by Joan Wolf
His arm tightened. “I’m going to get them, sweetheart. We’ll see if we can get some of your money back.”
“It isn’t the money, really.” She stared at the bleak, rain-sodden foundation. “It’s the rottenness of it all. That Fred could do this to me.”
“Dante put the traitors in the bottom circle of hell,” he said.
She shivered again. He had spoken very quietly but something in his voice frightened her. She was suddenly glad she was the victim of this particular scam and not the perpetrator.
“Come on, Red,” he said, and his voice sounded more normal. “Let’s get out of here. You’re freezing.”
They drove into the nearest town and dried off in a coffee shop. Then they went department-store-browsing. They ended the day by driving back into Alton and browsing there as well. In no store did they find a trace of Patsy Clark sportswear.
“That’s it, then,” Patsy said glumly as they returned to the car after their last excursion. “The sportswear is a bust, too.”
He looked at his watch. “Do you want to get the eight-o’clock plane?”
“Yes.”
He smiled a little at her tone and started up the car. “Okay. Let’s head for the airport. There has to be a restaurant somewhere nearby where we can eat and get a drink.”
Patsy leaned her head against the car seat. “Several drinks, I think,” she murmured, and he grunted in assent.
They stopped at a steak place not far from the airport, and Patsy went into the bathroom, where she washed her hands and face, put on new blush and lipstick, and tied her hair back with a scarf. Her candy-striped blouse was undoubtedly a mass of wrinkles, but the cotton knit sweater she wore hid most of it. Her green blazer and pink sailcloth pants, however, had never recovered from their earlier soaking. Oh, well, Patsy thought resignedly, glamour isn’t everything, I suppose, and went out to rejoin Michael.
Over their first cocktail she brought up the subject that had been puzzling her all day. “I understand about the shopping center, Michael. Fred simply passed my money along to his friends in the guise of buying me shares. What I don’t understand is the sportswear. I got paid for endorsing that sportswear. I got paid quite a lot—almost a million and a half last year, if I remember correctly.”
He took a long sip of Scotch. “You remember correctly.”
“But why pay me for something that doesn’t exist?” She stared at him in utter bewilderment. “It doesn’t make sense to give me money and then to rob me of it. I just can’t figure it out.”
He regarded her over the rim of his glass. “I think they were using you to launder illegal money, Red.”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s say that you have a lucrative but illegal enterprise going—you’re selling drugs, for instance. You’re making a lot of money and you want to be able to spend it. You want nice cars, a big house, furs for your wife, et cetera. But you can’t account for the money legally.”
“So?” Patsy asked. “The Cadillac salesman doesn’t care where your money came from, Michael.”
He put his glass down. “No. But the IRS does.” Patsy’s eyes widened. He smiled a little at her expression. “If someone who has no known source of income suddenly starts spending big bucks on consumer items, the IRS will want to know where that money came from.”
“The light begins to dawn,” Patsy said softly.
“Garfield is connected with drug traffic—there isn’t much doubt of that. I think they set you up with that phony sportswear contract as a way of getting the drug money legally into Garfield’s pocket. They created this fashion company and produced a limited line of clothes which they made advertising circulars for. You did the advertising and Fred showed the circulars to the IRS. He also showed the IRS that you cleared a profit of one and a half million on the clothes. The books are all in order. The paperwork for Redman Fashions and for the shopping center is brilliant. There are full records on everything. No one would be likely to suspect anything—unless, of course, one actually went out to look for the imaginary products.”
“As we just did.”
“As we just did,” he agreed.
“So this Garfield was on both ends of the money, then,” Patsy said thoughtfully.
“That’s right. He funneled the money in through the fashion deal, then—as owner of the Crossmal Shopping Center—he collected it at the other end. Only now the money was legal and accounted for.” Michael signaled the waiter and ordered another round of drinks. “I wonder who else Fred was working for?” he asked after the waiter had gone.
“Do you think he was doing the same thing to his other clients?”
“I’d bet on it.”
Patsy was frowning at her empty Scotch sour. “But, Michael, if it’s as you just said, then I wasn’t robbed at all. I mean, the money wasn’t really mine to begin with.”
“Did you get paid for the hours you put in to do the fashion advertising?”
“No. That was included in the deal.”
“You’re out a chunk of your time, then—and very expensive time it is, too, sweetheart. Also you haven’t pursued other contracts because you thought you were making good money from this one. And,” he concluded gently, “we haven’t even mentioned Fred’s little account in the Cayman Islands.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. Fred didn’t have a clever scam to make that money legal, so he just put it away where the IRS wouldn’t find it. On the other hand, it’s still there, and I have the bankbook. We should be able to recover that for you anyway, Patsy.”
“I’ll probably have to pay taxes on it,” Patsy said resignedly, and he grinned.
“You will, sweetheart. You most certainly will.”
* * * *
They returned the car to the airport rental agency and boarded the plane to New York. Michael was preoccupied for most of the trip, frowning slightly and making notes in a small black leather book. Patsy pulled a novel out of her purse and read. When the Fasten Your Seatbelt sign came on, she put her book away and turned to look at Michael’s face, her eyes lingering lovingly on his brow line and cheekbone. He glanced at her, and she smiled.
His preoccupied look lifted. “Sorry to be such lousy company,” he murmured.
“I don’t mind.” Her smile was ineffably lovely. “You don’t have to entertain me, Michael.”
His eyes glinted and slowly began to change from green to gold. Patsy gazed at him in fascination. “I can’t believe we only met again two weeks ago,” she said softly.
“Mmm.” He put his notebook away and took her wrist in his hand. “An awful lot has happened in two weeks.” He moved his thumb caressingly along her palm.
“Michael ...” She made no attempt to hide what she was feeling. She had never had any practice in the art of deception. Besides, he must feel the pulse hammering in her wrist.
“We’ll be home soon,” he said in a low voice.
Wordlessly, she nodded.
Chapter Twelve
“Who with heart in breast could deny you love?” was the refrain that went through Patsy’s brain the following morning when she awoke in his arms. Then he began to kiss her throat, her shoulders, and all thought was suspended for quite some time.
The refrain came back, however, while she made him breakfast and kissed him good-bye as he went off to the office. It was in her mind as she straightened the bedroom and cleared away the breakfast dishes. Just to wash his coffee cup made her so damn happy. She shook her head ruefully at her own emotion, but her heart was full of tenderness all the same.
The rain that had soaked the area the previous night had lifted, and the sun looked as if it might be going to burn through the haze. Deciding to go for a run in the park, Patsy went into her bedroom to put on running clothes. She looked mournfully at her name, emblazoned so confidently on the deep-purple sweatshirt, then tied a scarf around her forehead to keep the hair off her face. She hummed all the way down in the elevator. M
ichael might not love her as she did him, but he wanted her. Of that she was quite certain. It was something to build on, she thought.
“Good morning, Miss Clark.”
It was Tom, the day doorman, and she smiled at him, gave him a sunny greeting, and went out onto Central Park West. She was standing at the corner, waiting for the light, when a gray car with tinted windows pulled up in front of her and stopped. At the same moment a voice said in her ear, “All right, baby, don’t make a sound and get into the car.” There was the distinctly unpleasant feeling of something poking into her back.
The car door opened and the man behind her gave a shove. Before Patsy quite understood what was happening, she found herself in the back seat. The door slammed and the car took off at high speed.
“How are you, beautiful?” asked a voice beside her, and she turned, only to look into the darkly handsome face of Frank Carbone.
Her hands went icy cold “Fr-Frank,” she said breathlessly. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s about you and Michael Melville, Miss Clark,” a voice from the front seat said, and Patsy looked up at the heavy-jowled face of Jack Garfield. The cold spread from her hands to her heart.
For a long minute there was silence in the car. The man from the sidewalk had gotten into the back seat after her, and Patsy was securely jammed between his burly body and Frank. She wasn’t going to be able to get out.
The car stopped for a light and Patsy looked out the window and saw a policeman. Without pausing to reflect on the wisdom of her action, she filled her lungs with air and opened her mouth to scream.
A brutal hand clamped down over her mouth. Patsy struggled and finally succeeded in biting the palm that was pressing her lips against her teeth so mercilessly. She must have hurt him, for she heard him swear, and then he grabbed her head and jammed it hard into his chest. The car began to move forward again.
“Let’s get the hell out of the city,” Frank said breathlessly. The pressure of his hand on the back of Patsy’s head was extremely painful. Her nose and mouth were crushed against him and his jacket button was gouging her cheek. She struggled more, but he only held her tighter. She was having a hard time breathing. Finally, she went limp.
“That’s better,” Frank said. The pressure on the back of her head eased very slightly, making it easier for her to breathe.
“Keep her like that.” It was Jack Garfield’s voice from the front seat. “We don’t want to have to knock her out. We need her to get Melville for us.”
“Sure,” Frank said. “It’s a pleasure. Just be quiet, beautiful,” he said to Patsy, “and you won’t get hurt.”
Patsy was still as stone. What did they mean, they needed her to get Michael for them? Dear God, dear God, dear God. What were they going to do?
Frank’s hand, which had been gripping her shoulder, moved down her back. “I’ve thought about having you like this,” he said. “Thought about it a lot.” His hand moved again and fondled her breast. Patsy went rigid.
“Not now, Frank,” ordered the voice from the front seat.
There was a pause, then the hand gave her breast a cruel squeeze and withdrew. “All right.” The grip on her head tightened, and the button ground into her cheek. “I’ll wait.”
Patsy had not thought it possible to be this frightened. Her face pressed painfully against Frank’s chest, she tried frantically to think of a way out of this.
The ride seemed interminable. She decided that the best time to make a move was when they were taking her out of the car. She’d try to scream then, she thought. Even if they shot her, she had to try something. She couldn’t just let Michael walk into the middle of a trap.
They went through a toll, but Garfield raised the tinted glass partition that separated the front and back seats, and Patsy remained undiscovered. Finally, after what seemed to her an eternity, the car came to a halt and the engine was switched off.
“All right,” Garfield said, “Frank and I will take her into the house. Herbie, drive the car down the street and wait there. We don’t want Melville to suspect anything. Joe, you come with us.”
The door next to Frank opened. “All right, beautiful,” Frank said, “no tricks now.” His hold on her head relaxed, and Patsy cautiously lifted her face, blinking in the sunshine. Her neck ached. She looked around and realized, with deep surprise, that they were at Michael’s house. She wet her lips and tried to keep her face expressionless. There was no one in sight, but surely someone was home, someone would hear her.
The man behind her wrenched her arm so that it was almost all the way up her back. The pain was excruciating. “All right now, baby,” his voice said in her ear. “We’re going to walk into the house. Quietly, or I’ll break your arm for you.”
Frank got out of the car and Patsy followed, doubled over with agony in her arm. The two men hovered over her solicitously, or so it would appear to any disinterested observer. Patsy felt sweat break out all over her body. She was incapable of uttering a sound.
They reached the house, and as the door closed behind them, the grip on Patsy’s arm loosened and she was free. She stood in the living room, trembling violently and feeling ill as Frank locked the door and drew the curtains across the picture window. Then he turned to her.
“All right, beautiful,” he said pleasantly, “now you’re going to put in a call to the boyfriend.”
Patsy swallowed and didn’t say anything. The man called Joe took out his gun and aimed it at her stomach.
Jack Garfield took over. “You call him and tell him to come here. And get him here without making him suspect anything is wrong. Be very careful.” He nodded to the gunman. “Joe here is very nervous.”
Patsy wet her lips. “It’s crazy. I mean, there isn’t any reason for me to be here.”
“Tell him you wanted to finish cleaning up the mess,” Frank suggested.
“Were you the ones who wrecked the house?” she asked, playing for time.
“We were hoping very much that you and Melville would get the message from that little decorating job,” Garfield said regretfully. “But when you flew out to St. Louis, I knew you hadn’t.”
Patsy felt as if she had just been kicked in the stomach. She clenched her fists until she felt the nails score into her palms. “And if I say I won’t call Michael?”
“Then,” Garfield said simply, “I would have to make you. Or Frank would.”
Patsy swallowed. “All right. I’ll call him.”
“Very sensible. Now what are you going to tell him?”
“He’s using my car. I’ll tell him that I wanted the two cars in New York and came out here to drive his back, but it won’t start. I’ll tell him I’m afraid to stay here alone and ask him to come and get me.”
“Melville did take her car this morning, Jack,” Frank said.
“Yeah. You tell him that. And remember, no tricks.”
“Okay.”
He gestured her over to the phone and stood next to her. Patsy picked up the receiver, but her hand was shaking too much for her to dial. Garfield got the number for her.
“Lawson and Melville,” said a woman’s impersonal voice.
“Is Mr. Melville there please?” Patsy asked. “This is Patricia Clark calling.”
“One moment, please, Miss Clark.”
There were some beeping sounds and then Michael’s voice came over the wire. “What’s up, Red?”
“Oh, Mike,” Patsy said hurriedly, “I’m so glad you’re in. I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a jam.”
There was a brief pause. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fine, Mike. But I’m here at your house and I’m stuck. I got a friend to drive me out so I could get your car, and then I decided to do some tidying up while I was here. But when I went out to start the car to go back to New York, it wouldn’t start.”
“Where’s your friend?”
“She left. She just dropped me off—she’s going out to Fir
e Island. Do you think you could come over and pick me up, Mike? I’m getting nervous here by myself. Those awful thugs might come back.”
“I’m with a client right now, Pat. Can you wait there for half an hour or so?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can, sweetheart. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in.”
“Okay, Mike. I’ll be waiting.” She hung up and looked at Jack Garfield.
He nodded. “Very good.” He gestured her to the sofa. “Sit down.” Slowly Patsy crossed the floor and sat, her sneakered feet pressed together on the floor, her hands clasped tensely in her lap. The man with the gun sat in a chair across from her, and Frank and Garfield went to the curtained window. The room was very quiet. Patsy prayed.
It was forty-five minutes later when she heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. A door slammed, and from the window Frank said, “It’s him.”
Patsy’s knuckles went white with pressure as she watched the door with huge, frightened eyes. There was the sound of a key in the lock, and then the knob turned, the door opened, and Michael was there.
Frank, who had been standing behind the door, slammed it shut. Joe stepped out from the dining area, gun in hand, and Garfield said, “Melville. At last.”
Michael’s eyes went to Patsy, sitting frozen and terrified on the sofa. “I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said miserably.
He was impeccably dressed in a business suit, white shirt, and dark striped tie. His eyes went from her to the three men who now circled him, and for a brief, startling second his face was totally out of character with his civilized garb. “Who did that to your face?” he asked.
Patsy put her hand up to her sore cheek. “Oh,” she said, “that was Frank’s button.”
“The bruise on her cheek is only a sample of what’s going to happen, Melville,” Frank threatened.
“I know about the shopping center,” Michael said. His face now looked cold and composed. “I know about the fashion contract.”