Dangerous Melody (6 page)

Luca blinked, smile held in check. “Whatever you say.”

The waitress arrived, tucking
a strand of silvered hair behind her ears. “Can I take your order, folks?”

Luca asked for a refill on his coffee.

“What kind of pie do you have?” Stephanie asked.

“Chocolate cream, banana, apple...” the woman recited.

“Whatever has the most chocolate in it, and make it a big slice,” Stephanie said.

Luca waited until the waitress left. “I checked in on Victor. He’s still
stable, no change to report really.”

Stephanie sighed, uncertain whether to be encouraged or disappointed at the news. “Tuney?”

“He’s on board. He’s going to work the helicopter angle, see if he can figure out where Bittman might have taken Dad.”

She swallowed. “Do you think he’ll be able to get a lead?”

“He’s checking into the medical aspect, too, to see if Bittman hired a
private nurse or doctor.”

She tried to breathe out her terror. Tuney was a gruff character, crabby and volatile on the outside, but she knew him to be loyal, and most important, he understood what it was like to lose someone. “Good.” She opened her laptop. “I’ll keep working on the police report from Hans Bittman’s store.” It brought a surge of relief to be doing something.
One step closer
to Dad,
she thought. She put her cell phone on the table. The waitress brought her a slice of pie that made her mouth water in spite of the mangled state of her nerves.

The laptop hadn’t finished booting up when her phone vibrated with an unknown number. The hospital? She answered.

“Good afternoon, Stephanie.”

Her breath froze in her lungs. “What do you want?”

Bittman laughed.
“Is it unusual for a man to call and check on the progress of his employee?”

“We’re not your employees, and we’ll give you a report when we have some news,” she hissed.

Luca gestured angrily for her to hand him the phone.

She mouthed the word
no
. Bittman did not want to talk to Luca; she knew that much.

“You’ve made contact with Devlin?” Bittman asked.

“Yes, and he’s given
us some info.”

“Excellent. I’m confident that you will not have any interaction with the local police. They will only slow things down. No police whatsoever. That is clear, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I have an update for you. It seems as though your father is determined to shed a few pounds.”

She clutched at the phone. “What? What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing at the moment,
but he is rejecting any food, even though we have provided him with some tantalizing fare. Ethnic food, I recall you said he enjoyed. Chicken mole? Prepared with the most exquisite care, and yet he refuses to touch it. He has not become a vegetarian recently, has he?”

Her head swam. He was not eating. That meant surely he was growing weaker with every passing minute. “You’ve got to let him
go.”

Luca was on his feet now, grabbing for the phone, but she fended him off.

“No, I’m afraid that would not work out well. He’s very irate and stubborn, as are the rest of the Gages. If you don’t want him to continue to starve himself, you need to retrieve my violin and the person who possesses it quickly.”

“We will.” Stephanie fought to keep both rage and panic out of her voice.
“Let me talk to my dad. Just for a minute. Surely that won’t hurt anything? I’ve got to speak to him.”

“Perhaps another time.”

“No, please.” She hated the pleading note in her voice. “I...” She swallowed. “I would really appreciate it.”

Bittman laughed. “Oh, Stephanie. A conciliatory tone does not win you any points with me. I admire you the way you are, fiery and totally unapologetic.”

She gritted her teeth. “Let me talk to my father.”

“Not right now, Stephanie. You have a violin to find,” he laughed softly, “and a lovely slice of pie to enjoy. Goodbye.”

Stephanie sat frozen, phone in her hand, staring down at the fat wedge of chocolate pie waiting for her on the scratched diner table.

SIX

T
ate had the sensation of being watched as he sauntered along the sidewalk. Striving to keep his gait casual, shoulders relaxed, he walked by the alley, littered with stacks of boxes, the end concealed by a rust-blackened Dumpster. After a few paces he turned around, in time to see a figure ducking into the alley to escape detection.

Tate made his way as quietly as he
could down the passage, passing by garish graffiti, trying to avoid breathing in the stench of rotting garbage. He stopped near where he was sure the man was hiding. “Come on out. Face me like a man,” he called.

A figure stepped from the shadows. It was the man from the airport, the one who’d tried to grab Stephanie’s laptop, the one who had driven the pool van onto Bittman’s property. His
graying crew cut glistened with sweat.

Tate looked him over. “Who are you?”

The older man raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”

“All right. I’ll play. I’m Tate Fuego. What do you want with Stephanie Gage? I know you tried to take her laptop at the airport, and now you’re following me. Why?”

He opened his mouth, eyes wide with surprise before they narrowed into slits. “I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You were working as the pool guy at Joshua Bittman’s estate, and now here you are. How do you explain that?”

He smiled, showing yellow teeth. “Coincidence.”

“I don’t think so. Since you were hanging around Bittman’s, you might have seen my sister, Maria. I’m looking for her.” Tate saw no flicker of recognition cross the man’s face. “Do you
know where she is?”

“I don’t know any Maria.”

“What about Bittman? You’re his pool guy, but something tells me you weren’t just there to fix the chlorine.”

“You’re mistaken.”

The lie ignited a slow burn in Tate’s chest. “Know what I think?” He held his hands loose at his sides, ready. Considering the older man’s crooked nose and battle-hardened face, he figured the guy would
read the signs. He was right.

The man eased himself into position, ready for a fight. “What’s that, boy?”

“I think you’re a liar. I think you’re going to tell me why you’re here, what you want with Stephanie Gage and what you know about my sister.”

The man’s hands balled into fists, instead of reaching behind him to his waistband. Tate felt relief. Fists he could handle—but a gun?
Not so easily.

“Could be you’re wrong about that,” the man said.

Tate shifted his weight forward. “Maybe, but you’re not leaving this alley until I find out why you’re here.”

The man dived at him, moving with surprising quickness. Tate managed to step to the side, but it didn’t throw off the attack for long. The punches came in rapid succession, and took all Tate’s powers of concentration
to block them.

He ducked an incoming blow, which infuriated the attacker, who staggered as his punch fell short, glancing off Tate’s shoulder. Tate used the moment to deal the man a violent shove to the side, sending him sprawling into a pile of plastic trash bags disgorged from the overflowing Dumpster.

Fighter that he was, the guy was on his feet again in seconds.

“How about you
tell me your name?” Tate said, fists up and ready. “Since we’re getting along so well and all.”

A hint of a smile twisted his mouth. “Name is Ricardo, boy.”

“I didn’t catch your last name.”

Again the smile. “Feel free to make one up.”

“Are you here on Bittman’s dime? Keeping tabs on us, maybe?” The eyes sparked, but Tate could not read an answer in the grim expression. A scent
of cigarettes clung to the man.

A shout from the end of the alley drew both their attention. Before he realized what was happening, Ricardo dived behind the Dumpster and scrambled up a worn ladder that Tate hadn’t even noticed bolted to the side of the building.

Tate followed, kicking aside bags of trash until he grabbed hold of the iron rungs. “I’ve seen this in movies,” he called up.
“It’s no good climbing to the roof unless you’ve got a helicopter waiting for you.”

Climbing was agony on his leg, but he forced himself upward, burning with shame that a man twenty years his senior could climb twice as fast. Teeth gritted, he continued, sparing only a quick look at the alley below.

Figures darted in and out of the shadows. One could have been Stephanie. He was glad
he’d encountered Ricardo before Stephanie did because he knew from the kickboxing class they’d taken that she was a fierce combatant. She’d take Ricardo on in a heartbeat, especially after he’d tried to steal her laptop. He smiled, in spite of the fire in his thigh. Five feet to go before he crested the top. Ricardo might be waiting there for him. One good kick in the head, and Tate would find himself
back in the alley the hard way. He pressed on, hands raw from the abrasion of the rough metal.

He stopped, head ducked two rungs before the top. He heard footsteps, but not close. Heaving himself up and over, he rolled immediately to the side and scrambled behind the nearest cover, a metal vent.

Ricardo was running toward the other side of the rooftop. Tate ran after him, catching up
just as Ricardo came within a few feet of the ledge. Tate’s heart pounded. The gap between the building and the lower storage unit next to it was no more than six feet, but the drop was a good twenty. It might not kill a man, if he landed feet first—but then again, it might.

Ricardo eyed the gap, and then Tate.

“This time I can read your mind, boy,” Ricardo said, voice low. “You think
an old man cannot make this jump.”

“Not exactly,” Tate said, edging closer. “I think an old man would be crazy to try it.”

Ricardo smiled. “And I think a man with a crippled leg would be equally loco to consider it, eh?”

Tate kept his face neutral. “We can talk. Work together.”

He didn’t answer. Before Tate could react, Ricardo sprinted to the edge of the building and hurtled
over the side.

* * *

Stephanie raced up the ladder as soon as she saw Tate following the crew-cut guy to the top. She had to get to the roof to help him.

Her fingers were still trembling from the phone call.

You have a lovely slice of pie to enjoy.

Had she been so naive as to think Bittman would let her wander off to find his treasure unsupervised? Was he even now watching
her through some long-distance lens, tracking her every step? Paying the waitress to report back to him? And, she thought grimly, taunting her with the fact that her father was refusing to eat.

Another game. Showing you he owns you, controls you. He has all the power.

With a sick feeling, she realized that he did, in fact, hold all the power. What could she do except find his violin
and hope he would keep his word to return her father? It was like trusting a cobra not to strike.

She pushed herself to the top, emerging onto a flat cement roof that shimmered in the heat. A blur of movement told her the crew-cut man had just leaped from that very rooftop. She read Tate’s body language as he backed up, though she didn’t believe what her brain was telling her. He was going
to do the same—leap off the roof to the building next door.

“Tate!” Her voice came out in a shriek.

He started and turned. “It’s the guy from the airport. Tell you later.” He tensed to begin his sprint.

“Stop right there. You’re not jumping.”

He cocked his head. “I can make it.”

“No, you can’t, not with your leg.” It was the wrong thing to say. Stubborn lines appeared
around his mouth.

“I can do it.”

She took a step closer and tried for a calm tone as she pulled out her phone. “Luca’s down there. I’ll text him.” Her thumbs flew over the keys, though she didn’t take her eyes off Tate.

Tate looked toward the edge, eyes calculating the distance.

Her instincts demanded that she yell, grab hold of his ankles if she must and keep him from jumping,
but the truth was that Tate could not be forced—nor coerced—into anything. She took a breath, entreating God to help her find the right words. “I’m asking you not to do that, Tate. Please.”

He cocked his head, eyes bright with surprise at her change in tone. “Why?”

Why?
Common sense, of course. If Tate was injured it would slow them down, add to the difficulties they were already facing.
Purely a practical reason, a counter to his irrational notion. She looked away from his intense gaze. “Because my brother is hurt, my father is missing and I can’t take anything else.” She hated the way her voice broke. Her words betrayed an emotion that she would not voluntarily bare to Tate Fuego at any price.

He looked at her for what seemed like forever, though it was probably only a
moment. Then his gaze slid back to the gap, and she knew that he was going to jump. He turned to the edge.

He was a hopelessly stubborn man who would run to his own destruction. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like when he was gone, too. Pain drove the breath from her.

When she opened her eyes, he was still there, only now he was close. So close he reached out a hand
and eased the tears from her cheeks, tears she had not even known were falling. His face was tender, younger, the same face that she saw in her sweetest dreams before reality cruelly imposed itself. There was an odd questioning look there, too.

She let herself feel the gentle caress before she pulled away and angrily wiped her face. “I’m getting weak.”

He chuckled, the remnants of the
quizzical look still playing about his lips. “No, ma’am. Still the strongest Gage I know. Let’s go see if your brother managed to accomplish anything.”

She climbed down first, which allowed her time to grab hold of her fraying emotions. Crazy—she was becoming crazy. The longer this horrendous treasure hunt ensued, the closer she edged to complete insanity.

Luca was there the instant
she touched ground. “I found his car at the other end of the alley. He took off.”

“You didn’t stop him?”

Luca smiled. “As a matter of fact, I let him go.”

Tate exploded, limping up to Luca as soon as he touched ground. “What? Why would you do that? What kind of game are you playing?”

Luca waved him off. “No game, just a tracking device I stuck to his car.”

Tate did not
relax. “We should have questioned him first, found out what the deal is with him and Bittman.”

“Could be he’s working for Bittman as some extra insurance in case we don’t complete the job, but that doesn’t explain why he went for Stephanie’s laptop.”

“Or he’s the one who killed Peter, and he’s going to try and get his hands on the violin and its current owner,” Stephanie mused.

“All we’ve got are guesses,” Tate snarled. “You’re taking risks with my sister’s life.”

“We’ve got a life involved in this, too, Fuego, in case you’ve forgotten,” Luca said.

Their loud exchange was drawing attention from the gas station attendant, who had emerged from his tiny office.

“Quiet, both of you,” Stephanie said. “Let’s get out of here before the police come around.” Thinking
of Bittman’s earlier message made her shiver. It also reminded her that time was ticking away. She pushed them both toward the car. “I’m riding with Tate. I want to know exactly what the guy said to him. We’ll follow after you get a GPS signal.”

Without waiting for his reply, she jumped into the passenger seat of Tate’s truck. All business. No need to talk about her strange reaction on the
roof.

“Get this relic started before Luca takes off without us.” She felt eyes on her, Bittman’s eyes, watching as Tate related the encounter with Ricardo. He gave her a strange look but eased the truck out onto the road after Luca’s rental car.

“What happened that I don’t know about?”

With a sigh, she told him about the phone call in the restaurant. He stared at her. “He’s got
tabs on you down here? What exactly is Bittman capable of?”

Stephanie wanted to close her eyes and avoid the question, but she could not. “Anything.” She saw the muscles work in his jaw. “I finally realized that, when he used me to steal that car. I would have left anyway because it was becoming clear to me how he made his money.”

Tate quirked an eyebrow. “I thought he was into communications
systems.”

“He creates billing systems, phone and internet, for big companies, only he tacks on a small charge to each bill, a few pennies in some cases. The surplus is routed to his accounts. The amounts are so small that they go undetected, and he makes millions. It’s called salami slicing.”

“You didn’t go to the police?”

“I didn’t have proof. Only suspicions and...”

“And?”

“And the day after I resigned, he sent me a photo.”

“Of what?”

“My brothers and me at a family party, a private party in my father’s backyard. I don’t know how he got the picture.”

Tate’s mouth tightened. “Guy’s got millions. He can buy whatever he wants.”

“Not everything.”

Tate was eyeing her closely. “So this is not just about the violin, is it?”

“He’s...he’s
tried to get me back into his life. Everywhere I’ve gone, he’s followed. Made phone calls, sent flowers.” She swallowed. “Once I got home to find my neighbor had moved out suddenly. He was a nice man, a college student who used to bring me vegetables from the farmer’s market.” She looked out the window at the dust blowing along the side of the road. “To say Bittman’s jealous is an understatement.
He never liked it when I mentioned you as a matter of fact, back when I was just consulting for him. He said he’d known you weren’t good for me. Made me think he’d been watching me for some time.”

She’d had her proof later, after she’d left Bittman’s employ. It came in the form of a photo Bittman had sent, a picture of Tate entering a church-run drug counseling clinic. He looked terrible,
worn out, cheek bruised by a fall, she’d guessed, eyes bloodshot and miserable. Her heart had broken all over again when she saw that photo.

Though it hadn’t included a note, Bittman’s message was clear.

You see? A loser, just like I told you.

“Did you have feelings for him?” His tone was sharp as glass.