed steadily on Hope as she walked slowly down the aisle, looking beautiful and radiant and so damned desirable Jake’s throat tightened, just watching her.
As she neared the altar, the focus switched to Andrew, who gazed down at her with open adoration. Then he took Hope’s hand, and Jake punched off the machine, not wanting to witness the vows being exchanged. He’d gone out and gotten rip-roaring drunk on Hope’s wedding day ten years ago to try and block that very image. He felt like doing the same thing now, but he knew he couldn’t afford the luxury. He needed all his faculties, because something was definitely not right here.
How had Eldridge gotten a videotape of Hope’s wedding? What the hell was it doing here in his apartment in Houston?
But Jake knew he couldn’t wait around until the answers came to him. He’d already spent too much time in the apartment, pressing his luck. He had to get out of here.
Rewinding the tape, he turned off the television and VCR, then, dousing his light at the front door, peered out the window that faced the parking lot below. The coast looked clear, so he let himself out of the apartment, leaving the key in the dead bolt where he’d found it.
“Hey!” someone yelled as he walked across the parking lot toward his car.
Jake turned to see the man in the X Files shirt hurrying across the pavement toward him, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand and what looked like a joint in the other. He waved both at Jake.
“Smorgasbord!” The young man beamed. “Your choice of painkillers, man.”
Jake reached down to unlock his car. “Thanks—”
“Benny. My name’s Benny.”
“Thanks, but no thanks, Benny. I’m driving.”
Benny came around the side of Jake’s car. “Oh, well, yeah. I can dig that. Why don’t you come on back to my place? We can call up a few babes I know and have a party—”
It wasn’t until Benny’s gaze strayed over Jake’s left shoulder then back again that Jake realized something was wrong. By then it was too late. When he started to whirl, a blow to the back of his head brought him to his knees. Pain exploded inside his head, like a thousand nails being hammered into his skull.
He tried to struggle to his feet, but only managed to fall to his side on the pavement. Standing over him, Benny nudged Jake with his foot.
“Cool,” he said.
* * *
WHEN MICHAEL AND HOPE arrived home, she went straight up to her suite and stayed there for the remainder of the evening, pleading a headache so she wouldn’t have to come down to dinner and face Michael again. Not that she would be able to avoid him forever. Iris had put him in the west wing, with Hope.
She shivered, thinking about her conversation with him earlier. Was it possible he really did care
for her, or was this some sort of perverted machination on his part? A way to insinuate himself even more solidly into the Kingsley household?
Just after ten o’clock, Hope heard him come up to his room. She supposed that everyone else had retired for the night, and contemplated whether or not she wanted to talk to Iris now or wait until morning. If Iris had been scheming with Michael, as he’d implied, to get the two of them together, then Hope knew she had to put a stop to it right away.
She opened her door, but as she started to step out into the hallway, she heard Michael’s door open as well. Hope quickly retreated back into her room, not wanting a confrontation. She closed her door, but left a tiny crack open so she could peer through.
In a moment, she saw him come down the hallway and head toward the stairs. Hope opened the door wider, listening to the sounds of his departure—footsteps on the stairs, across the foyer, and then the front door opening and closing. The faint sounds of a car engine leaping to life.
Hope stepped into the corridor, pausing. Now would be the perfect time to talk to Iris, but another thought had suddenly occurred to her. Might there be proof of Michael’s true identity hidden somewhere in his room? Did she have the nerve to actually search for it?
As silent as a ghost, she slipped down the hallway to his room, hesitating as she glanced up and down the corridor. She’d never done anything remotely clandestine, and her heart pounded like a piston—not an altogether unpleasant experience. Was this sudden rush of adrenaline the kind of high Jake had experienced as a cop? Was that one of the reasons he loved his job so much?
At that moment, Hope could almost understand it. The excitement pumping through her made her almost light-headed. She had to try and calm her racing pulse.
Taking a deep breath, she reached for the knob and opened the door, stepping through quickly, then closing it softly behind her. Michael had left a light on, a small reading lamp on an antique cherry-wood desk in the corner. Hope decided the desk was as good a place as any to start her search.
But the drawers were mostly empty, and Hope wondered if Michael had even taken the time to unpack yet, which meant she would have to search through all his suitcases.
But the bureau proved more productive. He’d at least put some of his clothes away. One drawer contained neat stacks of shirts and sweaters, another socks and underwear, and the third, several pairs of running shorts. Hope searched through the sweater drawer and shorts drawer, then reluctantly came back to the socks-and-underwear drawer.
There was something about touching a stranger’s intimate apparel that made her distinctly uncomfortable, but Hope knew it had to be done. Rifling as quickly as possible through the stacks of soft cotton briefs and silk boxers, she almost overlooked a framed photograph that had been shoved beneath a pile of athletic socks.
Hope pulled the picture out of the drawer and gasped, almost dropping the frame. It was a black-and-white newspaper clipping of her leaving the cemetery after Andrew’s funeral. Several of the local newspapers had run the photo along with a story about Andrew’s tragic death and a recapping of the Kingsley family’s rise and fall in politics.
Her hands shaking, Hope stared down at her image. Beneath the wide-brimmed black hat, her face looked pale and drawn, very solemn, but there was something in her eyes, an emotion the casual observer would undoubtedly mistake for grief. The grief was there, of course, but Hope could discern what others could not. The emotion darkening her eyes was guilt. Guilt that she had sent Andrew storming out of the house the night he’d been killed.
“I’ll see you both dead first,” he’d told her before he left.
“I’d rather be dead than stay married to you!” she’d screamed.
“Careful what you wish for, Hope.”
She could understand why Michael, who had admitted a newspaper photograph of Andrew after his death was what had brought him to the Kingsleys in the first place, had clipped her picture from the paper. Everything concerning the Kingsleys would have been of concern to him then, but why had he framed it? Why had this particular photo with the caption, Kingsley’s Grieving Widow Leaves Cemetery, made him want to preserve the image behind glass and hide it away?
A dark chill descended over Hope as she stared at the photo. And then, faintly, a sound from outside came to her, sending the chill even deeper. Footsteps in the hallway, coming this way. Slowing as they approached Michael’s door.
He’d come back.
Shoving the photo back inside the drawer and easing it closed, Hope glanced around the room, then frantically darted for the closet, staring through the levered doors as her heart pounded inside her. From her vantage, she could see the door to the bedroom open and Michael enter. Without hesitation, he walked toward the bed and was momentarily out of Hope’s view. She held her breath. If he was getting ready for bed, he would probably head for the closet. Hardly daring to breathe, Hope glanced around, wondering where she could possibly hide.
But just as she was about to move toward the back of the closet, risking a sound, Michael crossed the room again, and she saw that he was putting his wallet in his pocket. He must have forgotten it when he went out earlier. Hope prayed he would leave again, giving her a chance to escape.
As he moved toward the door, she almost exhaled a long breath of relief. Then his steps slowed and he turned toward the bureau. Hope’s heart dropped to her stomach and her palms began to sweat. Had she left one of the drawers open? Had he detected some sign of her search?
She heard one of the drawers open and close, and then Michael walked back into her view, carrying something in his right hand. He sat down on the bed and lifted it in front of him, and only then did Hope realize he held the framed newspaper clipping she’d been looking at only moments earlier.
He stared at the picture of her for a long moment, his expression dark and unfathomable. Then slowly he lifted the frame to his lips and kissed Hope’s image.
* * *
JAKE OPENED HIS EYES and groaned. The sound came out muffled. A foul-tasting rag had been tied around his mouth, and a jackhammer pounded inside his head. Where the hell was he?
When he tried to lift himself onto his elbows to look around, he realized he couldn’t move. Not an inch. He was paralyzed.
Fighting back the panic, Jake tried to analyze the situation rationally. He was lying on his side with his hands tied behind him and his feet bound at the ankles. That was why he couldn’t move. The paralysis was only temporary.
Somewhat reassured, he gazed around as best he could. The room was in semidarkness, but he could make out a high, beamed ceiling, a concrete floor, and high racks of barrels and crates and various types of machinery. He was in some sort of warehouse, bound and gagged and waiting for what? His execution? Not if he had anything to say about it.
Tentatively, he tried to wiggle his wrists. Even so slight a movement seemed to tighten the rope. It cut into his skin, and Jake had to resist the urge to struggle, to pull and tear at the rope with every ounce of strength left in him. He knew such an effort would be useless. Whoever had bound him had done a good job of it. Jake would have to be patient, use finesse instead of muscle to loosen the rope.
He worked for what seemed like hours, sweat pouring from his brow, his arms throbbing, the skin beneath the rope raw and burning. The pain inside his head was still almost blinding. Again and again he had to fight back a wave of nausea before he could continue. He had no idea how much time had passed when he finally began to feel the ropes give a little. The hope that rose inside him faded quickly, however, when he heard footsteps approaching him in the darkness.
He lay on his side, eyes closed, and feigned unconsciousness. The footsteps quieted and he could sense someone looming over him. A voice somewhere to his left said, “Is he still out?”
Jake lay perfectly still but his mind raced. He’d heard that voice before. Recently. But…where?
The person standing directly over him said, “Can’t tell for sure.” Jake recognized that voi
ce, too. It was Benny. “He could be faking it.”
“Find out for sure.”
Instinctively, Jake braced himself for what was about to come, but even so, when Benny’s shoe connected with his ribs, it took all Jake’s willpower not to groan. Benny kicked him again, and this time Jake couldn’t help but flinch. He hoped neither of them noticed. It was fairly dark in the corner of the warehouse where he lay. As soon as the two thugs moved away, frantically he began to work at the ropes again. He could feel them loosening. Just another knot or maybe two, and he would be free. But did he have that much time?
“He’s still out. Guess you hit him pretty hard, Mr.—”
“Don’t use my name,” the first man interrupted. “How many times do you have to be told that?”
“Sorry.”
“You should be sorry. It was a simple matter, what you were told to do. Go to the apartment and get that tape, but you and Carol screwed it up royally.”
“Hey, it wasn’t our fault. How were we supposed to know some P.I. from Memphis would come sniffing around the place?” Benny mumbled sulkily. “That was all supposed to be taken care of. If you want to blame someone, maybe you should blame him for leaving the tape in the apartment to begin with.”
Another knot came free. A trickle of sweat rolled down Jake’s face.
“You and Carol were supposed to go in behind him and make sure the place was clean. If the boss hadn’t noticed the tape was missing, it would have sat in that apartment indefinitely, until who knows who might have stumbled on it. The whole operation could have blown up in our faces, and all because you two idiots forgot to check the VCR. Now we don’t know if McClain saw the tape or not, but we can’t afford to take the chance. So get rid of him.”
“How—”
“Just do it,” the man in charge ordered as he started walking away. “Clean up your mess before the boss decides both you and Carol are expendable.”
The footsteps faded away, and in a moment, Jake heard a car engine start up, then what sounded like the rumble of an overhead garage door being lifted and lowered again. And then all was silent.
Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir Page 33