Chapter Fifty-five
“I’LL GET IT, CALLI,” KATE CALLED WHEN THERE WAS A knock at the apartment door shortly after nine o’clock. Calli didn’t understand and ignored her, so he got to the door first. Mitchell was an hour late, and when Kate saw Detective MacNeil and Gray Elliott standing in the doorway, she panicked. “Oh, my God, what’s happened?” she cried.
“Evan Bartlett is in the hospital with a broken jaw and several cracked ribs,” Gray said, peering around her into the apartment. “May we come in?”
“Yes, of course you can,” Kate said.
“Where’s Wyatt, Kate?”
Kate knew before he finished the question what he was getting at, and her mind went into overdrive, thinking of ways to protect Mitchell. “Is Evan saying Mitchell did it?” she said, trying to sound very scornful.
“Evan didn’t see who assaulted him. His assailant was waiting for him in the parking lot at Gleneagles Country Club when he finished playing tennis tonight.”
“Evan works out at a gym; he can protect himself,” Kate said, stalling for time, trying to think of an alibi for Mitchell when the inevitable question was asked.
“Where is Wyatt?” Gray repeated more firmly.
“I don’t understand why you’re looking for Mitchell—um—Did you find any evidence that it was him?”
“The assailant was wearing thin rubber gloves—like the kind your kitchen workers use.”
“Oh, well, then there’s your proof it wasn’t Mitchell. He’s never been in our kitchen.”
“A busboy said he stopped in there at about six o’clock tonight and asked for a glass of water.”
Unable to think clearly—or, more accurately, deviously—with Gray’s eyes boring holes through her, Kate said, “Would you excuse me for just a minute? This is very upsetting.”
She turned on her heel and headed for the bedroom hallway, and to her alarm, she heard Gray’s footsteps on the carpet, following her far enough to note where she was going. Inside her bedroom, Kate leaned against the closed door, trying to think of a believable alibi.
An idea hit her, and she raced over to her bed and dragged the covers loose; then she pulled a corner of the mattress off the box springs so it was angled to the floor. She studied the effect; then she hurried to the wall behind the headboard and tilted the two paintings there askew. Since she was standing beside the nightstand, she carefully overturned the lamp on it so the shade was hanging over thin air. Finished, she raced into the adjoining bathroom, soaked a washcloth in water, and sauntered back into the living room, dabbing at her face. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I just can’t handle any more violence. I got ill. Anyway, it couldn’t have been Mitchell, because he was here with me until a few minutes ago.”
“Where is he now?”
“He left a minute ago to run an errand.”
“Florida police took Billy Wyatt into custody this afternoon.”
Kate widened her eyes. “Oh. Really?”
“Really,” Gray said drily. “Would you mind if Detective MacNeil had a look inside the rooms down that hallway?”
“Not at all,” Kate replied, dabbing at her face in earnest and trailing nervously behind MacNeil. “Don’t wake up Danny,” she warned. “He’s in the bedroom on the right.”
Intensely serious about his job as Danny’s bodyguard, Calli followed right behind MacNeil, scowling at him from the doorway as the detective quietly explored Danny’s closet and bathroom.
“What’s this room?” MacNeil said.
“My bedroom.”
“May I?” he asked, his hand on the doorknob.
Kate started to say, “Of course!;” then she changed her mind and said, “I really wish you wouldn’t.” She waited until MacNeil gave her an I can get a search warrant look, before she said in feigned embarrassment. “Oh, go ahead, Detective.”
MacNeil opened the door, flipped on the lights, and froze. Calli crowded next to him to see what he was looking at and gave a bark of laughter, which enabled Kate to blush furiously and in earnest when she looked at Gray. “What’s that look about?” he asked mildly, looking from Kate to MacNeil to Calli, who wasn’t even trying to control his grin. Twisting the washcloth in her hands, Kate said, “Mitchell and I—we—um—spent tonight in bed.”
“This doesn’t have to turn into a big deal,” Gray said. “When Mitchell gets back, have him call us.”
“And then you’ll do what to him?” Kate said, her voice tinged with suspicion, fear, and anger—and a little surprise that he’d referred to Mitchell by his first name.
“We’ll have a look at his knuckles. If they aren’t bruised or swollen, we’ll know he’s not the assailant.”
“Oh, good. That’s easy.”
“Yes, but it’s also evidence that can’t be hidden or disguised.”
“Why are you involved in such a little matter, Gray?” she demanded.
He squeezed her arm. “I’ve started to think of myself as a family friend,” he said, and turned to leave, with MacNeil on his heels.
“I’ll have Mitchell call you the minute he gets back here,” Kate promised as they left. “He may decide to stop on his way to pick up dog food and things.”
On the other side of the apartment door, MacNeil and Elliott descended the stairs. “What’s the story with the bedroom?” Gray asked.
Biting back a grin, MacNeil said, “From the looks of that bedroom, there’s no way Wyatt would have had the strength left to assault Bartlett.”
“If I thought I could get away with burying this little episode, I’d do it,” Gray said. “In fact, if I thought I could get away with beating the shit out of Bartlett, I might have tried it myself. Unfortunately, among other things, he’s a lawyer, and even with his jaw wired, he’s screaming for Wyatt’s blood.”
“What do you want to do next?”
“We have to keep looking for Wyatt and document our efforts,” Gray replied with a sigh. “If I don’t, Bartlett will turn this into a media event that makes all of us look bad. As much as I’d like to turn a blind eye to what Wyatt did tonight, I can’t do that. On the other hand, we don’t have to be overly diligent. Bartlett isn’t a capital murder case. Wyatt flew here on a commercial airline because his own plane was grounded for repair. We’ve notified O’Hare to detain him if he tries to goes through security there. That’s due diligence on our part, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not going to put up roadblocks because Bartlett is unhappy and uncomfortable.”
On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, where Childress was waiting, Gray paused and looked up at the sky. “Beautiful night,” he said. “Too bad I have to go back to the office.”
“Wyatt is going to turn up,” Childress predicted, ever-vigilant.
“Call me if you hear or see anything,” Gray said to both of them, and left with a brief wave.
Kate struggled with her heavy mattress, trying to shove it back into place, but her mind was on Mitchell and she was worried. She was worried for him, and worried for herself, too.
In the kitchen, Calli listened to the instructions he was being given. When he hung up, he took several large plastic trash bags into Danny’s room and began quietly filling them with clothing and favorite toys. Finished, he stepped into the hallway, made certain that Kate was still in her bedroom, and then he carried the trash bags down the stairs and out a back entrance into the ally behind the restaurant. He left them there, walked around the side of the building to the front entrance and told one of the valet attendants to bring the rental car, which was being delivered momentarily, around to the alley entrance as soon as it arrived, and then to call him on his cell phone.
By ten o’clock, Kate was literally wringing her hands over Mitchell’s plight. She couldn’t think of any reason for Mitchell to have disappeared without a phone call unless he was Evan’s “assailant.” Or—and this was a possibility—Mitchell made a habit of dropping out of women’s lives when things got too complicated or feelings got involved.
“Mitchell wants to say good-bye to you and Danny. He’s at the airport, and he has to leave on an urgent business trip. I’m supposed to bring you out there.”
Kate whirled around in shock at the sound of Calli speaking English with only a trace of a charming Italian accent, but her mind was focused on the painful realization that Mitchell was leaving. In the long run, she told herself firmly, it would be easier on her emotionally if he went away and stayed away. Trying to have a relationship with him was clearly impossible. At least this time, he was saying an official good-bye for Danny’s sake.
Keeping that firmly in mind, she looked at Calli and said in an offhand voice. “Are you going with him?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll miss you,” she said. “I’ll wake Danny up.”
“I’ll bring the car around in back,” Calli said, already heading for the door with his suitcase in hand. “There were a couple reporters hanging around out in front,” he lied.
His attention focused on the documents he was reading, Gray Elliott reached out and picked up his telephone. MacNeil’s voice was tinged with carefully concealed frustration. “While I was grabbing a cup of coffee a minute ago, Childress got an idea and phoned LaGuardia.”
“And?” Gray said irritably.
“And it seems that Wyatt’s plane took off an hour ago, and the flight plan the pilots filed was for Indianapolis. A few minutes ago they changed it to Chicago-Midway.”
“Shit. Leave it to Childress.”
“Yeah, he has great instincts,” MacNeil said carefully. “We’re on our way out to Midway now.”
Gray leaned back in his chair, contemplating the fact that Bartlett had caused Danny Donovan’s kidnapping and potential death at the hands of a deranged Billy Wyatt, and he’d also managed to make it public knowledge that Kate was an unwed mother with a child fathered by one of the Chicago Wyatts. Now he wanted to see Mitchell Wyatt put on trial. Lurching forward, Gray made up his mind and said, “I think I’ll take care of this on my own. Tell Childress I said good work.”
“Sure,” MacNeil said, “I’ll tell Childress that. He’s got a sinus headache and he won’t mind keeping an eye on the restaurant while you and I play tag with Wyatt’s plane between O’Hare and Midway. It’s not a good idea for you to try to handle it yourself without a detective along. Sticking with protocol is important when the victim’s a lawyer.”
“Thanks, Mac,” Gray said, touched.
“I’ll pick you up. We’re just a few blocks from you. I guess we’ll have to take your car.”
Chapter Fifty-six
“WHY DID YOU PRETEND YOU DON’T SPEAK ENGLISH, Calli?” Kate asked when she couldn’t think of anything else to distract her from the impending good-bye to Mitchell. Danny was fast asleep, his head on her lap, and her fingers kept searching automatically for his curls whenever she laid her hand on his head.
“People talk openly in front of someone who does not speak their language, and Mitchell wanted me to eavesdrop on the police.”
They were at Midway, driving past hangars with private planes dotting the tarmac. Calli flipped on the turn indicators and swung the car through open gates; then he turned again and headed toward a large, brightly lit hangar. In front of it a sleek jet with swept-back wings and “12 T F” printed in large black letters on the tail was waiting on the tarmac, its boarding steps down and its interior lights on. “I will carry Danny,” Calli volunteered, reaching into the backseat and scooping the sleeping boy up as if he were weightless.
Partway up the steps, something interfered with the light spilling over the steps from the doorway, and Kate lifted her head. Mitchell was standing there, his tall broad-shouldered frame filling the opening. This is good-bye, she thought, and the knowledge was suddenly so excruciating that she could barely breathe.
He stepped forward and held out his hand to her. “Hi,” he said, smiling tenderly into her eyes. “Are you ready for a trip?”
“Where are we going?” she asked, confused.
Instead of answering, he took Danny from Calli’s arms and went back inside the plane, where he sat down on a long, gray leather sofa and drew Kate down beside him. Kate forgot that he hadn’t answered her question as she watched him carefully place his sleeping son across his lap and gently lay his big hand on Danny’s cheek. His big hand … with light bruises on the knuckles. He lifted his left arm and put it around Kate’s shoulders. “We’re going to a little village near Florence, Italy.”
Calli said something in Italian, and Mitchell leaned forward, peering out the plane’s window opposite him, and picked up a telephone, talking in some language to the pilots, Kate assumed, since the phone had no dial or buttons.
A moment later, she heard an odd loud sound from the rear of the plane; then Calli came walking forward, smiling. He continued past her and settled into a big leather recliner close to the cockpit.
The plane lurched slightly; she glanced out the window and realized it was starting to move. Just beyond the window, a car with a revolving light on the dashboard was racing down the road toward the gate near their hangar. The plane’s engines revved up to a whine, then it began to pick up speed. Over the plane’s sound system, the copilot’s voice provided the answer to her question as he said to an air traffic controller, “Midway Ground, this is Gulfstream One Two Tango Fox requesting expeditious taxi if possible. We will be ready at the runway.”
“Roger, One Two Tango Fox,” an answering voice said over the intercom. “Taxi via Kilo Yankee to runway 31 center.”
Kate had arrangements to make if she was going to Italy, but they could wait until tomorrow. Right now, all that really mattered was that Mitchell wanted Danny and her with him, which meant he’d told her the truth last night about how he felt.
The other thing that mattered was that an unmarked police car appeared to be after them! Kate unconsciously held her breath, watching the car through the plane’s window while the plane made a sharp left turn and gained speed, taxiing fast toward the runways ahead.
Finally the police car slowed, dropped back, and stopped, its light still revolving. Over the intercom, a voice said, “Gulfstream One Two Tango Fox, this is Midway Tower. You are cleared for immediate takeoff, runway 31 center.”
“Midway Tower,” the copilot confirmed, “Gulfstream One Two Tango Fox Rolling—runway 31 center.” As he spoke, the plane hurtled forward on a surge of power and speed, and was airborne within seconds.
“Why are we going to this village?”
“Because there’s a little church there I want to show you.”
He remembered a flight he’d made from St. Maarten to Chicago when he’d thought she was lost to him. “Kate,” he said. “I’m in love with you.”
In response, Kate lifted his hand and pressed his bruised knuckles to her cheek.
On the road below, near the hangar, Gray and MacNeil stood outside the car, leaning against it, watching the Gulfstream roar down the runway with its landing lights on and then lift off gracefully and begin to climb. The landing lights went off, the landing gear retracted, and the plane began to fade into the night sky.
Referring to Mitchell Wyatt, Gray smiled and said thoughtfully, “That is a man with style.”
MacNeil glanced sideways and said quietly, “So are you.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
THE DAY AFTER MITCHELL’S PLANE TOOK OFF FROM Midway Airport, handwritten messages were delivered to certain select people.
In Chicago, Matt and Meredith Farrell received theirs at nine-thirty P.M. Matt read it and grinned. “What is it?” Meredith asked.
“A wedding invitation from Mitchell,” he said, handing it to her. Meredith read it and laughed. “He kidnapped Kate and Danny, flew them to Italy, got them temporary passports, and he’s convinced Kate to marry him, but he’s afraid to give her time to change her mind. The wedding’s in three days. How like Mitchell to ignore all the obstacles and do whatever it takes.”
Meredith reached for the phone and called Jul
ie Benedict, who had just received a similar message. “Zack is canceling a shoot right now,” Julie said. “Can you and Matt get away?”
Meredith looked at her husband and held up the invitation with a smile. He nodded, and Meredith told Julie, “Of course.”
The third message was delivered to the home of Mrs. Olivia Hebert and brought to her by her elderly butler. Mrs. Hebert opened the envelope, read the message, and burst into a jubilant smile. “Mitchell is marrying Kate Donovan in Italy in three days, Granger! You and I will be flown there in his private plane.”
“I shall look forward to the trip, madam,” Granger assured her.
“Guess who will be flying with us,” Olivia said dreamily as she pressed the message to her bosom and sighed.
“I haven’t any idea, madam.”
“Zack Benedict!” she exclaimed.
The fourth message was delivered the following morning to the rectory of St. Michael’s Church in Chicago. Father Mackey, the young assistant pastor, answered the door, accepted the envelope, and then carried it down the hall to Father Donovan’s office.
“This envelope is for you, father.”
“Just put it on my desk. I’m working on the budget for next month.”
“I promised the man who delivered it that I would hand it to you personally and at once.”
“Very well,” Father Donovan said, laying down his pencil and reaching for the envelope. “Have you made the changes I suggested on your sermon for Sunday?” he inquired of the young priest, who’d been sent to St. Michael’s to work under his tutelage.
“Some of them,” Father Mackey replied as Father Donovan slipped his thumb beneath the flap and opened the envelope.
His reply made Father Donovan sigh. “You’re a dedicated priest, Robert, and you write an excellent sermon, but you have a tendency to take a hard line when you should bend a little bit. Conversely, you bend a little too easily when you ought to take a hard line. I particularly notice that tendency when I listen to you trying to counsel parishioners who come to you for advice with their problems. As time goes by, I suspect you’ll learn when to be inflexible and stand up for principles and church doctrine, and when you need to relax and respect the realities of a parishioner’s life.” As he spoke, Father Donovan extracted and unfolded a single sheet of paper bearing the initials MW at the top right-hand corner. He read what it said and half rose out of his chair, his mouth open in indignation.
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