Reluctant Runaway

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  “I’ve got goose bumps hearing the confidence in your voice.” She glanced at the closed and locked hotel room door. “I’m dealing with a situation at the moment. Hold on. I need to look out my peephole and see if a certain pest has vamoosed.”

  Desi laid the receiver down and tiptoed to the door. The hallway was empty, but she sure wasn’t going out until she called Tony. He’d go ballistic. Max first, though.

  She went back to the phone. “I’m happy for your sake that Dean’s going to pull through.”

  “But not for his?” Her tone darkened. “He’s sorry about everything, you know. He wants to see you. We talked about it last night when they let me see him. Will you go?”

  Desi gritted her teeth. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that, Max.” Cement encased Desi’s heart. Helping a terrorist kidnap her was a tall order to be sorry for. An even taller one to forgive.

  “But you’ll think about it?”

  “I will. Can we change the subject now?”

  “Are you all right? What was the problem at your door?”

  “No problem. Just a nuisance.” Desi sat down on the bed. “I was going to come home, but if it’s okay with you, I’ll stay in Albuquerque another day. Call it curiosity, but now I’ve got to see how a certain situation involving my unwanted visitor comes out.”

  “No need for you to rush back. Things are good here. Or rather, they’re getting better than they’ve been for a while.”

  “Did you make any progress on locating the Holy City?”

  “Are you sure Little Missy Sunshine, that Hope girl, wasn’t leading you astray? I spent a whole afternoon making phone calls to contractors, plumbers, and building supply places, as well as checking public records like permits and such. No hint of odd building projects going on with Inner Witness Ministries or Hamilton Gordon.”

  “They’re not building anything?” Desi’s stomach clenched. Did that big-eyed innocent at the Santa Fe headquarters mislead her?

  “The ministry completed a new warehouse and office a few months ago. And Gordon just built himself a sprawling ranch-style mansion on a little oasis west of Albuquerque. Both recent, legitimate, well-documented projects.”

  “But I saw a picture of a ground-breaking ceremony in the desert and a detailed model that was not a ranch.”

  “I don’t know what you saw at that ministry hole-in-the-wall. That office is closed by the way. All mention erased from the Net. But—”

  “Doesn’t it seem strange that the address I visited suddenly goes poof off the grid?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Max’s voice sharpened into a close approximation of Desi’s sixth-grade teacher when she didn’t want to continue on a dead subject. “The timing might have coincided with a planned closure. What did they need the space for anymore?”

  Desi let out a long breath. “Okay Max. You have a point.” Too bad she didn’t buy the point. She opened her mouth to argue then closed it. Max had shut down on her. The poor woman was on overload. Besides, she’d done everything Desi asked of her. “You get some rest; spend time with your kids. Take as much vacation as you need.”

  Max let out a loud yawn. “Thank goodness for my mom and Steve. They took the kids out for brunch, and then they’re going to the park so I can catch a few z’s.”

  “Hit the hay, Max.”

  “Just a sec. One more thing. A personal note on Gordon that turned up in my snooping around. He’s not a well man. The medication he’s taking for chronic colitis has given him a disease called Cushing’s syndrome. Causes weight gain, particularly in the stomach, face, and neck, and a mottled, reddish complexion.”

  “That’s Gordon.”

  “Don’t know what that information has to do with anything, but it was interestin’.”

  Desi pictured Gordon’s moon cheeks wet with tears outside her door. “I’d feel sorry for him if he didn’t scare me so much.” She said good-bye then punched in Tony’s number. The phone went right to voice mail.

  “Hi, hon,” she told the recorder. “I had a scary visit from Hamilton Gordon a few minutes ago. I wouldn’t let him in, and I think he’s gone now, but he wanted me to go with him to talk to you. He sounded desperate. You might want to find him as soon as possible if he doesn’t show up there.” She cleared her throat. “From a talk with Max, it looks like I might have been wrong about the secret compound in the desert. She can’t find a trace, and that woman’s too good to miss a thing. Oh, and Dean’s going to make it.” Desi let out a strangled noise. “That’s great, of course, but it’s just that … oh, never mind. I’m going shopping at the mall for a few clothes and plan to stick around Albuquerque for one more day. See you later.”

  All right, what next? Do safe things that will make a certain FBI agent turn cartwheels. First of all, stay out of the investigation. Check. Done that. She sent the man to Tony so he could handle the situation his way. Big star on the report card. And she let him know right away what had happened. Bonus points, Not her fault she had to do it via voice mail.

  Now for traveling precautions. Desi called a cab, then hotel security for an escort out of the building. A paunchy guard showed up at her door, ill-hidden smirk on his face.

  “Hamilton Gordon is stalking you, miss?” He cocked a fuzzy eyebrow at her in the elevator. “He’s as harmless as they come. A real do-gooder, as they say If he’s taken an interest, maybe you should just talk to him. Let him down gently.”

  She answered with a level stare. The man cleared his throat and looked away.

  A few minutes later, Desi climbed into the cab and settled back against the seat cushion. Tony should be ecstatic. Now she was labeled a loony or a bimbo by hotel staff. Out on the road, she swiveled her head this way and that, watching traffic. The cabdriver must’ve thought she had a tic. No one appeared to be following them, at least not in the expensive type of transportation that would haul a man like Gordon.

  The coolness of the mall entrance welcomed her inside. She stopped at the directory gaze taking in her surroundings. A dusky-skinned family chattered in Spanish as they wandered up the hall. An elderly couple shared a bench. A cluster of teenage girls giggled past. No Jabba the Hutt. Tension faded. By now, Gordon must have connected with Tony.

  Macy’s, here I come.

  A power-shopping hour and a half later, she had two changes of clothing, personal items, the makeup basics, and a cell phone. She’d even picked out a striking pair of genuine turquoise earrings. After all, if a gal visited the Southwest, she needed to acquire some local color. Wearing comfortable capris, a bright top, and new sandals, she left the department store swinging her bags.

  Near one of the exits, she called for another cab and waited. That group of teenage girls she’d seen earlier stopped in front of her, debating whether to go for ice cream or a swim. The swim had won out—with, from what she overheard, the possibility of attracting “hot” guys—when the yellow car pulled up.

  Smiling, she walked out of the mall. Her burned skin tingled as she stepped away from the shade of the building. She turned her face up to the sun. Thank You, God, that I’m alive to enjoy this new day. Wherever Karen is, Lord, comfort her and send deliverance … though it looks like I’m not meant to find her

  Someone tapped her shoulder. She turned—and gasped.

  A huge figure blocked the light.

  Tony inched around the room, surveying his handiwork on the bulletin boards. Lab reports, crime scene photos, witness statements, pictures of suspects alive, dead, or missing—Karen Webb, Hamilton Gordon, Bill Winston aka Bernard Walker, Leon “Tank” Bender, Pete Cheama, and a file photo of the presumed dead gigolo whose fingerprints had shown up on the meth package recovered from Cheama’s truck. And then there were pictures of victims. Tony stared into Ben Erickson’s blue eyes. The guy always looked like he was carrying around a funny secret he couldn’t wait to tell the world.

  Tony moved on to a photo of the dead guard from the museum. An electric jolt shot through him. He grabbed the picture
of the guard and compared it to the picture of the gigolo on the suspect board. A resemblance too clear to ignore. The guy must’ve handled the meth package prior to the museum robbery because he was dead for real before Cheama was run off the road. Chances were good that all the crooks worked together loading and unloading shipments, and Leon, being such a genius, didn’t wipe the package down well enough before planting it in Cheama’s pickup.

  Tony dug through papers and found the statement from the guard after he came to in the hospital. No holes in the man’s story, but he should have been looked at closer as a suspect… except all eyes were on the missing Karen Webb. Maybe the thieves snatched Karen to keep attention off the guard. And the fact that the man died later from his staged injury wasn’t planned.

  Finally, something that made sense. Almost.

  How did the guard get the thumbprint and the voice code to gain access to the computer control room? Tony grinned and tapped the photo of the guy’s suave mug. By acting true to form, that’s how.

  Tony called the museum and asked to speak to the administrator. The man came on with a gruff hello.

  “Mr. Spellman. This is Anthony Lucano with the FBI. I need to ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead.” The voice was cool, cautious.

  “The guard that died. Who in your facility was he dating?”

  Long pause. “I have no idea. Why would you think—?”

  “Is someone around who might have that information?”

  “Are you people still trying to pin this on one of my employees? The poor man is dead. What could he—”

  “We’re trying to find the truth, Mr. Spellman. If he wasn’t romantically involved with any of your other staff, then we’ve hit another dead end. But I need to know.”

  Spellman huffed. “My secretary. She stays up on that sort of thing. I’ll ask her.” A soft thunk said the phone had landed on the desk. “Hannah, could you come in here, please?” The voice was distant, followed by sounds of movement. “The FBI is on the phone. They want to know who was dating the security guard.”

  Silence.

  Then a woman shrieked and burst into tears. “I’m so sorry … I never thought … I didn’t mean … he was going to marry meeeee … ” The voice fell away into blubbering.

  Spellman breathed hard in Tony’s ear. “You heard?”

  “I did. Detain her, and I’ll send someone over to pick her up.”

  “Will do.” The man’s voice was strangled. “Hannah, how could you—”

  The connection broke.

  Tony hung his head. Sad deal for everyone. He made the call to send a squad car to collect Mr. Spellman’s secretary. In hindsight, a logical suspect—the person with limitless access to her boss’s dictation tapes and a high probability of finding out the code words. Grab a print from Spellman’s coffee cup, and the boyfriend could open the door to whoever hacked the computer and inserted the virus. People did the most awful things for what they thought was love. And to have her lover die …

  The woman must have been ready to crack for days. Just needed the right question to break the dam.

  But his loose ends weren’t quite tied up. A big question remained.

  While the plant of a “dead” crook at the museum tied Gordon to the theft, the act made no sense. Why steal artifacts worth thousands when you’re running a pirating operation and embezzling scheme worth millions? There had to be a purpose for those artifacts more valuable to Gordon than money.

  Desi said she’d formed a wild theory at the museum, but she hadn’t told him what it was, and he’d forgotten to ask Ortiz this morning. With everything else going on, he’d given Desi’s speculation low priority. He should know better. She might be waltzing around the country with the key to all three intertwined cases in that gorgeous head of hers.

  He pulled out his cell. She called and he missed it? Must have been while he was on the phone. He played her message and a frozen fist rammed his gut. The ice shattered before a blast of fury that shook him.

  Ham Gordon was after Desiree, and she was out shopping minus a chaperone.

  Desi stared up into moist hazel eyes, surprisingly similar in shade to hers.

  Gordon kneaded puffy hands together. “I mean you no harm, Ms. Jacobs. Please believe me. I’m not a strong man … or a well one. Help me to do what I must.”

  “Why me, Mr. Gordon?”

  A tremor shook the man’s jowls. “Did your father ever talk about how the Yakovs, a brother and sister, came to America from Lithuania in 1920?”

  “What do you know about that, and why do you care?” Alarms pinged in Desi’s mind.

  “Did Hiram explain to you that the siblings changed their name to Jacobs when they entered the United States in New York?”

  Desi didn’t answer.

  Gordon licked his lips. “Amelia Yakov—or Jacobs, as she became—married Albert Gordon and moved west, while Anton stayed on the East Coast.”

  A noose tightened around Desi’s middle. This conversation was not going the direction this man suggested. She shook her head.

  Gordon nodded. “We are distant cousins, my dear. From the research done by my personal assistant, you may be my closest relative. And I yours.” He lifted his arms in a shrug. “If a medical condition didn’t make me obese, you might even detect a family resemblance.”

  A pit opened in Desi’s stomach. “Should I fall all over myself and hug you?” Desi hugged herself instead, packages rustling. “You’re suspected of multiple criminal acts, and you know you’re guilty.”

  Gordon hung his head. “I was guilty once upon a time, but the blood has washed me clean. I’m not guilty of what they wish to accuse me of now.” He lifted his round face and stared into her eyes. “You were kind to me at the party and at the DC airport when Agent Lucano was rude and hostile. I would crave your presence while I tell him whatever I know that might help him find out who’s responsible for siphoning money from my company.”

  The man blinked fast, wetness filling crevasses in his cheeks.

  Pity stirred in Desi’s heart. Yellow light, Des. Don’t give Tony an opening to say you’re a soft touch again. One stranded-in-the-desert experience was enough. “I’ve got a cab waiting for me, Mr. Gordon.” She motioned toward the vehicle idling at the curb. The frowning driver waved for her to get in.

  Gordon nodded. “If it would make you feel safer, you could follow my limousine to the FBI headquarters. Is that an acceptable arrangement?”

  Desi studied Gordon’s face. Mottled complexion, dull eyes, and drooping stance confirmed an unwell man. But was he an honest sick person or a decrepit crook? “Can I call Tony and tell him we’re on our way?”

  “Please do.” Lines of tension melted from his face.

  Desi’s breath caught. If one pared away excess flesh, a hint of her father peeped at her in the line of a strong jaw and the way dark brows slashed across a bold forehead. Or maybe she saw those things because he had suggested the relationship. She swallowed against a tight throat. “Let’s go then.” She turned toward the cab.

  Gordon moved forward, reaching for her door. Desi shrank away. Thunder cracked, and the rear passenger window exploded. Desi’s scream overlapped the driver’s. Gordon staggered backward and sat down hard on the sidewalk, eyes and mouth round Os. A sharp pain drew Desi’s gaze downward.

  Oh, bother! A widening red stain marred her new shirt.

  Eighteen

  Tony jammed the number of the Albuquerque PD into the keypad of the landline phone. The dispatcher came on, but Tony interrupted her spiel.

  “This is Supervisory Special Agent Anthony Lucano requesting a patrol car stop by the Coronado Center Mall and page Ms. Desiree Jacobs. There may be a situation developing—”

  “Cars are already at the scene. A shot was fired. One casualty.”

  Tony’s heart stalled. “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  A dark film rose in front of his eyes. “Condition and identity?” Who asked that sensib
le question? He made himself drag in a breath, clench and unclench numb fingers.

  “Unknown and unknown.”

  His heart mule-kicked his ribs. “I’m on my way to the scene.”

  “Ten-four. I’ll notify—”

  Tony slapped the phone into its cradle and ran. Brain jammed into business-only he rounded up a car and driver. Outside, sunlight gleamed against dry tarmac, but the vehicle moved like sludge through spotty traffic. He tuned the radio to the police frequency.

  Lots of meaningless chatter—a fender-bender, a high-speed chase on 1-25, a call for backup on a possible robbery in progress. Silence on the mall shooting. Necessary personnel must already be on-site. They wouldn’t do any extra jabbering and no mention of a victim’s name. Too many people had scanners.

  Just another crime scene. Keep a tight rein on speculation. Desiree! I can’t lose you!

  Two-hundred-sixty-two heartbeats later, the car turned into the mall parking lot. The driver honed in on the emergency vehicles. Tony leaped out before the car came to a stop.

  He strode between an ambulance and an APD crime lab van. A female figure lay on the canopy-shaded sidewalk with a man in a dark uniform crouched over her … poking … prodding. Not the way an emergency response person handled a live victim. Dread slammed Tony to a halt. He sucked in air tainted with a flavor like a scorched frying pan—the taste of his own terror.

  Who died? He had to know. Even if the truth killed something inside him, not knowing was worse.

  He ducked under the crime scene tape. A police officer moved toward him, scowling. Tony flashed his credentials. The officer nodded and went back to watching the perimeter.

  Tony took a step toward the dimness. Then another and another, gaze fixed on the slender, limp body haloed by a pool of inky liquid.

  “Tony?”

  The voice whipped his head around. He squinted at the woman running toward him. Someone else lumbered in her wake.

  “Look out, Des!” He vaulted the yellow tape, snatched her around the waist, and hustled her to the far side of the lab van. She squirmed in his arms. Warm. Alive! He pressed her against the side of the vehicle.