Double Cross (27 page)
“Easy. I told you that Katie Parst was investigating an extortion ring. And even if I hadn’t, you could have read about it in the papers.”
“You didn’t tell him about Katie Parst tonight,” Mom said. “I’ve been sitting right here.”
Honestly, we’d talked about so much in the past half hour, I couldn’t remember if I’d told him about Katie’s investigation or not. One thing was certain, though: I was getting deathly tired of this whole conversation. “This is crazy.” I picked up the phone and began punching in Michael’s number.
Stanley took a step toward me. “What if we could catch them?”
I stopped dialing. “Catch who?”
“The people who were blackmailing me.”
Mom’s eyes brightened. “Yes, what if we could?”
The left side of my brain told me not to let this discussion go on even one second longer. I moved my thumb back over the phone keys.
“They’ll kill him,” Mom said—as if I hadn’t already gotten that point.
The right side of my brain looked at my mother and saw fear in her face. I knew it wasn’t fear for Stanley’s safety, per se. It was fear of being without Stanley, fear of being alone. That was one fear I understood well.
I stuck the phone back in my pocket and opened my mouth to say something I knew I was going to regret:
“And exactly how would we go about catching them?”
CHAPTER
THIRTY
I BELIEVE IT WAS Forrest Gump who said, stupid is as stupid does. I could make a solid argument that my mother and Stanley cooked up the stupidest plan I’d ever heard. But if I did, I would only be calling myself a name. Because three nights later, the Saturday before Christmas week, I was at the mayor of Southlake’s house, strolling up the front walk in a black cocktail dress and four-inch heels. I was doing my part to catch Stanley’s blackmailers.
It would be perfectly reasonable to question why a person trained in security at the highest levels of the United States government would allow herself to be sucked into a harebrained scheme to try to entrap the mastermind of what looked to me like a two-bit local extortion ring. The only thing I can say is that it was a testament to just how badly I wanted my mother back in my life. Despite a boatload of contrary evidence, she believed her husband, and there was no convincing her otherwise. I could only conclude that her fear of being alone outweighed her revulsion at Stanley’s sleaziness. What motivated her, though, really didn’t matter. If I wanted to have a relationship with her, I had no choice but to let their screwy plan play out.
Walking toward the mayor’s front door, I had the eerie sense of having been magically miniaturized and transported into a Christmas-themed arcade game. Everything around me sparkled, because everything in the huge front yard, whether living or inanimate, was encased in white Christmas lights. To my right, a brightly determined Santa mushed his flickering reindeer in a trajectory that was destined to mash Rudolph’s nose into the thick lower limbs of a massive oak tree.
Behind me valet parkers in khaki pants and Santa hats with flashing red balls on top jogged from the street to the house and back again. They jangled keys like Christmas bells as they opened and closed doors and zipped cars up and down the circular drive. Inside the house, clusters of elegantly dressed men and women stood near the windows in dazzlingly lit rooms, laughing and talking and gesturing with cocktail glasses.
Because of the unseasonably warm weather, and I wore only a light silk wrap around my shoulders. In my good hand, I carried a beaded black clutch, which contained my phone, a lipstick, a pack of chewing gum, a wad of tissues, and my .357 Sig.
Stanley was the primary architect of the plan, and it was subject to second-guessing on so many levels that I eventually just gave up and kept my mouth shut. I figured that once the plan failed, I would have demonstrated my willingness to go the extra mile for Mom and would be free to call Michael Harrison and ask him to send in the grown-ups.
In a nutshell the plan was this: Stanley contacted his blackmailer and got a message to the Boss, informing him of the numbered Cayman Island account that Elise had fortuitously dropped in Stanley’s lap. Stanley pretended that he was afraid to access the account, and offered to cut the Boss in on the money if the Boss could arrange to have someone pick up the money and get it safely back into the United States. Stanley insisted on meeting the Boss in person, though, because if he didn’t know the Boss’s identity, he would have no way of ensuring that the Boss wouldn’t just keep all of the money once he had accessed the account. After all, it was nearly a half million dollars.
To my complete shock Stanley said that the Boss agreed to the arrangement, which confirmed my suspicion that this was a small-time operation all the way. The “drop” was to occur at the mayor’s annual Christmas open house where there would be lots of people milling around all evening. The Boss was to find Stanley and introduce himself. Stanley would slip him a flash drive containing the account number and bank name. According to Stanley, the Boss made it crystal clear that if it was a trap, others would be under instructions to kill Stanley before he had a chance to ring in the New Year.
My role was to keep an eye on Stanley and Mom from a distance, and if possible discreetly photograph anyone Stanley talked to for any significant period of time. I had no illusions. There were countless ways it could, and undoubtedly would, go wrong. But there would likely be scads of men at the party who were young, handsome, and well off; so despite the distraction of Stanley’s plan, the evening still stacked up to be far more promising than an ordinary night in front of the television.
I checked my watch just as an elderly gentleman greeted me at the door and offered to take my wrap. Nine o’clock sharp. If they weren’t already there, Mom and Stanley should be arriving any minute. His Honor the mayor was a relative novice to politics, having recently sold his software business for a gazillion dollars and turned his attention to the public good. The house was gigantic, even by Southlake standards, and a bevy of servants fluttered from room to room carrying trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. I didn’t have to wait long to spot Mom and Stanley. They were standing in the formal living room to my right, surrounded by a group of middle-aged women.
Mom was looking elegant from the neck down, in a long cocktail dress and sequined jacket. As usual, though, her makeup was slathered on. She gestured wildly with her hands as she talked, and with her thickly painted face, she looked like a puppet whose arms were being controlled by an unseen, manic master. Stanley stood to the side of the group in his shiny Italian tuxedo, his face as pale as putty. I tried to catch his eye, but he looked away.
I opened my clutch to make sure my phone was set in camera mode, but I hadn’t yet figured out how I could discreetly take pictures. The house was so full of people that just obtaining a clear view of Stanley required constant maneuvering.
I asked one of the waiters to bring me a tonic with lime, and then stood in the foyer watching Stanley out of one eye. With the other eye I scoped a six-foot-three-inch, tuxedoed version of George Clooney. I spent as much time jockeying for position to see George’s ring finger as I did maneuvering for a clear camera shot of Stanley. Eventually George straightened his red and green holiday tie, revealing a platinum wedding band. I sighed and turned my full attention to Stanley.
For the next two-and-a-half hours, I made small talk with a startling number of men of various ages who were (a) stupid, (b) wimpy, or (c) boorish. It was as if someone had stenciled
Available
on my forehead while I wasn’t paying attention. They came at me one at a time—like ninjas in a low-budget martial arts film. As I fended them off, I sidled from one side of the house to another, trying to keep Stanley in sight.
Available
on my forehead while I wasn’t paying attention. They came at me one at a time—like ninjas in a low-budget martial arts film. As I fended them off, I sidled from one side of the house to another, trying to keep Stanley in sight.
I realize how inconsistent it is for me to say in one breath that I looked forward to a party full of eligible men, and then, in the next breath to scoff at their efforts to gain my attention. Especially since they were right, I was available. I hadn’t heard a word from Rob Morrow since I had allowed myself to become another first-date notch in a bedpost that must have already been carved like a totem pole. All I can say in my defense is that when it comes to men, I’m conflicted. In the long run, though, what I really want is someone as good as Dad and Simon, a subset that is stacking up to be troublingly small.
In any event, just as I emerged from the restroom after my fourth glass of tonic, Mom tapped me on the shoulder. “Stanley needs to see us,” she whispered.
“Where is he?”
“We can’t talk to him in here. No one is supposed to know you’re with us. He wants us to meet him in the backyard.”
“In the backyard? Is anyone out there?”
“No, that’s why he wanted to meet out there. Apparently something has gone wrong.”
I gave her a sideways look. “Imagine that.”
She scowled.
“When are we supposed to go?” I said.
“Right now. Follow me.”
She went first, and I followed at a discreet distance. We wound our way through the huge informal living area and down a back hallway, past the pool bath to a door that led to the pool deck. That’s where I caught up to her. Mom turned around and checked the hallway. It was empty. She opened the door quietly and we stepped out onto the deck. Mom eased the door shut behind us.
The pool light was on, but no one was outside. “Where is he?”
“We’re supposed to meet him just outside the gate.” She walked along the Italian stone fence next to the pool until she came to an iron gate. “This is it.” She grabbed the handle and swung the gate open.
I unzipped my clutch and put my hand on my pistol as we walked through the gate. “I don’t know about this, Mom. You’d better let me go—”
Something hard came down on my forearm, knocking the clutch from my hand. I swung one leg back to put myself in a leverage position. I saw movement in the shadows to my left, and I threw my elbow sideways. It connected with something solid, and I heard a yelp. Then I felt a heavy thud against the back of my neck that knocked me to my knees. I tried to lunge at something moving in front of me, but my legs seemed to float away from the pavement just before everything went black.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
IT WAS THE DREAM again. The one by the campfire with Dad. Everything played out as usual. The guys entered the camp. They blasted Dad with the shotgun. I shot them both and stood over the big guy, waiting for his eyes to pop open. Then I wondered: Would it be his eyes, or Dad’s eyes, or Simon’s? I longed for the days when my nightmare was predictable. I watched his face and waited . . . and waited.
Then his face became blurry, and it faded away.
Roaring in my ears. Muffled. Monotonous. A moan. My head hurt. I blinked. Everything black. Licked my lips; like a tongue over a nail file. Something rough on my face, brushing my cheeks. My head . . . what an ache. Bag of rocks inside my skull. I blinked again. Everything still black.
My shoulder hurt, almost like my head. I was on my side. I stretched my leg and it bumped into something. Then the moan again. I kicked. There was the moan again. Stimulus-response. I was getting the picture.
I shook my head. Have to focus. Time to wake up. “Mom?” My throat was drier than my mouth, my voice barely a whisper. I coughed. “Mom?” With a little more oomph. The only response was another moan.
Beneath me was prickly stubble. Cheap carpet. It scratched my legs. Everything around me vibrated. My whole body was vibrating. I took a deep breath and my nostrils burned. Gasoline fumes. Then I got it: We were in the trunk of a moving car.
I pushed myself up. My head slammed into the trunk lid. That didn’t help. The car hit some bumps, which popped my head against the metal again. I felt around my face with my hands. What was scratching my cheeks? It was a hood that felt like a potato sack. An elastic band secured it around my neck. That was easy enough to stretch. I pulled the hood off and blinked several times.
As my eyes adjusted, something glowed yellow-green above me. It was the safety release for the trunk. That was something good, and I knew I was thinking again. No matter the situation, things could always be worse. Dad told me that. The safety release and my untied hands told me something, too: Whoever threw us into this trunk was an amateur. We had a chance.
I moved my fingers around my scalp to see if I had a fracture. There was nothing but a lump at the base of my skull. It ached but didn’t seem serious. Since I’d been out for a while, I was sure I had a concussion. There was nothing to be done about that.
My eyes grew accustomed to the dark. It was amazing how much the glowing safety release illuminated the boxy trunk space. I looked over my shoulder. Mom was lying on her side in the back of the trunk, her knees bent. I reached back and pushed her with my hand, but all she did was groan again. It was a fairly deep trunk, maybe a full-size American sedan.
I found Mom’s face with my hands and patted it through the hood. She pulled her head away but didn’t say anything. Once I found the elastic around her neck, I pulled the hood off. Then I squeezed her ear. She yelped.
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