One Week To Live (14 page)

“They aren’t for me.”

“The envelope says Rita…”

“What’s inside is for you.” She stopped talking.

“What?”

“You’re not going to like what came in that envelope. The bastard is one sick nutcase.”

“What?”

Rita handed her the envelope. “See for yourself.”

Looking inside, she sucked in a breath. Sick wasn’t the half of it. She gingerly pulled out a baggie containing a lock of golden blonde hair.

“Your grandchild’s?”

She nodded, too shaken to speak. She’d heard of perverted abductors sending fingers and even earlobes as threats to an abducted victim’s family. But this lock of an innocent child’s hair proved equally unsettling. Not caring if she tampered with this bit of evidence, she opened the baggie and stroked the soft curl inside. Tears welled up along with another vision. She collapsed into a chair, her eyes closed.

“You aren’t going to tell me you’ve had a vision, are you?” Dunning stood right behind her. When she opened her eyes she noted his partner wasn’t with him. She looked at Rita.

“I called him after I called you.”

She nodded.

“So what did you see, Ms. Martin,” he said.

“I don’t appreciate your sarcastic tone, Agent Dunning.” She closed her eyes willing the vision back. “I saw the outline of a house. Something loomed in front of it, blocking much of my view. All I could see was the roofline.”

“Go on,” Rita said, trying to encourage her.

She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s all.”

Scowling, the man studied the baggie Angie clutched in her hand. “You’ve messed with evidence again, once more contaminating it.”

Her hand shook as she held up the bag. “This isn’t just evidence, it’s a youngster’s hair. She’s not just a victim, she’s a woman’s daughter, someone’s grandchild.” She choked on these last words. “They didn’t teach you compassion in that academy you attended, did they? You might know about firearms and investigating crime, but you know nothing about human beings.”

She threw the baggie at him. “Here’s your precious evidence.”

Catching it by one corner, he placed it on the nearest dressing table. He then reached in his pocket and brought out the now familiar gloves and evidence bags.

“Why did you touch it?”

“I realize you don’t believe in psychic mumbo jumbo. However, in the past I’ve received visions by touching something of the victim’s,” she spat back, her anger growing.

The skepticism edging his face increased her ire. “You can be as cynical as you want, Agent Dunning, but it’s true.”

“It’s Special Agent Dunning.”

“Titles aren’t going to help find the little girl, Special Agent Dunning. But if you’re open-minded enough to listen to what I say, you might connect it to a lead you’re already following.”

He looked doubtful. “Okay, what did you see?” he asked, impatience filling his words.

She closed her eyes again, trying to recall more of the vision’s details. There weren’t many. “As I said I saw the roofline of a house, but I couldn’t see much else.” She remained silent for a minute. “I think a wall surrounded it, a high wall.”

“Great, the roofline of a house and a high wall. How about a street name, a street number?”

She shook her head again. “Sorry, I can’t dictate what I see. I can only receive what my psychic senses send.”

“As I said, psychic mumbo jumbo. We need hard evidence. Evidence not tampered with.” Putting on the gloves, he stuck the envelope and baggie containing the lock of hair in separate evidence bags. He then picked up the vase of roses.

“Gees, I was enjoying those flowers,” Rita quipped, grinning at the man. “Not many men buy me roses.”

Was Rita flirting with the man? He gave her a brief, visual once over. From his expression he appeared to appreciate what he saw. What an unlikely match, a flamboyant Las Vegas showgirl and a by-the-book FBI agent? But they said that opposites did attract.

And talk about opposites, she thought. A man like Brian who didn’t worry about revealing hidden truths and a woman with secrets she never wanted revealed. She valued her privacy and he didn’t understand why privacy needed to be valued. And speaking of that man, he’d just entered the dressing room.

****

When Brian walked in he couldn’t avoid seeing the bevy of beauties with their splashy, revealing costumes. However, the only person he noticed stood talking to Rita and Dunning. Simply dressed in a tank top and shorts, her black wavy hair pulled into a ponytail, she was the most beautiful woman in the room. Remembering her in the bikini and the feel of her soft breasts against his chest, he sucked in a lustful breath.

Rita spotted him and waved. Threading his way through the crowd of showgirls, he joined them.

“Boy, your bouncer’s intent on his job,” he said, smiling while he studied Dunning’s disapproving look.

“But you got in okay, I see,” Rita said. “How’d you do it without a pass?”

“I’ve got my ways,” he replied continuing to study the special agent out of the corner of his eye. Angie appeared close to tears, probably Dunning’s doing.

“It’s his Irish blarney, Rita,” she said, attempting to smile. “It gets them every time. Which showgirl did you charm?”

He glanced across the room. “That tall brunette over there with legs a man could—”

“Brian Murphy, don’t you say another word,” she scolded.

“Aw, Angie. I was going to say legs a man could admire for the rest of his born days.”

He saw the vase Dunning held along with the evidence bags. “What’s that and why is he here?”

“Flowers meant for me,” she replied fear now filling her eyes. Fear he’d grown to recognize and hated seeing.

“What?”

“The flower delivery included an envelope containing a lock of the—” She hesitated. “—of the little girl’s hair.”

“There wasn’t a nursery rhyme clue this time?”

“No. Does that mean Polly is dead?” she said, choking on the words.

Seeing her tremble, he put his arm around her shoulders briefly to comfort her. “No, she’s not. We’re going to find Polly alive.”

“No, the FBI will find her,” Dunning countered.

“You and all your fancy investigative work failed once before. You couldn’t save my son. Why do you think you can save this child?” Shit, he thought, seeing the shocked expression on Angie’s face. He hadn’t told her about his son.

“Murphy, you know damn well your son was killed soon after being abducted. There wasn’t enough time to save him,” Dunning argued.

“There wasn’t enough time because you wouldn’t listen to me. You wouldn’t trust what I said.”

“You saved your snitch at the cost of your son. You need to live with that,” he threw back.

“Brian, what is he talking about? What son?”

Me and my big mouth, he thought. Now he needed to explain a subject he didn’t want to discuss.

“Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her from the dressing room, nearly knocking down several costumed showgirls en route.

“Watch it, mister,” one of them shouted, readjusting her huge, feather headdress.

“Brian, slow down,” she called out as they weaved their way through the corridors back to the casino floor. “You’ll pull my arm from its socket.”

He stopped and let go of her hand. “Sorry. I need a drink.” He marched across a bridge leading to a waterside cocktail lounge. She trailed behind him.

Once seated, she started to talk before he could say anything. “Is that why you and Agent Dunning are always at each others’ throats? You blame him for your son’s death. A son I didn’t even know about.”

“You don’t understand,” he growled.

“Maybe I understand more than you think.”

“No, you don’t,” he said.

“I know that getting the story is the most important thing in your life. You flaunt your journalistic integrity like it’s some kind of Holy Grail. In fact, you value it more than you value the human beings you deal with.”

“That’s not true.” Did her words hold more truth than he wished to acknowledge?

“I think it is,” she said, reaching for his hand.

“I won’t discuss it,” he replied, brushing her hand away. “And I don’t need your pity.”

Seeing the hurt in her brown eyes, he regretted yelling at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

She remained silent for a minute and he wondered if she’d further probe into his past. He did it all the time while working on other people’s stories. However, he’d never liked being the one in the hot seat.

“You’ve never talked about your son,” she said.

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Were you pursuing a story with such determination that you now feel guilty about that story’s effect on people you loved? Your son died and I presume your wife left you because of it.”

He nodded. The pain from her words hit him hard.

“Then you lost everything with that article.” She shook her head. “I know that once you get hold of a story, you possess a one-track mind. You chase it no matter what the cost.”

“That’s my job. I was an investigative journalist pursuing the facts to uncover a human trafficking ring. I was close to the truth when those bastards snatched my son and killed him.” Just saying those words brought back the anguish.

“So now you want to save other kidnapped children because you couldn’t save your own.”

Hadn’t Joe said the same thing? “Where the hell is that cocktail waitress?” he muttered. “I’m going to the bar for a beer. You want anything?”

“No.”

****

She stared after him as he weaved his way through the maze of tables to the bar where several people were playing video poker. She sucked in a breath. She now understood the misery she’d seen briefly mirrored in his eyes more than once. Feelings that he kept penned up most of the time. Her heart ached for him.

She knew all about keeping secrets, but was now the time to reveal she’d lost a child, too? She thought about the possible headlines splashed across the front page of the paper. No, he would love to sink his teeth into that kind of juicy morsel.

A cocktail waitress, wearing a snug-fitting red outfit that revealed ample portions of her breasts and derriere, sailed up to her table. Placing a napkin and bowl of nuts down, she asked “Can I get you something?”

“No, thank you,” she said. The waitress’s broad smile faded, replaced by a look that said
if you don’t want something to drink why are you sitting here?
The woman sauntered off to another table of new arrivals.

A shout rose from a craps table. Several women dressed in halter-tops and tight-fitting shorts gathered around a well-tanned man sporting gold neck chains. Taking the dice, he shook them and yelled, “Come to momma,” before throwing them. The dice slammed against the table’s back wall and another shout rang out. The man was obviously on a winning streak. Several more people gathered to watch. Across the casino floor, other gamblers quietly sat at felt-topped blackjack tables intent upon the cards being dealt them by dealers dressed in crisp white shirts and black vests and slacks.

Near the cocktail lounge, an open-sided replica of a San Francisco Bay wharf warehouse held rows of slot machines, their multi-colored lights reflecting in the waters of the bay. These slot machines added still more noise and color to the gambling scene. Most of the older slot machines once displaying winning liberty bells and various fruits had been replaced by machines with vibrant, 3-D videos featuring animated cartoon characters.

The sound of winning coins clanging into metal trays was now digitally recreated. Real coins no longer fell into the trays of eager winners. Progressive slots announced winning moves with flashing lights, ringing bells, and multi-media extravaganzas.

To her, the scene spelled chaos. The noise, the smoke, the gaudy lights gave her a headache. They always had. More shouts from the craps table made her look in that direction again.

Her heart skipped a beat. Was that her ex-husband standing in the crowd of onlookers? The man briefly glanced toward the bar where she was sitting, and she held her breath. He then turned his attention back to the person tossing the dice. She hoped her ex-husband hadn’t seen her, but she couldn’t take the chance. Grabbing her purse, she made a beeline for an exit.

Weaving through rows of slot machines, she looked for an exit sign. Flashing signs guaranteeing jackpot winnings of $150,000, $200,000, and $1,250,000 loomed in front of her. Within minutes she found herself totally disoriented. Bells rang, people shouted, electronic coins clanged, but the exit sign eluded her.

Was she running in circles? Everything looked the same. Instead of escaping she might run smack dab into the man she’d spent so much effort running away from? The thought of him being here struck fear in her heart. Taking a deep breath, she told herself to calm down. She once more searched for an exit sign and this time spotted one.

Chapter Twelve

Wednesday night/Thursday Morning

It took a few minutes for the busy bartender to fill Brian’s order leaving him time to think about Angie’s question concerning his son. He shouldn’t have responded to her the way he had. To develop any kind of long-term relationship, they shouldn’t keep secrets from each other. She needed to know about the abduction and his son’s murder.

But her words brought back bitter memories of other accusatory remarks spoken following Jason’s death. His ex-wife also blamed him for being so wrapped up in the pursuit of a story that he didn’t see how it could affect his family.