I'll Be Home for Christmas

by Dawn Stewardson

  She reached the door, only too aware it was unlocked. So what should she do? Snap the dead bolt into place right under their noses? An image of the gorilla smashing a hairy fist through the glass made her decide against that option.

  “Mrs. Weyden,” Scarface said, staring in at her.

  It wasn’t a question. He clearly knew who she was, but she nodded an admission, anyway. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see there was a car pulled up tightly behind hers in the driveway. A black Caddy with dark windows—precisely the ominous car she’d imagined seeing.

  “A minute of your time,” Scarface said.

  That wasn’t a question, either. In fact, it sounded as if he was delivering a line from a movie. Maybe he’d heard his favorite actor say it, thought it was cool and rehearsed it.

  “I’m afraid you’ve just caught me on my way out,” she started to explain. “I’m already late for—”

  “We’ll really only take a minute. Mrs. Weyden, we know you’ve talked to your husband. We know he has your son.”

  For half a second she wondered if these two could possibly be cops. Then she realized cops would have shown their ID. Whoever these guys were, though, maybe they’d come to offer their help. And regardless of the source, she’d consider any offer of help she got. Her stomach doing crazy flip-flops, she opened the door to the cold December air and ushered them into the hall.

  “My name’s Nick Sinclair, Mrs. Weyden,” the older one said, introducing himself. “Nicky, if you like.”

  She didn’t like, but she managed a polite smile.

  “And this here’s Chico Gonzalez.” He gestured at the gorilla, who nodded to her.

  “And you know where my son is?”

  “Not exactly,” Sinclair said.

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  “I mean it’s like I said. We know your husband has him. But we don’t know exactly where they are. We wanna find out, though...find your husband, I mean. It’s not your son we’re interested in.”

  The bitter taste of disappointment filling her mouth, she ruled out the possibility of unexpected help. “I don’t know where my husband is,” she told Sinclair. He was obviously the one in charge.

  “No?” he said.

  “No. Until last night, I didn’t even know he was alive.”

  “Yeah, well, we always figured he was. And let’s not play games, Mrs. Weyden. Maybe you don’t know where he is right this minute, but you’re gonna be seeing him when you give him the money.”

  Her mind racing, she tried to make sense of things, but there were too many blanks. To fill in at least one, she asked, “You know my husband?”

  Sinclair shrugged. “We usta be business associates.”

  “Ah...” She didn’t imagine, even for a second, that they’d been associated with the legitimate side of Bob’s business. “Well, as I said, Mr. Sinclair, I don’t know where my husband is.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said, you’re gonna be seeing him when you give him the money.”

  But she wouldn’t be giving Bob the money. Not face-to-face, at least. Nick Sinclair had some of his facts right and some wrong, and she didn’t know what to make of that. Then she thought about the bug in her phone—and tried to remember exactly what had been said in each of her conversations with Bob.

  Logan had removed that transmitter before Bob had called this morning, but it had been there last night. So if Scarface and the gorilla were the ones who’d planted it... “It was you who bugged my phone, wasn’t it,” she guessed.

  Sinclair shrugged. “Like I told you, we always figured your husband was still alive. And that you’d hear from him. You or his partner.”

  “Vinny? You bugged Vinny’s phone, too?”

  “He have any other partners?”

  She shook her head, not sure whether Sinclair was asking that as a serious question or just being sarcastic.

  “Well, Vinny isn’t the most cooperative guy. But you...well, we’re counting on you to be more helpful. See, the point here is we got a little unfinished business with your husband, so we wanna talk to him. In person, like. And he said he’d be telling you about giving him the money this morning. So all I want you to do is tell me when and where you’re gonna meet him.”

  Ali’s throat felt so dry she doubted she could get words out. Last night, Wes Penna had suggested that Bob had been playing dead because he’d crossed the mob. But even if she hadn’t had that possibility in the back of her mind, it wouldn’t have been hard to guess what line of work Nick Sinclair and the gorilla were in. Or what their unfinished business was.

  If anything happened to Bob, though, what would happen to Robbie? The way things stood, Bob was her only link to her son.

  “Well?” Sinclair pressed. “When and where?”

  She stared at him, utterly terrified and without the slightest idea what to say. Should she tell him the truth? That she wasn’t going to be seeing Bob at all? Explain about his Swiss bank account?

  But what if they didn’t believe her? Then they’d probably try to beat the truth out of her. And if they did believe her...Lord, that might be even worse.

  If they thought she’d be no further use to them ... she could suddenly visualize shoulder holsters with big guns hidden under those coats. Maybe, until she’d had time to think, the less she said the better.

  “I don’t know what the arrangements are going to be yet,” she managed to say.

  “Look, lady,” Sinclair snapped, “don’t hand me any bull. We heard what Bob said last night. He was going to give you the instructions this morning.”

  “But he didn’t. I can’t get the money right away, and when I explained that he just said he’d call me again.”

  “Dammit, lady, I’m losing my patience pretty quick here.”

  “No, I’m telling you the truth! Really. The money’s tied up in mutual funds and it’s going to take five days to— I can show you.” The idea struck her with a flash of brilliance. “I can get the statement and show you if you want. It’s just upstairs and it specifies the five days right on it.”

  “Okay,” Sinclair said after a moment. “You go get it. Chico, go with her.”

  Ali turned and raced up the stairs. Above the hammering of her heart, she could hear Chico thudding after her. She grabbed the statement from the dresser, where she’d left it last night, and turned back to the bedroom door. Chico stepped silently aside to let her pass and she hurried down to the front hall again.

  “It’s right here on the back,” she told Sinclair, frantically searching through the print to find the bit she needed. “Here...right here under Settlement Dates.”

  Sinclair followed the lines along with his finger as he read, then he turned the statement over and examined the front for a minute.

  “Okay,” he finally said, looking at her. “Okay, so when’s he gonna phone again?”

  “I don’t know. Before Friday was all he said.”

  “That’s the truth?”

  She nodded fiercely, then did her best to hold his gaze so he’d believe her lie really was the truth.

  “Okay, then I guess we gotta wait, eh? But me and Chico’s gonna be keeping an eye on you while we wait. And when you get those instructions you’re gonna tell us, right?”

  She nodded even more fiercely.

  “How about, when you got something you wanna tell us, you back your car into the driveway, instead of driving it in the way you usually do?”

  The way she usually did. They’d not only bugged her phone, they’d already been keeping an eye on her. She tried to ignore the creepy-crawly feeling that knowledge produced and said, “Sure. Sure, I’ll back it in.”

  “And you wouldn’t even think of mentioning our little visit next time you talk to Bob, would you?”

  “No. No, I wouldn’t even think of it.”

  “Good. ‘Cuz if he was to decide he didn’t want to see us, ‘cuz of something you said...” Sinclair reached out and touched her face, trailing his finger down her che
ek, then under her chin.

  His unmistakable message started her trembling.

  “So we’re real clear on that, eh? You won’t be saying even a word.”

  “No. Not a word. But my son. This business you have with Bob...”

  “Nobody’s gonna hurt your kid, Mrs. Weyden. Not Chico or me, anyways.” He jerked his head at Chico, then opened the door.

  “You take care,” he said, glancing back at her. “And don’t forget, we’re gonna be keeping an eye on you.”

  * * *

  ALI BACKED OUT of her driveway, fear still making her hands shaky. A visit from guys like Sinclair and his friend wasn’t something she could laugh off. Or simply put out of her mind, either.

  They had no interest in harming Robbie, though. That was the important thing. “Nobody’s gonna hurt your kid,” Nick Sinclair had said, so she had that to cling to—assuming she could believe him.

  But nobody was going to hurt Robbie, because she was going to get him back before Friday. And then Nick Sinclair...well, she had no idea what he’d do, but there were only so many things she could worry about at once.

  She told herself to concentrate on her driving, and succeeded in making it down the block without wrapping her Probe around a pole. As she neared College, though, she thought about parking and finding Logan, rather than driving straight on to Custom Cargoes. He’d want to know about Sinclair and the silent Chico Gonzalez. And maybe, in however long it took to tell him, she could manage to stop trembling.

  On the other hand, if she wasted any more time Vinny might go out for lunch before they got there. Glancing into the mirror again, she was glad to see there was still no sign of the black Caddy behind her. At least her new friends hadn’t decided to keep that close an eye on her.

  When she reached the stone pillars that stood on the corner of Palmerston—a pair of stately guards from the previous century—she gazed slowly along the row of parked cars on the far side of College. There was a streetcar partially blocking her view, and quite possibly hiding Logan’s Cherokee. Or maybe he was farther along.

  She was still undecided about parking and looking for him when, as if fate was telling her to carry on according to plan, one of the cars on College stopped and the driver gestured her into the intersection. With a quick wave of thanks she hung a left and started for Bathurst, keeping a close eye on the rearview mirror—glad her car was red, an easy color for Logan to spot.

  Wherever he’d been parked, she should see him on her tail any minute. And, she thought uneasily, if she was observant enough she’d also see anyone else who might be following her. Just as she was turning south onto Bathurst a blue Jeep Cherokee came into view, half a dozen car lengths back—Logan behind the wheel.

  The visible proof that he really was watching out for her, like a living guardian angel, made the remnants of her fear fade a little more. She only hoped he would stay back there, that he didn’t signal her to stop because there was somebody else on her tail. She didn’t want any more delays before they got to Vinny. Now that she knew it was Sinclair who’d bugged her phone, and not Bob, she was back to her initial theory.

  Vinny had to have been in touch with Bob, feeding him information, helping him out. And whatever he knew about Bob’s plans was going to bring her that much closer to finding her son. Maybe, as Logan had suggested earlier, Vinny even knew where Robbie was.

  Telling herself not to let her hopes get too high, she spent the rest of the drive down to Wellington rehearsing what she’d say to that weasel Vinny. She found a parking space not far from Custom Cargoes, and while she was maneuvering her car over the icy ruts in it, Logan drove past. When he pulled into a space farther along, she headed down the block to meet him.

  “What took you so long?” he demanded by way of a greeting. “I was sure I’d missed you somehow.”

  “Well, I had unexpected company.” She turned back and started in the direction of Vinny’s building with him. “Just listen to this.”

  * * *

  LOGAN AND ALI PAUSED in the foyer of the old office building while she finished her story.

  “So do you think I did the right thing?” she asked when she was done.

  “I guess you must have. You’re still in one piece.” Logan forced a smile, trying not to let her see that he was scared to death for her. From Ali’s descriptions, it seemed clear that the men were from the mob. The mob, for God’s sake! Did she have any idea what they’d do if they found out she’d lied to them? Or when they found out, was more likely.

  “I just didn’t know what to tell them,” she was going on. “I mean, they heard what Bob said last night—that I’d be giving him the money. And they made the same assumption I did, that he meant I’d be physically handing it over to him. So I was afraid to say that wasn’t how it was going to be, afraid they’d think I was lying. And...oh, Logan, I was so frightened and I just didn’t know.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around her. He had to think, and holding her played havoc with his thought processes.

  “I’m sure you did the best thing you could have,” he said at last.

  “Really?”

  “Really. If you’d told them you wouldn’t be seeing Bob...hell, I don’t know what they’d have done. But this way they still think they’re going to have a shot at getting their hands on him through you. That means you bought some time.”

  She looked so relieved he almost wished he hadn’t reassured her. She might have done the best she could, but there was really nothing to be feeling relieved about. Just as Wes had suspected, Bob Weyden was running for his life. And now that the guys who wanted him dead were dragging Ali into their plans, there was only so much time she could buy. In the end... Logan couldn’t stand even to speculate about that, so he asked if she was ready to face Vinny.

  She gave him a wan smile. “After Nick Sinclair and Chico Gonzalez, facing Vinny’s going to be a piece of cake.”

  He had another urge to wrap his arms around her, just because she was so gutsy. Instead, he followed her up the stairs and along the second floor hall to a door marked Custom Cargoes. Someone had decorated it with an evergreen wreath and a big red bow, but being reminded of Christmas did nothing to make him feel even a twinge of joy. He was too damned worried.

  “Well, here goes,” Ali murmured, opening the door.

  He trailed along behind her, telling himself the smartest thing was to try to deal with only one issue at a time. And right now that meant not worrying about what the mob might do sometime in the future, and concentrating on learning what he could from Vinny Velarde.

  The reception area contained a desk and file cabinets, along with typical waiting room furniture. Standing by the window was a receptionist in her early thirties—in the process of watering a potted Norfolk pine that had been hung with tiny ornamental balls and practically choked to death with silver garlands.

  Logan decided she wasn’t at all bad-looking, if a man’s taste ran to leggy, top-heavy blondes with big hair, but she was decidedly unfriendly. There wasn’t the slightest hint of Christmas spirit in the glare she shot them.

  “Well, well,” she muttered, her gaze settling on Ali. “Long time no see.”

  “Deloras,” Ali said.

  Logan glanced curiously at Ali, then back at the receptionist. Ali’s tone was as frosty as Deloras’s glare. Between the two, he could hardly keep from shivering.

  “I want to talk to Vinny,” Ali said.

  Deloras shrugged. “You should have called. He’s out of the office a lot, remember?”

  Ali looked pointedly at the phone on Deloras’s desk. Even though the receiver was on the hook, Logan noted, one of the line’s lights was on.

  “Are you saying he isn’t in?” Ali said, her eyes still on the phone.

  Deloras looked at it and shrugged again. “He’s not seeing people today.”

  Without another word, Ali started across the reception area toward one of the two doors on the far wa
ll. Logan followed along again, wondering what the story was with Deloras.

  When Ali knocked on the office door, a male voice snapped, “What?”

  “Vinny, it’s Ali. I’ve got to talk to you.”

  Vinny muttered something Logan couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded decidedly obscene. About a minute later, the office door opened.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Ali whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

  From her reaction, Logan concluded that Vinny didn’t normally walk around with half-dried blood on his shirt, a face that resembled a piece of well-tenderized meat, and wearing a suit that looked like he’d worn it to go ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

  “Come on in,” he said, gesturing her inside as if Logan didn’t exist.

  When she didn’t move, he looked at Logan. His eyes were so swollen it was impossible to tell what color they were, but the flesh around them was an unsightly red, beginning to turn purple.

  Fleetingly, Logan wondered what he normally looked like. An average mid-forties guy, he decided. Average height and weight, with graying brown hair combed forward to hide a receding hairline.

  “He’s a friend, Vinny,” Ali was explaining, taking Logan’s arm and drawing him into the office with her. “Logan Reed.”

  Logan extended his hand, although he wasn’t sure normal etiquette was appropriate with someone who’d obviously had the crap beaten out of him not long ago.

  Vinny didn’t shake, so he decided it must not be.

  “Put the answering machine on and go for lunch,” Vinny told Deloras. “Right now. And bring me back a pastrami on rye, okay?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Nice seeing you again, Ali,” she added sarcastically as Vinny shoved his door closed.

  “Vinny, what happened?” Ali asked. “You look like—”

  “I looked a hell of a lot worse before I got cleaned up.” Vinny limped over to his desk and slumped into his chair. “Take off your stuff and have a seat.”