Malcolm and Ives 02 - Trouble With Air and Magic (23 page)

Dorrie wasn’t one to advertise her gift. She returned to decorating the health center of the tavern while Lizzie regaled her latest visitor with the tale of the cash register and the banker.

She
liked
Conan’s family. She didn’t want to have to hide from them.

***

Once he hit the freeways of L.A. and had a strong cell phone connection, Conan checked in with his contact in the police fraud department to see if they’d nailed the bank account with the siphoned funds.

“Your thief has gone to a lot of trouble for what really isn’t a hell of a lot of money,” his contact complained. “The funds in the bank account you led us to have been transferred offshore where we have no jurisdiction. We have to get national security involved before we can even think of tracking where they went after that.”

“Still not making sense,” Conan countered in frustration. “Either we’ve only uncovered the groundwork of a larger scheme, or we’re missing something. I’m no accountant. I just found the obvious clues. Is your team digging deeper?”

He really wanted the sucker nailed legally and punished for harming Dorrie. How did an incompetent thief who stole from the poor equate with gangbanger shooters?

And why would anyone want to kidnap the kids? And could any of it conceivably be tied to her brother’s disappearance—and
Magnus
? Then there was still that criminal element Dorrie wasn’t completely explaining.

The whole scenario made about as much sense as 52 Pick-Up—cards scattered everywhere.

Hope for Magnus warred with pure unadulterated terror for Dorrie and family.

“We’re digging into the foundation’s accounts,” his informant continued, “but the older transfers aren’t significant except that Miss Franklin didn’t work there at the time. As far as we’re able to tell, those clients actually died or were deported, but someone didn’t turn off the money flow.”

“So you’re looking for a long-time employee and not Dorrie,” Conan clarified.

“Or a tradition of theft,” the cop corrected. “We’re looking into the more recently diverted funds. We’ve found a couple alive and working and unaware that they were still listed on the foundation’s books. They claimed to have told the office they were on their feet again so the charity could go to someone who needed them more. Want to wager all these clients are that honest?”

“Not honesty,” Conan replied, thinking ahead. “The foundation has case workers who stay on top of their files. If you’re talking about Dorrie’s files, she would have known they were working and ordered the checks halted.”

“Or not ordered it but just changed the routing,” his contact warned. “She’s not off our suspect list yet.”

“Bullshit. She didn’t shoot herself yesterday.” But he couldn’t mention that someone in the office hated her. He had only her word for that. “Any ID on the shooter or his motive?”

The cursing on the other end was not a positive note. Conan waited.

“We didn’t establish an ID before the little creep escaped from the hospital—along with your girlfriend, I might add.” His contact waited expectantly.

Oh crap. Oh frigging double-dipped shit.
The shooter was on the streets?
Conan roared the van down the nearest exit ramp. “I’ve got Dorrie.” He tried to keep his voice to a low shout. “She’ll testify when you nail the creep. I can assure you that one of us would have kicked him into next week if we’d seen him. Didn’t you have anyone on him?”

He drove under the freeway, and back up the other side. He was
not
leaving Dorrie and the kids alone if a mad gunman was on the loose. Plus a kidnapper, or—Conan squeezed the wheel in fear—could Dorrie’s gunman be the kidnapper?

“Not my department,” his contact said, unconcerned by Conan’s blood pressure spike. “Word is that a doc sprung him, but we know how unlikely that is.”

Yeah, more likely someone had played the same trick Conan had with Dorrie—dressed in scrubs, found a nametag, and distracted a cop. Crap, the gunman had an accomplice.

“What time did this happen?” he demanded.

“Sometime after two yesterday, not long after the guys took him to the emergency room. Why?”

“Because Dorrie’s niece and nephews were accosted around three-thirty, on their way home from school. Find the bastard now!” Conan gunned the engine into L.A.’s heavy morning rush hour traffic. It could take him hours to drive back up the mountain.

Cursing, he called his PI after hanging up on the cop. Figuring a minivan could contain lots of people, he veered into the HOV lane. The van might not have the speed of his sports car, but it had a few unexpected advantages if he broke the rules. He cruised the open lane at highway speed, passing up a traffic jam, while he waited for the PI to open his files.

“We’ve located a few more of the clients the police don’t have manpower to find,” his detective told him. “All of them are working, happy, said they’d told their caseworkers about their new employment. Looking to me like your girlfriend picks good, responsible clients.”

Conan preferred this perspective to the LAPD’s, but objectivity was the goal here. “She thinks outside the box,” he said noncommittally. He was betting she’d tell him she judged by a person’s energy or some such. He might just have to start buying that explanation. “What have you found on Adams Engineering?”

“Not much. Their lab is classified top secret. I don’t know how you got the personnel files and don’t want to know, but the employees on the list appear to be legit. Nice homes, families, clean records. I’m tagging a few to see if they have any sidelines.”

“All right, keep working those angles and take a look at a guy called Zimmer in the foundation’s office. He’s a buddy of Ryan Franklin’s but Dorrie insists he hates her. My gut says he just hates everyone.” And that Zimmer was too old and set in his ways to start shooting people now, but he’d let Adrian come to his own conclusions.

Conan came to a few conclusions of his own. He might be able to locate names in computer databases and find patterns in mathematical functions, but he damned well couldn’t find a missing helicopter or kidnappers without talking to people. Starting with the damned woman who had skulls under her bushes and wasn’t telling him everything.

First, he’d better check on the kids’ mother.

Dorrie sat back and admired the day’s accomplishments.

All four of the kids were gobbling Lizzie’s pizza as if this were a normal supper. The adults were drinking their beverage of choice while admiring the tavern’s new interior decoration. Dorrie particularly liked the tall three-sided, red-lacquered vase in the reputation sector behind the bar. With the addition of tall feathery grass and emerald peacock feathers, it created a striking conversation piece that could only increase the tavern’s fame.

Of course, the fact that Lizzie had called on friends all over town to find the decorative items Dorrie requested would also increase interest in the business. That was simply how feng shui worked.

She hadn’t worried about Conan once in oh, the last ten minutes or so. She refused to look at the time. If she let her thoughts creep back to the city and all her problems, she might crumble in front of everyone.

Oz’s phone rang. He chuckled when he read the number. Winking at Dorrie, he put the phone on speaker.

“I’ve got your hostages over at the tavern,” Oz said. “What will you give me for them?”

“Dammit, Oz, this is not a joke! I need Dorrie back at the cottage right now. And find a doctor. Either keep the kids or sedate them. Just send me Dorrie,
now.”

She was already off the bar stool and running for the door while Oz turned off the speaker phone and consulted privately with his brother. The kids looked up worriedly, and Dorrie halted to send a pleading glance at Pippa and Lizzie.

“Let them finish eating,” Pippa said without being asked. “We’ll bring them back to your place when you give the signal.” She nodded at Oz, who was frowning and already calling up a doctor.

“Thank you.” Taking Toto’s leash, Dorrie slipped out and hurried down the alley to the town’s wide main street. The sun hadn’t set yet, but the shadows were long. Why did Conan need a doctor? Had he been shot, too? Heart pounding in terror, she was practically running by the time she reached the cottage.

The front door was unlocked. She couldn’t decide if this was typical Conan. He liked security, but he disliked order. A complicated man.

Releasing the terrier to his water and food bowls, she followed the sound of a masculine murmur down the hallway to the large bedroom where they’d slept last night. She tried to slow her pounding heart by deciding that if Conan was up and yelling at phones, he couldn’t be too badly hurt, but the memory of their lovemaking last night had her too rattled to think straight.

Sex
, she reminded herself. Not lovemaking, just sex.

She opened the bedroom door and at the sight within, realized right then and there that it was a lot more than just sex for her.

Conan was kneeling beside the bed, holding Amy’s hand while he murmured encouraging words and held what appeared to be a torn sheet to her arm. Amy looked pale, wide-eyed, and terrified, but whatever Conan was saying to her was keeping her from hysterics.

Trying to conceal her fear, Dorrie kneeled beside him and took over holding the makeshift bandage. “What happened?” she asked. “And do you make a habit of rescuing everyone you know?”

“Yeah, I ask myself that all the time,” Conan muttered. “Is Oz calling the doctor? Long story. Where are the kids?”

The corners of his golden-brown eyes were creased with worry, but he leaned over to kiss the crown of Dorrie’s head. “I’m not even going to ask why you weren’t here when we arrived. I almost had two heart attacks.”

“I take care of myself, remember?” She monitored Amy’s energy. “You’re going to be okay,” she told her. Amy’s blue eyes were lined with fatigue and worry, but she nodded to indicate she’d heard, so Dorrie continued speaking calmly. “A doctor’s on the way. The kids are fine. Now, what happened?”

“A man was waiting for me when I left the house,” Amy said in as much puzzlement as pain. “Bo made sure we all know self-defense. I screamed and kicked and ran, but it’s hard to outrun bullets. Your friend called while I was hiding to tell me the children were safe. He came and got me. What is happening? Why do they want to hurt us?”

“It’s complicated and we don’t have answers. We’ll talk once the doctor looks after you,” Conan said. “It looks like a flesh wound, but we probably need to clean it.” Freed of handholding duty, he strode toward the bathroom—and away from any emotional histrionics.

Dorrie feared she could easily fall for this impossibly self-reliant, non-communicative man. He’d rescued Amy, assessed her injuries, then brought her here instead of calling the police and an ambulance because he knew she needed to be with family. He’d probably let her bleed and cry all over him while careening his truck through traffic at death-defying speeds. Conan didn’t just think outside the box. He lived outside it.

Holding Amy’s hand while he carried back a dripping washcloth and a bottle of antibacterial soap, Dorrie offered reassurance. “The children are fine. They’re eating pizza with friends. They’ll be along shortly. We’ll figure this out.”

She took Conan’s offerings, then chased him out so she could help Amy out of her bloodied clothes and tend the wound. He looked relieved but determined. She didn’t want to be whomever he called next. For a man who hated explaining himself, he certainly knew how to pin down others.

By the time Dorrie had Amy cleaned up, taped a bandage to the wound, and had her garbed in a long gray athletic t-shirt, Conan was back and knocking on the door.

“Oz has a doctor on the way,” he said when she let him in. “He can keep the kids until we give the okay. I think you and I need to talk while Amy rests.”

Yeah, it was probably time. She couldn’t let innocents get in the way if this was the personal vendetta she was starting to fear it might be.

“After the doctor,” she said, refusing to back down under his glare. She’d waited for thirteen years to tell this impossible tale. Explanations could wait a few minutes more, until she had the people she loved taken care of.

Their lives were about to become immensely more complicated, but he’d figure that out soon.

***

“No, she’s not psychic, Oz, geez.” Conan ran his hand through his hair while pacing the kitchen, talking to his brother on the phone. “I don’t even know if the Librarian is warning that Dorrie
is
the danger or if she’s the one
in
danger, although I’m leaning toward the latter since she got shot, and then when the cranks couldn’t find her, they went after her family. Or I could be completely off key. It’s not as if our weird, enigmatic Librarian is overly chatty.”

“Your Dorrie used feng shui on Lizzie’s tavern and now Lizzie thinks she’ll be rolling in dough,” Oz informed him. “Every clown in town will want your lady’s services. You can’t hide her here.”

Oz was worried but trying to cover it up. Pippa was probably standing right next to him. And they were both looking up the names of security guards. Pippa hid out here in the outback of nowhere for good reason. She didn’t need media finding her.

Having a psychic feng shui expert in El Padre would draw media attention—one of the many reasons Conan hadn’t wanted to introduce Dorrie to his family. Damn. “Let me talk to the doctor first. I can’t make promises until I know what to do with the Franklins.”

“You owe me a story, kid,” Oz warned.

“Yeah, and you’ll get it eventually. Right now, we don’t know enough.” And he still didn’t want to get Oz’s hopes up about Magnus. The possibility was too surreal. “I just heard a car drive up. What in hell did you tell a doctor to persuade him to make a house call?”

“I may have insinuated that one of my TV stars escaped rehab and was on the brink of collapse. Just nod knowingly when he asks.”

Conan banged his head against the refrigerator door as the phone clicked off. He knew better than to ask Oz for help. He really did. Oz’s creative genius took strange paths.