Donnell Ann Bell

by Donnell Ann Bell

  “Unless he caught Mrs. Norris trying to make a call and told her to drop it,” Harry argued.

  “You just can’t think positive. Check it for prints. Then run it by Lishock, ask him to do a trace on the memory card.”

  “Got it.”

  “You’re one tenacious woman, Harry. Glad you’re on our side.”

  “Do I get a raise?”

  “You get something better, my undying respect. Get me those prints.” Joe held the door open for Harry, then locked up the store. He was about to see Harry to her car when his cell phone rang. Waving her on, and watching her move toward her vehicle, he took a breath before answering. “Crandall.”

  “Lt. Crandall. My name’s Clayborn Morrison. I’m Chief of Police for Riverside California Police Department.”

  Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. This couldn’t be good. What can I do for you, Chief?”

  I received your name from Mrs. Marcy Maxwell. She asked me to get in touch with you. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Marcy Maxwell. Is she any relation to Adam Maxwell?”

  “She is. She’s Maxwell’s wife.” The chief hesitated. “Late this afternoon, Maxwell was the victim of a hit and run. He and his body guard, as it turns out, were crossing the street at one of Maxwell’s job sites, when a man driving a stolen Ford Excursion struck both men.”

  Joe closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of flying bodies, and what a vehicle the size of an Excursion could do to two grown men. The driver had wanted to make sure he did permanent damage. Joe thought of his recent conversation with Adam. He’d claimed to have beefed up security. Obviously he had.

  “Adam Maxwell died instantly. As for the bodyguard, he’s on life support.”

  Joe swallowed hard. “Did you catch the driver?”

  “Not at first. That’s when Mrs. Maxwell became hysterical. Said that you’d tried to warn her husband this might happen. She put me in touch with you.”

  “The man who did this,” Joe said, urgently, trying to make sense of it. “You said not at first. What does that mean?” Joe thought of the crooked P.I. Givens and that debacle of a goose chase. If Drake Maxwell was in California killing his brother, then who in the hell had Melanie?

  “We apprehended the driver not a half hour later. A man by the name of Jason Rander fled Riverside, apparently trying to make it to L.A. When police pursued, he lost control of the Excursion. It swerved into another lane. A semi coming in the other direction hit the Excursion head on. Driver of the semi survived, but the suspect died en route to the hospital.

  “I suppose it would be too much to hope he made a deathbed confession?” Joe asked.

  “Looks like you caught a break, Lieutenant. Rander told a paramedic that Drake Maxwell hired him to kill his brother.”

  Joe placed a hand on the back of his neck, rubbed it and squeezed.

  “I understand you told Adam Maxwell that his brother might be after him.”

  “For all the good it did,” Joe said. “I also think Drake Maxwell might have killed a corrections officer here in Cañon City, Colorado. It gets worse. Tonight Maxwell may have kidnapped a woman.”

  The chief responded with a muffled oath. “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

  “Not at this time,” Joe said. “I’m about to put out an APB. I appreciate the phone call. Will you relay my deepest condolences to Mrs. Maxwell and her family?”

  “I will. If it’s any consolation, Lieutenant, Mrs. Maxwell said to thank you for trying.”

  “That’s no consolation.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Anything I can do for you on this end?”

  “You can contact your counterpart in Cañon City, tell him what you told me. Perhaps with both our agencies telling them about Drake Maxwell, they’ll listen. We think he’s around here somewhere.”

  “Will do. Anything else?”

  “Just remind them we’re on the same side,” Joe said. “And help us get this guy.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Too bad her captor had chosen a life of crime, because he might’ve made a decent living as a chef. Mel cleaned her plate of enchiladas, rellenos and rice, and drank two glasses of water before a different bodily function set in.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.

  Drake stood by the back door, glaring. The Hispanic man smiled. “Of course. Down the hall and to your right.”

  Warily, she rose to her feet. Was he simply going to let her go?

  She had her answer before leaving the kitchen. “Chica,” he said. “Before you get any ideas about leaving the house, be sure to look out the window. Two of my men are watching. For now I have left instructions that no one touches you. Reject my hospitality, and they will take turns at your luscious body.”

  Avoiding the cruel quirk of his lips, she refused to look back and entered the hallway. She had no reason to believe he was lying. Nonetheless, as she paused at the first bedroom window, her heart sank. It was dark and she couldn’t see anyone inside, but a lone car was parked in front of the house.

  Entering the bathroom, she resisted slamming the door. She dropped her jeans, sat on the toilet and buried her face in her hands.

  Joe. Get me out of here.

  Afterward, she washed up and pushed back the hair falling into her eyes. One thing she’d figured out while they fed her, Drake was second in command to the man in the kitchen. And she suspected something else. They might be treating her decently for the time being, but they were up to something, or she’d be long dead by now. So, if their plan wasn’t rape and murder, what did they want? Did they think she had money?

  The bathroom had no window, and as she took in her surroundings, she noted its feminine touches. Peach tones and teal towels, ceramic sea shells on the counter, and a seahorse wallpaper border. Was the criminal in the other room married? Was he committed to his wife, and that was the reason he’d spared Mel from sexual abuse? It didn’t matter. For whatever reason he’d left her in one piece, she was thankful. But not stupid.

  Gingerly, she opened the medicine chest to see what else she could learn. In it she found feminine products, deodorant and pain relief medications. A nearly empty prescription bottle of Amoxocillin sat on the bottom shelf issued to somebody named Maria Ramirez. It was filled at a Walmart store in Colorado Springs.

  Her gaze slid to the bathroom door. Was that the name of the man in the other room?

  Committing Ramirez to memory, Mel squatted at the cabinet below the sink. Here someone had stored toilet paper, tampons and sanitary napkins. Again, nothing to suggest this house belonged to a man. Worse, nothing she could use as a weapon to get her out of this miserable place and back to her son.

  Mel leaned her head against the cabinet door. She’d been gone several hours. Luke would be frantic by now. She stood, regretting that she’d ever told him about her past. Could he handle it? Would Joe help Luke through it?

  Two loud raps shook the door and she jumped.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  Drake. Barely recognizing her haggard reflection in the mirror, Mel raised her voice. “My stomach’s upset. Give me a break.”

  He banged on the door. “Like the one you gave me? Get out of there. It’s time for bed.”

  Perhaps she’d spoken too soon. In no position to argue about sleeping arrangements, she opened the door. Arms crossed and scowling, he leaned against the opposite wall, waiting for her. She followed wordlessly, re-entering the kitchen to find they were alone. A new burst of panic set in when he strode toward the basement. As she had in the bathroom, she scanned the counters for a weapon. When that, too, proved unsuccessful, she envisioned grabbing a chair. She’d slam it over his head the second he looked away. That never happened, unfortunately. He watched her with the unmistakable aggression of a man who w
anted her dead. He stood aside for her to go downstairs before him, but at least she’d accomplished something. She’d discovered the location of the phone and estimated the distance to the kitchen’s rear entry. Nor had it escaped her notice there wasn’t a lock on the basement door.

  Unable to resist testing him, she took the first few steps. “Your boss leave you alone?”

  “Don’t push it, Melanie. If I say you’re gone, you’re gone.”

  It was probably good advice that he offered. She breathed in and out and disregarded it. “If you hate me so much, why not just kill me?”

  “For a broad with no future,” he said from behind her, “you gotta big mouth.”

  She did indeed. Lowering her head, she bit back her rage. But the risky outburst, and the fact she was still standing, confirmed her thinking. They were keeping her alive for something. For the first time in hours, she felt safe. Qualify that. Safe―er.

  Downstairs in the cold basement, he led her back to the mattress, covered only by a sheet and the ropes that his so-called partner had cut from her body.

  Drake picked up a shortened, useless strand. “Shit.”

  Maybe it was hysteria taking hold, but she found his predicament funny. She laughed.

  Ignoring her, he yanked the sheet from the mattress and ripped the material to shreds.

  She knew better than to taunt him again, but she couldn’t resist. “You could leave me untied.”

  The force of his palm across her cheek snapped back her head. “That’s what I think of that lousy idea. Now get over here.”

  She raised a hand to her stinging face. If she got the chance, she would kill him.

  He shoved her to the mattress, then bound her with the cloth restraints. Now she didn’t even have the benefit of the lightweight sheet in the cold, unfinished basement. The bastard grabbed blankets from a nearby chair, lay down beside her and threw them over himself

  She, on the other hand, had only the warmth of her jeans and a linen shirt. Suspecting he wanted her to beg, she huddled into a fetal position. He could wait forever. She’d rather―

  His cell phone rang. He rolled to his side and grabbed it. “One sound,” he said, “and I’ll break your ribs.”

  He’d struck her twice already. Missing his ally, who’d at least provided a buffer between them, she took the threat as gospel and kept quiet.

  Drake got up and walked to the far side of the room. His voice became soft, reminding her of when she’d met him years before. That’s when she realized the caller was female. In spite of her deep-seated hatred, she was intrigued. Did Drake still have a spot of humanity left in him to care about someone? He hadn’t been out of prison long, so when and where had he met the woman on the phone? More importantly, was there some way Mel could use his feelings to her advantage?

  From across the room, he murmured something about “naked on a beach,” and he laughed. Finally the phone conversation ended with, “Yeah, me, too.”

  Afterward, he dropped down beside her. “Get an earful?”

  “Sorry,” Mel said, dripping sarcasm. “I would have left the room but I was all tied up. Didn’t take you long to find a woman.”

  “Never did, babe. It could’ve been you.”

  Her mind focused on Drake standing over the traumatized clerk pleading for his life and she wanted to gag. “Sorry, cold-blooded killers do nothing for me.”

  “So what is your type?” He flipped her onto her back, grabbing her throat with his huge calloused hand. “Tell me about this husband of yours.”

  As taunting as she’d been with her words, he did the same with his fingers, gripping her neck just hard enough to let her know he could squeeze the life out of her with very little effort.

  Her heart raced, but damn her pride, it was greater than her fear. She gritted her teeth. “He’s wonderful. What’s more, he doesn’t even know how to spell Department of Corrections.”

  Drake laughed as his fingers wound tighter. “Sounds like a loser.”

  Instinctively she tried to swallow. “I thought you wanted to sleep.”

  “Not anymore. I want to talk about your old man. Funny, you don’t even wear a wedding ring. What’s his name?”

  “Larry,” she croaked.

  “Larry,” Drake repeated. “Good old, stupid Larry.”

  She rolled her eyes. Her intended insult had backfired. “He’s not stupid.”

  “You’re the one who said he couldn’t spell. So, you know what’s bothering me? How come there’s not one picture of good ol’ stupid Larry in your wallet?”

  God help her. Drake had gone through her things? “We haven’t been married long. I’ve been meaning to put one in.”

  “Guess that explains it.” He pressed his mouth close to her ear. “Know what I did find, though? Tons of photos... of a kid.”

  Luke. Mel felt ill, like her heart was being ripped from her chest.

  “You’re a lying bitch, you know that.” Increasing the grip he had on her throat, he forced his weight onto her. “There is no husband. It’s you and your brat.”

  She wanted to spit in his face. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe.

  “Don’t die on me yet, Melanie. This is too much fun. Know what else is great about wallets? They contain so much information. Credit cards, checking accounts, addresses.”

  She fought against passing out, giving in to the bastard. No matter what, she had to protect Luke. She gasped. “You think you’re so clever, that you can get to me through my son. You idiot. He doesn’t even live here.”

  Her enemy’s gaze drew into slits. “What are you talking about?”

  “After my husband died, I couldn’t afford to raise him. I sent him to his family in Florida.”

  The monster, this devil personified eased off of her and let go of her throat. Free of his hot breath and unbearable presence, the air returned to her lungs.

  He stood, paced the length of the floor, then turned to her and laughed. “You’re good, but not good enough. If the boy doesn’t live here, why’s your heart doing the tango?”

  “The idea that you know anything about me makes me want to retch.”

  He lifted a sandy blond brow, reached into his back pocket and withdrew his phone. A few seconds later, he said, “Ramirez, she says the kid doesn’t live here.”

  Even from her place on the floor Mel could hear the other party bellow.

  “She’s lying,” Drake said. “She’s scared shitless. But we gotta have the kid.”

  Mel held her breath as her tormentor’s cocky gaze collided with hers. “Tell Mercer and Skinny to head over to 39 Serendipity Lane and pick him up.”

  No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. She ordered herself to calm down. In the back of her mind she knew Joe would never leave Luke alone. Joe didn’t have it in him to make her son vulnerable.

  “And if the kid’s not there?” Drake laughed. “We’ll do what I should’ve done in the first place.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Later that evening, when Joe turned onto Serendipity, he was angry enough to hit someone. And the person he wanted to hit hardest was himself. He’d dropped the ball on this one. By putting his career first and honoring Melanie’s request to stay away, he might’ve very well gotten her killed.

  He stared at the white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. A police officer had to be mentally prepared to handle worst-case scenarios. But in this case, it was the first time he’d allowed himself to seriously consider that Maxwell had truly abducted her. If that were the case, and by the looks of the battered cell phone he had, Melanie’s chances for survival were close to nil.

  What in the hell was Joe going to tell Luke? No matter how many times Joe’d criticized Mel’s overprotective nature and argued that Luke was almost a man, beneath his six foot-two-inch statu
re, lurked a boy.

  Joe’s throat threatened to close from sorrow and guilt. If something happened to Melanie, Luke wasn’t the only one who would feel her loss. Damn this helpless feeling. Joe would be on this twenty-four/seven until he found her.

  As he neared his house, he narrowed his gaze at the car parked at the curb. A new rush of fear set in, until he recognized the vehicle as Rick Hood’s beat up gold Camaro.

  Joe pulled into the garage. He could use some of Rick’s positive thinking about now. Every bad experience Joe had known as a cop was crushing him.

  He strode into the house and stopped at the door to the den. Luke sat on the couch, covering his right eye with an ice bag, while the coach sat at his side.

  Rick rose from the couch and nodded to Joe. “We should talk in the hallway.”

  Joe followed the former basketball star into the entryway, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. “Where’s Matt?”

  “Here.”

  Joe turned to see his son standing at the top of the stairs holding a bloody wash cloth over his nose. About to lose what was left of his remaining self-control, Joe said, “Somebody better start talking.”

  “They got in a fight,” Rick explained.

  Keeping his head back, Matt negotiated the stairs. “Luke wanted to go look for his mom. You told me to keep him here. I did my best, Dad, but he’s not exactly a girl. When I tried, it came to blows. We kind of lost it from there.”

  Luke stood at the door to the den. “When I drew blood that was all it took. I mean, Matt’s my best friend. But seeing all that red made me calm down. We couldn’t get hold of you, so we called Coach.”

  To Rick, Joe said, “I appreciate you coming over.” To Matt, Joe added, “I shouldn’t have put you in this position, son. I’m sorry.”

  Head back, Matt kept the washcloth in place. “No biggie.”

  “Any news on my mom?” Luke’s gaze bored into Joe’s.

  “Why don’t we talk in the den?”

  “No. Everybody knows what’s going on.” Luke’s voice cracked. “You gotta tell me, Lieutenant. Did Drake Maxwell kill my mom?”