Thriller (55 page)

back door. The night vision would record everything in an eerie

green glow.

Karen blended with the darkness and waited, holding the Sig

in her right hand, ready to use it. But not too soon. Only when

he left the premises with Deidre would he be guilty of kidnapping.

Should she be forced to confront him before then, he’d claim

he wasn’t taking Deidre anywhere. Beverly was the custodial

parent, but Jeffrey had bought and still owned this house. Technically, he wasn’t trespassing and he could visit whenever he

chose. His twisted lies had persuaded Beverly to excuse his behavior before.

Karen timed him. Jeffrey spent exactly twelve seconds forcing

the lock and opening the back door. She smiled to herself. He

should have tried the old key. She’d made sure it would work.

The alarm began its incessant bleat. Karen breathed silently,

disturbing the air as little as possible. Jeffrey had the instincts of

a predator. He would sense her presence if she made the slightest sound.

He crossed the tile to the alarm panel next to the refrigerator.

He rapid-punched the six numbers of his wedding date, the code

he and Beverly had chosen when he still lived here. Before their

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bitter divorce. The alarm stopped. He turned, never glancing in

her direction.

Arrogance was Jeffrey’s Achilles’ heel. It simply didn’t occur

to him that anyone would be watching. She grinned to herself

inside the black ski mask she wore over her head and face.

She watched Jeffrey climb the stairs and cover the short distance to the first door on the right. He paused. The night-light

illuminated him enough that the camera would record perfectly.

He showed his face to avoid frightening his daughter, to keep her

quiet and not awaken her mother. Beverly’s sheer terror tomorrow morning when she found Deidre missing was much of what

the sadistic asshole wanted to accomplish. He wanted Beverly off

balance and afraid. He would always control her and Deidre as

surely as if they were confined to prison.

He glanced around, maybe assuring himself that he’d made it

this far, that Beverly slept soundly down the hall. Then he faced

the door to Deidre’s room, opened it and crept inside.

He emerged shortly with the sleeping girl in his arms. She was

dressed in white pajamas. Strawberry curls framed her cherubic

face and cascaded down the back of his arm. She didn’t stir.

He eased the door almost closed, leaving it as Beverly had

when she saw Deidre last, and descended the stairs in silence.

Karen waited. Her right hand held the Sig firmly pointed in Jeffrey’s direction. She’d shoot him if he forced her to.

If Jeffrey saw her, he would do something stupid. Something

that might hurt Deidre. The child’s safety was paramount.

He snuck out the back door and closed it without a sound.

Karen activated the tiny camera she wore in a pendant around

her neck, waited until she heard the creaking boards under his

feet and hurried out behind him. She followed him to the street

where he’d parked a dark SUV.

Jeffrey was bent over, placing Deidre in the back seat when

Karen came up behind him.

“Move away from the car. Much as I’d like to shoot you…”

She allowed her deep, husky voice to trail away.

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He stepped back, cavalierly raised both hands palms out.

“Turn around,” she said quietly, hoping not to awaken Deidre.

He complied. He saw the gun, pointed now at his chest. “Smile,”

she said, picking up the pendant and pointing the micro camera

directly toward him. “A picture’s worth a year of testimony, isn’t

it?” She photographed Deidre sleeping in the vehicle, too.

She’d argued with Beverly and Beverly’s sister, Brenda, for

hours about this part of their plan. Beverly had cried, said she

didn’t want her child’s father incarcerated. She wasn’t desperate

enough yet. But Karen knew she would be. Released and alone,

Jeffrey would take his daughter again, not because he loved her,

but because he owned her. Deidre would never be safe from

him. He should have gone to prison for battering his wife. Or

when he stole Deidre the last two times. But Beverly had refused

to testify. Now she had proof, when she needed it.

Jeffrey stared at Karen, wary but unafraid. Her lanky frame was

indistinguishable from a man’s in these clothes. And she held an

equalizer pointed at his heart. Did he recognize her voice? Probably, although they hadn’t talked in years. She could almost see

him calculating his next move.

“If you ever set foot in Florida again, the video of tonight’s escapade will be delivered to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll die

in prison.”

He smirked. He wasn’t afraid of her. Karen’s hand itched to

smash the gun into his face, but she kept calm.

“Move to the front of the car.” He sidled to the center in front

of the grille. Her gaze never leaving him, the gun steady, Karen

bent down and lifted the little girl. She stirred, but didn’t waken.

When she was sure Deidre was secure in her grasp, Karen distanced herself from the SUV. “Get in and drive away.”

Hands in his pockets, Jeffrey sauntered around to the driver’s

side and opened the front door. Instantly, the car alarm sounded,

repeated long blasts of the horn. The cacophony awakened Deidre. When she saw the black-clad apparition holding her, she

began to cry and kick, yelling, “Let me go! Let me go!” Karen

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grabbed her tightly to keep her from taking them both down to

the ground, but the gun didn’t waver.

“Hush, Deidre. It’s me, Aunt Karen. It’s okay. Be quiet now.”

“Aunt Karen?” the astonished child cried, tears and screams

coming to a shaky, tentative halt.

Jeffrey now had one leg in the SUV, his weight shifted toward

the driver’s seat. He pressed the key fob to silence the blasting

horn, and then flashed a sardonic grin. “How nice to see you

again, Karen.”

She stiffened and extended the gun, her intention clear. “Don’t

forget what I told you, Jeffrey. No contact. Go.”

“You think I take orders from you?” He slid into the SUV,

started the engine, rolled down the window and threw a stare of

pure hatred at Karen. She shivered imperceptibly. She’d made an

open enemy. Somehow, he would prove he controlled her, too,

along with everything in his world, no matter what the cost.

All pretext of the gentleness he’d shown his daughter gone,

he said, “You’ll be sorry you screwed me, Karen.”

“I’ve been sorry about that for years.”

Just back from Europe, the news flashed across her computer

as she worked on revisions to
Karen Brown’s Guide to Switzerland
,

courtesy of Tampa P.D.’s Internet subscription active calls for service. A domestic-violence call in a Carrollwood neighborhood.

The first officer at the scene found a woman shot and a five-yearold girl missing. An Amber Alert went out at 3:30 a.m. Karen

glanced down at the clock on the screen. Twenty-five minutes ago.

Wasting no time on useless recriminations, she left immediately.

Thirty minutes later, she reached Grouper Circle, a few houses

scattered around the cul-de-sac bordering Lake Grouper. Tampa

P.D. cruisers blocked the Dolphin Avenue entrance. Karen parked

her red 4Runner and slipped her Sig under the front seat. She had

a license to carry but no need to make this tense situation worse.

She grabbed her laptop and approached the first officer she saw.

“Hey, Randy,” she said, to avoid startling him in the darkness.

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“Counselor.” He nodded. “What’s your interest?”

“Beverly London is a client. Came to offer support.”

“She don’t need it,” Officer Wilson told her bluntly.

Karen closed her eyes. A short moment of mourning was all

she permitted herself for now. “Suspects?”

“Nasty divorce. Custody problems with the daughter. That

your angle?”

Karen nodded.

“Bet on the ex,” Randy said. “Real piece of shit. Restraining

orders, my ass.”

Nobody needed to tell her how inadequate the law was at protecting women from men like Jeffrey. “Can I go up?”

He nodded.

“Who’s primary?”

“Jerry Scanlon.”

Karen made her way down the short street to the brick colonial

at the end. She saw two unmarked cars, an ambulance and people milling around. Officers, crime-scene technicians, photographers. A couple of detectives interviewing one of the neighbors,

probably the one who’d called in the gunshots. She walked up the

sidewalk to the threshold and stared into the open front door.

Beverly London’s body lay on the tiled foyer floor, clad in a

neon-yellow nightgown, eyes open, frozen in surprise. Two entrance wounds were visible in her chest and abdomen. Lots of

blood had pooled. Bullets probably severed the femoral artery.

No way Beverly would have survived, even if she’d been found

immediately. But she’d been there a while, long enough for all

the blood to have congealed.

Karen caught Detective Scanlon’s attention. “I hear you gave

up law, writing travel books now,” he said, a question in his tone

that she’d answered too many times before.
Why?
That’s what he

wanted to know.

“I like writing travel books,” she said. She was still a member

of the bar. That’s all he needed to know.

“Not enough money in the writing to keep you in cabernet?”

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“Something like that.”

He sized her up as if he’d never seen her before, although the

two had worked together frequently during her short stint in the

prosecutor’s office. He waved toward the body. “Not a pretty scene.”

“There are security cameras throughout the house and

grounds.” She pointed to the camera hidden in the wall sconce

on the side of the front door. When his eyebrows rose in question, she nodded. “Mine.”

“We’re not through processing yet.” He let her pass.

Karen moved carefully through the kitchen, Deidre’s room,

Beverly’s room, and the door that led outside to the attached

garage. She located the surveillance cameras and removed the

memory sticks. The cameras recorded in a loop, replacing images every three days until the sticks were changed.

She opened her laptop, booted up and slipped the memory

stick from the kitchen camera into the slot first. The images

downloaded quickly. She and Detective Scanlon watched video

of the dark kitchen, but nothing more.

“It was a long shot,” he said by way of forgiveness.

Methodically, Karen downloaded data from the other four and

continued searching. “Look there.” She pointed to the screen.

The intruder had come in through the garage door. Jeffrey London. No doubt about it.
He’s a bold bastard,
she reminded herself.

They studied the digital images on the tiny laptop screen. She

felt a sick déjà vu as she watched Jeffrey invade the house, disarm the security system, climb the stairs, enter Deidre’s room and

return carrying the sleeping girl, just as he had the night Karen

saw him from the kitchen chair.

“Dammit!” she muttered. She blamed herself. She should have

forced Beverly to turn Jeffrey in last year. If she had, Beverly

would be alive now.

“Look…” Scanlon pointed to the image.

She shook off her recriminations and watched Jeffrey reach the

bottom of the stairs, his body twisted to the right, toward the

garage door. Light flooded the foyer.

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Camera three captured the entire scene. Beverly stood very

near the same location where she was lying now. “Jeffrey!” her

voice screeched from the laptop’s inadequate speakers. Karen

winced.

Deidre awakened, looked around, sleepy-eyed, disoriented.

“Daddy?” she said, as if she was surprised to be held in his arms.

Which surely she was. He hadn’t seen her in fourteen months,

and the last time was under harrowing circumstances.

“Put her down, Jeffrey,” Beverly’s panicked voice instructed.

He chuckled, changed direction and strode toward the front

door.

Beverly grabbed his arm, jerking it from under Deidre’s legs.

Jeffrey grasped the child tighter, held her close to his chest. Then

he yanked his right arm from Beverly’s grasp, reached around his

back, slipped a .38 from his belt and shot her twice.

Beverly fell to the floor. Deidre screamed, “Mommy! Mommy!”

and thrashed wildly.

Jeffrey held on to the frightened girl. He strode through the

front door and out of camera range. The screen reflected the

empty foyer. After an excruciating few seconds, Beverly’s faint

groans stopped.

Moments of stunned silence followed before Scanlon laid a

hand on Karen’s shoulder. “We’ll get a warrant and an APB. Any

idea where he’s taken her?”

Numb, she said, “He’s a Canadian citizen. Lives in Toronto.

Wealthy. Probably flew here in his private plane.”

Scanlon sighed, resignation showing in the slump of his shoulders. “If he gets her to Canada before we catch him, that’s a big

problem.”

“Why?”

“Canada won’t extradite him for a crime that carries the death

penalty. And we won’t waive the death penalty unless he pleads

guilty and accepts a life sentence.”