In Death's Shadow (17 page)

"No. I never saw Pottorff at Jablonsky's. Just his car."

"Do you think Gail said anything?"

I thought for a moment. "No. I can't think of any reason why she might have done that."

Dennis started to speak, but I interrupted him. "I think the key is Ginger Cove. That's what Gail was looking at when she talked to me. And that's where six people connected with Jablonsky have died."

"You may be right, Hannah. Look. Let me make a few calls and get back to you."

Paul handed me a tissue. I used it to wipe my nose. "Thank you, Dennis."

"You get some rest, okay?"

"I'll try."

"Put Paul on, will you?"

"No. You'll just tell him to make me some hot tea and send me to bed."

"That's good advice, actually. Put him on."

I handed the phone to Paul. "Yeah." Paul listened for a few seconds, then said good-bye, looking worried.

"So, what did he say?"

"I'm supposed to give you some tea and send you to bed."

I pinched Paul's cheek, hard. "Seriously!"

"Seriously?" Paul gathered me into his arms, resting his chin on top of my head. "He wants me to double lock all the doors and asks me to make sure you don't take any long walks by yourself."

My heart began to pound. "You're serious."

"Dead serious. Dennis thinks you may have stirred up a hornets' nest. And he doesn't want you to take any unnecessary chances."

I burrowed my head more deeply into the fleecy softness of Paul's Navy sweatshirt. At least I had someone warm to curl up against, I thought grimly, while Gail Parrish was lying on a refrigerated slab at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Baltimore.

I shivered.

"Decided on a movie?"

"I'm not in the mood for another movie, Paul."

"Me neither."

"Paul?"

"Hmmmm?"

"I've just thought of something." I sat bolt upright. "If Jablonsky didn't know about the connection between Gail and me before, he's sure to know about it now."

"Shit! TV, the newspapers."

"Exactly."

His arm snaked around my shoulders. "Don't worry, Hannah, I won't let you out of my sight."

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes, then arm in arm made our way upstairs to the bedroom.

While Paul pulled down the covers on the bed, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, slathering Neutrogena cream all over my face, working it into the creases that, I swear, had not been there only the day before. In the mirror something caught my eye and I stopped rubbing. I stared at my reflection, then checked my hands. There were rust-colored traces underneath my fingernails.

I grabbed a metal nail file and started digging. It was going to be a long and sleepless night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When I pried my eyelids open, Paul was stand
ing over me with a mug of coffee in one hand and the Sunday paper in the other. "Wake up sleepyhead!" He'd accomplished that task by jiggling the bed with his slipper-clad foot. Mathematicians are not noted for their subtlety.

I groaned and glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It was nearly noon. The digital clock and I were old friends. The previous night, as I lay in bed, I'd watched the lighted number indicating the hour click from two to three to four before I fell into a light and troubled sleep.

"Good morning," I mumbled around a tongue that was as dry as the Mojave Desert. "Or perhaps I should say good afternoon."

Paul held the mug out where I could reach it.

I rearranged the pillow more comfortably between my back and the headboard and accepted the coffee from him gratefully.

Paul waited until I'd taken a sip before tossing the newspaper onto the bedcovers. "You made the front page," he said.

I cringed. With my free hand, I picked up the paper. The story about Gail had made the
Baltimore Sun
front and center, directly above the fold. The police must have contacted Gail's parents, because she was named in the story and they had published a picture of her, one that I recognized from her desk at MBFSG: Gail and the Labrador retriever she'd had as a teen, with the dog neatly Photo-Shopped out.

My picture was featured on A12, where the article continued from the front page. Fortunately, it'd been taken at a distance, and in profile. I still looked like hell, but that might be a good thing. If Jablonsky were reading the paper that morning, he'd have a difficult time connecting the haggard old woman pictured in the newspaper with that well-dressed, impeccably made-up, ditzy dame who had showed up in his office last week, all chirpy and ready to charm his socks off.

According to
The Capital
, the police had interviewed Gail's employer. Predictably, Jablonsky had told them that Gail quit work the previous Friday, giving him no notice.

Jablonsky was shocked,
shocked
by this, of course. Gail had always been so reliable. Blah-de-blah-de-blah. It was Jablonsky's understanding, the paper went on, that the murdered woman had been planning a move to Las Vegas to join her boyfriend, Ross Bankson.

Ross Bankson. Ah-ha. Ross must be the ex-.

The paper had gotten one thing right. According to one witness (that was Cindy), Ms. Parrish had been estranged from Mr. Bankson. Naturally, police were hoping to talk to him. Through the dead woman's telephone records, they had traced Bankson to an apartment in Baltimore, but when they called at the apartment, Bankson had not been at home.

"It says here that the police are looking for Gail's ex-boyfriend," I read out loud. Paul was standing in front of the bathroom sink in his undershirt, shaving. The door to the bathroom stood ajar.

"Uh-huh."

"I think they're barking up the wrong tree," I commented. "Gail hinted that her boyfriend was a jerk, but sure as God made little green apples, I don't think Bank-son had anything to do with her murder.''

"Uh-huh."

I closed the paper angrily. "Paul? Are you even listening to me? This is important. My God, it looks like the cops are falling for all this crap Jablonsky is feeding them. Oily bastard!"

Paul emerged from the bathroom, patting his face dry with a towel he had draped around his neck. "Of course I'm listening. Boyfriend didn't do it. Jablonsky's an S.O.B." He bent down to kiss me.

I kissed him back, letting my lips linger on his for a while before gently pulling away. I grinned at my husband, then used a corner of the bed sheet to wipe a dollop of shaving cream off his ear.

Paul lobbed the towel into the bathroom, missing the dirty clothes basket by miles, then opened the door to his closet and pulled out a pair of gray pants and a light blue dress shirt.

I stared in disbelief. "It's Sunday, Paul. We missed church. Why on earth are you getting all dressed up?"

Paul stepped into his pants. "Sorry, sweetheart. While you were sleeping, Bailey called. I've got to go into the Academy. There's an emergency meeting of the department at one-thirty. Not sure what's up, but it's something big because the superintendent's legal officer is going to be there."

"Shit."

"My sentiments exactly."

I crossed my arms, rested my head back against the pillow and scowled at the ceiling. Bailey was chairman of the math department. The last time he'd called a meeting like this it was because a final exam had been stolen.

"This can't be good news."

"Nope." Paul leaned closer to the mirror, adjusting his tie. "If it's a compromised exam, then we're screwed. The mids are gone for the summer. We'd have to decide whether to call them back for a retake."

Midshipmen spent their summers sailing the seven seas. Calling them back would require a military mobilization not unlike that of Operation Desert Storm. "Maybe it won't come to that," I said.

Paul slipped into his loafers, then crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He picked up my hand. "I hate to leave you alone, Hannah, particularly after yesterday." He brought my hand to his lips and held it there. "Promise me . . .
promise me
you'll keep the doors locked. Promise you won't go anywhere until I get back."

I stared at him without speaking. Paul really thought my life might be in danger! Since I'd seen the newspaper, I felt a little less freaked. The article hadn't mentioned my name, and the picture could have been of any bag lady.

"Hannah?"

"Okay," I agreed. Paul had enough to worry about with his stupid meeting. He didn't need to be worrying about me, too. "But only if you escort me out to dinner when you get back. I have a hankering for some good, old-fashioned Irish stew."

Paul kissed my forehead. "Galway Bay it is. That's one promise I'll be happy to keep."

By the time I crawled out of bed and got myself dressed, it was already one-thirty; Paul's meeting at the Academy would just be getting underway. As I wandered around the house making sure all the dead bolts were in place, I worried about the meeting. Not because Paul's job was in danger—this wasn't one of those one-on-one, call you on the carpet, hand your head to you on a platter kind of meetings. I worried because however it came out, especially if the legal officer was involved, it would mean extra work for Paul and his colleagues.

And if the press got wind of it? I could forget about seeing my husband until the dawn of the next Ice Age. Paul spent most of his waking hours at the Academy already. I would begrudge them even one hour more.

I decided to spend the first half hour of my voluntary home arrest composing a condolence message to Gail's parents. From the newspaper, I learned that Gail had been brought up in a rural town in western Kentucky. A quick search of the Internet provided her parents' mailing address.

I sat at my desk and selected a suitable note card from a packet of all-occasion cards I'd bought at a Naval Academy crafts fair. I chewed for a while on the retractor button of my pen, trying to decide on an equally suitable sentiment. When my mother died, I'd received dozens of beautifully illustrated, well-meaning sympathy cards but only one that had spoken directly to my heart. I combed my memory for the exact wording.

I began with a brief paragraph about how I'd met Gail and how much I had liked her. I mentioned our joint love of sailing. I closed with, "Sorrow is not forever. Love is." And signed my name.

I was rummaging through the cubbyholes on my desk, trying to find the first class stamps, when the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hannah! Oh, thank God I got you!" It was Mrs. Bromley, speaking in a hoarse whisper.

"Mrs. B! What a pleasant surprise. But why are you whispering?"

"Don't talk, just listen." Her voice trembled. "I'm on my cell phone and I don't know how much time I have until he comes back."

"Comes back? Who comes back?" I found myself whispering as well.

"Oh, Hannah, I was tailing that so-called gardener, trying to take a clearer photograph, when he caught me at it. He smashed my camera, threw me into the back of his van, and took off! I've been kidnapped!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Kidnapped?

I felt like I'd been struck squarely between the eyes with a two-by-four. Here I'd been sitting at home, keeping my own comfort-loving derriere well out of harm's way, believing that Mrs. Bromley was safely ensconced in a B&B on Maryland's bucolic Eastern Shore. How could she have been kidnapped?

It didn't seem like a good time to ask.

"We've stopped now, for some reason," Mrs. Bromley whispered, before I could say anything else. "Frankly, I think he's lost. He didn't seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean. Lights are on, but nobody's home."

"Can't you open the door?"

"I tried. I think he's got it tied together on the outside."

"Can you tell where you are, Mrs. B?"

"No! The cargo doors have windows, but they're all painted over. And there's a sliding Plexiglas panel that opens into the cab, but it's so scratched up I can barely see out of it. Just a minute." I heard banging and scraping sounds, then Mrs. Bromley came back on the line. "Damn thing has a lock on it, too."

"Thank goodness he didn't notice your cell phone. Tell me you called 911!"

"Of course, dear. The minute he drove away. I gave the operator a description of the van and my general impression that he was traveling north on Riva Road, but then I lost the blasted signal."

"As long as you have the cell phone, the police can locate you by tracking your signal through the cell towers. Right after I hang up, call 911 again."

"I don't know how long I have before the batteries run out." Mrs. Bromley drew a quick breath. "Wait a minute! I hear something!" She paused, and I strained to hear what she was hearing, too, but the only thing that came over the line was silence. "There's traffic going by, so I must be near a well-traveled road, but I can also hear music. Just a minute."

The line went quiet again, while I nearly expired from tension. "Somebody's playing music," she said at last. "No, wait a minute, it's chimes. Westminster chimes!"

One block away from where I stood, the Naval Academy chapel bells had just finished ringing the half hour. "Oh glory!" I cheered. "I can hear the chapel bells! You can hear the chapel bells! You've got to be nearby!"

But where? I could eliminate the Naval Academy grounds. Because of heightened security following the commencement of the war in Iraq, no vehicle was allowed inside the Academy walls without a Department of Defense sticker. Marines behind barricades armed with M-16 assault rifles saw to that.

I needed more clues.

"Can you see
anything
out of that cab window?" I asked. "Anything at all?"

"A chain-link fence and something yellow. Wait!"

I waited, panic making a crescendo in my gut. I felt ready to blow, like a geyser.

"It's construction equipment," Mrs. Bromley said brightly. "One of those back hoe things."

Construction. Construction within earshot of the chapel bells. Not far from a main road. Nobody was building anything on King George Street, at least not that I knew of. The other main road into town was Rowe Boulevard. Holding the telephone, I paced back and forth across the carpet, searching my memory banks.

Wait a minute! The state of Maryland was building a public housing project at the far end of St. John's Street, just one block off Rowe. That might be it!

"Listen carefully, Mrs. B. When you call 911, tell them it's possible that you're on St. John's Street somewhere near the Bloomsbury construction site.

"All right."

"Now, hang up, Mrs. B. No, wait a minute! Can you set your phone on vibrate? When I call you back, I don't want your kidnapper to hear it ringing."

"His name's Chet."

"Chet? Your kidnapper's name is Chet? How do you know his name is Chet?"

"It's embroidered right on his shirt."

"Okay. Noted. What does the van look like?"

"It's a dark blue Ford with 'All Seasons Lawn and Landscaping' painted on the side in orange letters."

That was certainly inconspicuous. Chet, whoever he was, didn't sound like a pro, otherwise he'd have chosen a plain white van to transport his victim in. I didn't know whether his status as an amateur kidnapper would spell good news or bad news for Mrs. Bromley. "Stay put!" I ordered. "I'm coming to look for you."

"You think I'm going anywhere?"

"Duh. Sorry. And call 911!"

I hung up quickly and, just as quickly, dialed 911 to report the kidnapping myself. I also called Paul on his cell phone. He'd have it turned off during his meeting, of course, but I could leave him a message. I had promised on a stack of Bibles that I wouldn't leave the house. Well, lightning could strike me dead, I didn't care. This was an emergency. I knew God would understand. I wasn't so sure about Paul.

I raced up the stairs to the kitchen, grabbed my purse and the house keys, rammed an Orioles baseball cap over my curls, and added a pair of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis sunglasses that had been sitting in a basket on my kitchen counter ever since a house guest had left them behind more than two years ago. As a disguise, it was piss poor, but it'd have to do.

I eased out the back door, locking it carefully behind me.

I ran west on Prince George Street, dashed across Maryland Avenue and made it all the way to where Prince George intersected with College Avenue without collapsing. Astonishing! I would never have been able to do that before the race training.

Directly in front of me the St. John's College campus spread out in both directions, dominated by McDowell Hall, a grand, pre-Revolutionary brick mansion on top of a hill, and anchored by Greenville Library on one end and Woodward Hall on the other.

I could have turned left on College Avenue then right on St. John's Street, but if the van holding Mrs. Bromley was where I thought it would be, I could reach her more quickly if I cut across campus and through the parking lot adjoining Key Auditorium. I took off at a run, praying that either I or the cops would get there before Chet returned to the van and drove it away.

I jogged left, passing a replica of the Liberty Bell, and cut diagonally across the lawn, just your ordinary, Sunday jogger, panting like a hound dog in August, holding her sunglasses to her face to keep them from sliding off her nose.

The parking lot was jammed with cars and when I burst out onto St. John's Street near the Maryland state parking garage, both sides of the road were clogged with vehicles, too. Damn! Something must be going on at the college.

I checked my watch. Only three minutes had passed since I left my house.

I cut to the right, and as I drew even with the back of Key Auditorium, I could hear piano music. Ah, yes. The Heifetz piano competition. I'd read about it in the paper.

Under ordinary circumstances I might have paused to listen, might even have stuck my head inside the auditorium, but I found myself pausing only to catch my breath, my hands resting on my knees, eyes scanning the street ahead for any sign of a blue van.

There were three of them.

I jogged down the street, scrutinizing each van as I passed. None carried anything even remotely resembling an orange logo.

I jogged on.

Ahead of me, at the end of the street, behind a chain-link fence and not far from the banks of Weems Creek, sat a knot of construction traders. I raced in that direction, passing row after row of two-story town houses, sheathed in Tyvek, which were rising to my left out of the red Maryland clay. Just beyond the unfinished town houses, I came to a rutted road. I turned into the road and continued running, my ankles taking a punishment on the well-pocked surface as I thundered past a battered Ford pickup and a bulldozer.

Past the bulldozer and hidden between two construction traders I found the blue van. Just as Mrs. Bromley had said, it had
all seasons lawn and landscaping
painted on the sides in bright orange letters.

As much as I wanted to rush over, wrench the door open, and haul Mrs. Bromley out, I stood there quietly for a moment, looking in all directions, just to make sure Chet wasn't anywhere in the vicinity.

I checked my watch again. Five minutes. Where the hell were the cops? Several couples strolled along the banks of the creek, taking advantage of the afternoon sunshine. Just ahead, traffic rushed by on Rowe Boulevard, slowing now and again at the light on Bladen Street. But no cops.

I used my cell phone to call 911 and report our exact location, then approached the van cautiously from the side, so I could peer into the cab. Chet had not returned. I pulled the door handle. The cab was locked.

I crept around to the back of the van and knocked quietly on the rear cargo door. "Mrs. B. It's Hannah. I'm going to get you out of this thing."

"Thank goodness! Let me know how I can help."

"I don't think there's much you can do from the inside, except push when I tell you to."

Indeed, the back door of the van was securely locked and, just to make sure his prisoner couldn't escape, Chet had woven a bicycle chain through the door handles and secured it with an oversized combination lock. "Damn!" I called through the door. "He's put a chain on it. No wonder you couldn't get it open."

I dropped my purse to the ground and glanced around the deserted construction site, desperate for a tool I could use to pry the lock off the door. Failing that, I thought, something big and heavy. I'd bash the door in.

About twenty yards away was a Dumpster, loaded with debris, sitting next to another pile of debris. I patted the side of the van. "I'll be right back!" I told her.

I scrabbled over the pile, tossing aside bits of plywood, odd-shaped pieces of Sheetrock, squares of pink insulation, and leftover shingles and vinyl siding. My sunglasses finally gave up the ghost, sliding off my nose and disappearing under a pile of wood chips. I didn't care. I pawed on.