by Sandra Brown
Once they were served and the maid had withdrawn, Curtis awkwardly set his glass of tea on the coffee table. “There’s another element to this that you should be made aware of,” he told the Kemps. “Does your daughter have a computer?”
Marian replied, “She’s on it all the time.”
• • •
Judge and Marian Kemp listened in stony silence as Curtis told them about the Sex Club. When he finished, the judge demanded to know why his wife had been subjected to hearing about such filth.
“Because we need access to Janey’s computer.”
The judge erupted with vehement protests. He and Curtis launched into a heated argument over investigative procedure, privacy, and probable cause.
Finally Dean entered the fray. “Doesn’t this girl’s safety supersede points of law?” His shout silenced them, so he pressed his advantage. “We need a copy of everything on Janey’s hard disk.”
“I will not permit it,” the judge said. “If such a thing as this Sex Club exists, my daughter has nothing to do with it.”
“Soliciting to have sex with strangers,” Marian Kemp sniffed. “Revolting.”
“And speaking as a parent, terrifying,” Dean said to her. “But I would rather be informed than ignorant, wouldn’t you?”
Apparently not, he thought when neither the judge nor his wife answered. “We don’t want to invade Janey’s privacy, or yours. But her computer could yield clues to her whereabouts.”
“Such as?” the judge asked.
“Friends and acquaintances you don’t know. People who send her email.”
“If you did discover anything incriminating, it would never be admissible in a court of law because it will have been illegally obtained.”
“Then what have you got to worry about?”
The judge had laid that trap for himself and he realized it.
Dean continued. “If Janey has an email address book, which I’m sure she does, we could send out a blanket message to everyone on it, asking if they’ve seen her, and if they have, urge them to contact you.”
“In effect announcing to the world that her mother and I can’t keep track of our daughter.”
Dean had no love for these people, but he didn’t have the heart to state what was glaringly obvious: They wouldn’t be here if the Kemps had kept better track of their daughter.
“Her friends will recognize her email address and open the letter,” he said. “We’ll sign the message from you, not the police, and promise that anyone coming forward with information can remain anonymous.”
“Mrs. Kemp,” Paris said gently, “an email would reach a lot of people much more efficiently than policemen canvasing Janey’s hangouts. Besides, young people get nervous when cops approach even if they’re doing absolutely nothing wrong. Janey’s friends would be reluctant to talk to a policeman about her. They’d be much more likely to reply to an email.”
It was a persuasive point lent even more potency by her mellow voice. Mrs. Kemp looked over at her husband, then back to Paris. “I’ll show you to her room.” The invitation seemed to include only Paris, who stood when Mrs. Kemp did and followed her out.
Without a word, the judge turned on his heel and stalked toward an adjacent room. From what Dean could see through the doorway before the judge slammed the door behind him, it appeared to be a library or study.
Curtis lightly slapped his thighs as he came to his feet. “That went well, don’t you think?”
Dean grinned at the ironic remark, but he sure as hell didn’t feel like smiling. “I guess His Honor is divesting himself of the whole ugly matter.”
“I’ll bet you my left nut he’s in there on the phone giving the chief hell about the department’s new shrink.”
“I don’t care. I meant everything I said, and I’d say it again.”
“Yeah, well, occasionally I have to testify in his court. I have to play both ends against the middle. But I figure the next time I’m in the witness box, my testimony will be discredited.” He ran his hand over his thinning hair. “I’m going outside to make a few calls, see if there’s been any news that would make all of us sleep better tonight.”
Dean followed him as far as the grand staircase. “I’ll wait here for Paris.”
“I thought you might.”
He didn’t have a suitable comeback for the detective’s parting shot, so he let it pass. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he took in the formal foyer. The floor was marble tile. Overhead was a lavish crystal chandelier that was reflected in the polished wood surfaces of twin consoles facing each other across the wide hall.
Above one of the tables hung an oil portrait of Marian Kemp. And on the opposite wall above the matching table was a painting by the same artist of a girl about seven years old. She was wearing a summer dress of white gauzy fabric. Her feet were bare. The artist had captured sunlight shining through pale blond curls. She looked angelic and achingly innocent.
Dean’s cell phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. He checked the LED and recognized Liz’s cell number. He didn’t answer, telling himself that now wasn’t a good time. She had called twice before. Those hadn’t been good times either.
Hearing footsteps in the deep carpeting of the staircase, he looked up to see Paris and Marian Kemp descending. Paris subtly nodded at him. In her hand she was carrying a Zip disk, which she handed over as soon as she reached him. He slid it into his pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Kemp.”
Even though she had cooperated, she hadn’t warmed to them. “I’ll see you out.”
She opened the front door, and when she saw the young woman standing in the driveway with Curtis, she exclaimed, “Melissa! I thought you were in Europe.”
Upon hearing her name, the girl turned toward them. She was tall and lanky and was probably attractive underneath the makeup that had been applied with all the finesse of a brave preparing for the warpath.
“Hey, Mrs. K. I just got back.”
“She’s a friend of Janey’s?” Dean asked Marian Kemp.
“Her best friend. Melissa Hatcher.”
Behind Paris’s car was a snazzy, late-model BMW convertible, but you would never guess by her clothing that this girl came from affluence. She was wearing a pair of denim cutoffs that left ragged strings trailing down her thighs. The waistband had also been cut off, leaving nothing but fringe to hold the shorts on her hipbones. Twin sapphires winked from her pierced navel. The neck and armholes of her T-shirt were oversized, making it no secret that she was wearing nothing beneath it.
Her striped knee socks looked unseasonably heavy, and the black boots laced to her ankles would have been more appropriate on a lumberjack or a mercenary who meant business. Incongruously, the large handbag hanging from her shoulder was a Gucci.
“Have you spoken to Janey since your return?” Marian Kemp asked.
“No,” she replied, as though put out by the question. “This guy here’s been asking me all these questions. What’s going on?”
“Janey didn’t come home last night.”
“So? She probably just crashed at somebody’s place. You know.” She shrugged, which slid her T-shirt off one shoulder. She sent a look Dean’s way that was unmistakably flirtatious.
“Could you give us some names?”
She turned back to Curtis and eyed him up and down. “Names?”
“Of people Janey might’ve gone home with?”
“Are you heat?” The detective opened his sport jacket and showed her the ID clipped to his belt. “Oh shit. What’s she done?”
“Nothing that we know of.”
“She could be in danger, Melissa.” Paris moved down the steps to join them.
The girl regarded her curiously. “Danger? What kind of danger? You a cop, too?”
“No, I work for a radio station. I’m Paris Gibson.”
Melissa Hatcher’s lips were painted a red so dark it was almost black. They fell open in astonishment. “Get out! You’re fucking kidding, right?�
��
“No.”
“Oh my God.” Her delight was probably the most honest reaction the girl had shown in months. “How cool is this? I listen to your show. When I’m not listening to CDs. But sometimes, you know, you’re just not in the mood for CDs. So that’s when I turn on your program. Sometimes the music you play sucks, but you are totally bitchin’, girl.”
“Thank you.”
“And I like your hair. Are those highlights?”
“Melissa, do you know if Janey has ever called me while I was on the air?”
“Oh, yeah. Coupla times. It’s been a while, though. We called you on Janey’s cell and talked to you but we didn’t give our names and you didn’t put us on the radio. Which was cool, ’cause we were wasted and you could probably tell.”
Paris smiled at her. “Maybe next time.”
“Has Janey called Paris recently?” Dean asked. Dark eyes lined in darker kohl slid over to him. Paris introduced him to the girl as Dr. Malloy. He stuck out his hand.
She seemed nonplused by the polite gesture, but she shook his hand. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“Shrink.”
“Shrink? Jesus, what’d Janey do? OD or something?”
“We don’t know. She hasn’t been heard from in over twenty-four hours. Her parents are worried about her and so are we.”
“We? You a cop, too?”
“Yes. I work for the police department.”
“Hmm.” Melissa shot them each a suspicious look, and Dean sensed her cautious withdrawal. They were losing her. Despite her being a Paris Gibson fan, her first loyalty would be to her friend. She’d be stingy with information about Janey.
“Like I said, I don’t know anything about where Janey is or who she’s called ’cause I just got back from France. I’ve been up for like thirty hours straight, so I’m gonna go home now and crash. When Janey shows up, tell her I’m back, will ya, Mrs. K.?”
Her Gucci bag slung a wide arc as she turned and sauntered toward her car. But just short of reaching it, she suddenly came back around, slapping her forehead with a hand weighed down by sparkling bangles and numerous rings.
“Holy shit, I just got it!” She pointed at Dean. “No wonder you’re such a hottie. You’re Gavin’s dad.”
chapter 11
“Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Janey opened her eyes. He was bending over her, his face close to hers, his breath ghosting over her face. He kissed her forehead. She moaned pitiably.
“Did you miss me?”
When she nodded, he laughed. He didn’t believe her, and he would be wise not to. Because the first chance she got, she was going to kill the son of a bitch.
She tried to keep the malice she felt from showing in her eyes, having concluded that her best option was to appear submissive. The psycho wanted to play games, wanted her to beg, wanted to dominate her.
So, fine. She would be his contrite little plaything—until he turned his back on her, and then she was going to bash in his skull.
“What’s this?” He noticed the stained bedsheet and tsked.
She’d peed herself. What did he expect? He had abandoned her here for God knows how long. She had held her bladder for as long as she could, but ultimately she’d had no choice except to wet the bed.
“You’ll just have to change the sheets,” he told her.
Okay, I’ll remake the bed. Untie me and give me a fresh sheet and I’ll strangle you with it.
He brushed aside a strand of her matted hair. “You smell like piss and sweat, Janey. Have you been exerting yourself? Doing what, I wonder?” His gaze roved until it settled on the wall behind the bed. “Hmm. Scars in the paint. You’ve been rocking the bed so the headboard would knock against the wall, haven’t you?”
Damn! She had hoped to annoy a neighbor who would eventually get so angry over the monotonous knocking that he’d come over and demand a stop to it. Then, when he was ignored, he would complain to the manager until the manager checked out the source of the noise.
She would be found and her father would be notified, and he would make certain this asshole never saw the light of day again. They’d lock him in a cell beneath the prison and give visitation rights to all the bull queers in the place.
Her daydream of rescue and vengeance died when he pulled the bed several feet away from the wall. “We can’t have that, Janey.” He bent down and kissed her forehead again. “Sorry to spoil your clever little plan, sweetheart.”
She looked at him with a desperation that wasn’t entirely feigned. She moaned imploringly.
“Do you need the toilet?”
She nodded.
“All right. But I need your promise that you won’t try to get away. You would only get hurt, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
I promise, she said behind the awful tape.
He unbound her feet first. She had thought the instant they were free she would start kicking and fighting him, but, to her alarm, she discovered that her limbs were rubbery. Her legs were reluctant to move at all, and when they did, they did so sluggishly.
He untied her hands, then lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bathroom. He set her on her feet near the toilet, raised the lid, then gently lowered her onto the seat.
She reached for the tape across her mouth.
“You can remove it,” he told her softly. “But if you scream, you’ll regret it.”
She believed him. It was painful to peel off the tape, but when she had done so, she sucked large drafts of air through her mouth. “I’d like a drink of water, please,” she said, her voice a croak.
“Finish here first.”
He made no move to leave. To her mortification tears came to her eyes. “Go out and close the door.”
He frowned down at her impatiently. “Oh, please. This sudden modesty is absurd. Hurry up before I change my mind and make you wet yourself again.”
When she was finished, she asked again for a drink of water.
“Certainly, Janey. As soon as you change your bed. You’ve left it so nasty. Dreadfully nasty.”
She was dying of thirst, so she submissively exchanged the damp sheets for fresh ones. By the time she had completed the task to his satisfaction, she was exhausted and had broken out in a cold sweat.
He made her sit in the armchair, where he could watch her while he stepped into the kitchen and uncapped a plastic bottle of water. She’d hoped for a glass. She could have broken it and shoved a shard of glass into his throat. If she could’ve found the strength. She was abnormally weak even for someone who’d been lying in bed for hours. Had he drugged her last night? Was he doing so again now? Had he put something in her water?
Actually she didn’t care. She was so thirsty, she drank the water greedily.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
He made a pimiento cheese sandwich, then hand-fed it to her, pinching off small pieces one at a time and placing them in her mouth. She thought about biting his fingers, but that would still leave one of his hands free. She hadn’t forgotten the slap that had made her vision blur and her ears ring. She didn’t want to invite another.
Causing him even momentary pain would give her enormous satisfaction. She would love to sink her teeth into his flesh, draw blood. But in her present condition, it would be impossible to follow that up with a full-fledged attempt to overpower him. The satisfaction she would derive from it would be all too brief and would cost her dearly. Until she could achieve more than just getting him angry and retaliatory, she had best conserve her strength and try to devise a foolproof plan of escape.
When she’d finished the sandwich, he said, “I like you this way, Janey.” He stroked her head and used his fingers to comb the tangles out of her hair. “Your submission is very arousing.” He touched her nipples lightly. “It makes you so desirable.”
He turned away from her only long enough to get his camera. The despised camera. It was the camera that had so intrigued her and made her thin
k he was special. A special pervert, maybe. She hated the sight of that camera now and would like nothing better than to grind it into his face until both his facial bones and the camera had broken apart.
But she was too frightened to resist as he posed her for a series of obscene pictures.
“Get on the bed.”
She considered begging, pleading, promising him money, swearing she’d never tell anyone about this, if only he would let her go. But maybe she would have more bargaining power if she did him one more time.
So she lay down on the bed and did exactly what he told her to do. When he was finished, she didn’t even have the energy to raise her head. He had drugged her. She was sure of it now.
She watched in dread as he opened the nightstand drawer and removed a roll of duct tape. “No,” she whimpered. “Please.”
“I hate having to do this, Janey, but you’re a whore. Your love isn’t pure. You’re dishonest. You can’t be trusted even to remain quiet.”
“I will. I swear.”
That was all he allowed her to say before clamping a strip of tape over her mouth. This time he also used the tape to secure her wrists and ankles to the bed frame, winding it so tightly there was absolutely no give.
He showered before he dressed. Standing beside the bed, he calmly threaded his belt through the loops of his trousers. “Are you crying, Janey? Why? You used to be the ultimate party girl.”
He stuffed the soiled bed linens into a laundry bag and picked up his keys. He was almost to the door when he snapped his fingers and turned back. “I almost forgot. I have a surprise for you.”
He took an audiocassette from the pocket of his jacket and placed it in the player that was built into his sound system. “I recorded this last night. I think you’ll find it interesting.” He pressed the Play button, then blew her a kiss and left. He locked the door from the outside.
There were thirty seconds of silence on the tape, then a ringing telephone. It rang several times before Janey heard a familiar voice say, “This is Paris.”