Authors: Kathy Ivan
Connor tossed his handy-dandy window-smashing rock back to the ground and checked for people, although he really didn't care if anybody saw him or not. The door lock was right there, on top of the door frame, one of the kind you pulled up to unlock. He slid across the bench seat and reached up under the dash liked he'd seen in hundreds of movies and TV shows. A handful of wires met his questing fingertips. With a twist of his wrist, he pulled them all down into sight.
Which ones?
His head thumped against the steering wheel and he blew out an exasperated breath. I can do this, he whispered, bending forward as he pulled wires apart until bare metal showed. Grabbing two, he touched them together. Nothing. Two more and the same thing. No sparks, no roar of the engine. Again—nothing. Two more and there it was a slow
rrrr, rrrr
as the engine choked and coughed but didn't start.
Again. Do it again. Come on, dammit. Work! Please start.
A couple of groans and clunks emitted from under the hood followed by the most beautiful sound in the world—the loud sound of that dinosaur of an engine awakening to life.
The gearshift was on the steering column behind the wheel. Fortunately it was an automatic transmission so that was one less thing to mar his concentration; he didn't have to worry about shifting and popping the clutch. Without wasting another moment, he slammed the gear into reverse and jerked out of the parking space. Throwing it into drive, he floored the gas pedal, speeding away from the hotel. Within a few minutes he was on U.S. Highway 61 or
Blues Highway,
as it was known. North. The text said head north. Remy would have to play catch up.
“Why haven't they called back?” He'd already pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and laid it on the seat beside him, within easy reach. Glancing down, he checked the gas gauge. Three-quarters of a tank.
He drove. Nonstop. The miles sped by but he didn't care.
Alyssa
. She was all he could think about. Some sick bastard had his Alyssa. Nothing mattered but getting to her, holding her safe in his arms where he'd never let her go again. He'd come close to losing his gran earlier today, he'd be damned if he lose the woman he loved. Tightness in his chest squeezed the air out of his lungs in ragged gulps of breath. His heart raced, pounding out a rhythm matched by the thump, thump of the tires hitting the asphalt.
Alyssa
it whispered as he sped along, headed north.
Alyssa
.
A chirp by his hip had him fumbling for the cell phone, snatching it up to read the latest text message, still from the blocked number.
The text message flashed onto the screen.
Hope you're on the road, Connor
.
One-handed he tested the message back.
I'm on U.S. 61 north.
Good boy. Keep driving. I'll get back 2 U. Bye.
“No!” His thumb flew across the keys as he replied back.
Where R U? Where's Alyssa?
No response. Connor gripped the phone, squeezing until his hand hurt. Miles still flew by as he drove but that would change soon, he knew. There was a big construction job just a few miles farther up 61 that went on for miles, and this time of day the traffic would snarl, congestion slowing travel down to a crawl, even on a Sunday. No way around it. He knew the area but not well enough to take side roads, and with no idea where he was headed . . .
The phone rang, vibrating in his hand. Caller ID showed Remy's number.
“Where are you? I'm at the Silverado and can't find you.”
“I'm on the Blues Highway headed north. Got a message from the bastard who has Alyssa—told me to get a car and start driving north.”
“Damn it. Okay, I'm headed back to my car. Wait—should I ask? How'd you get a car or don't I want to know?” Remy's amusement echoed over the line. Connor scowled. He didn't have time for this crap.
“Don't ask, Mr. Cop. I couldn't go home and get mine.”
“Got it. I know nothing. How far ahead are you?”
“I left the hotel right after we talked so maybe thirty minutes, give or take.”
The sound of Remy's breath echoed through the phone. Then Connor heard the sound of footsteps running and knew Remy raced toward his car. He couldn’t wait—wouldn't wait. Remy'd have to catch up with him. His only priority now was finding Alyssa—alive and unharmed.
“Gotta pay attention to the road, dammit. This frigging construction is driving me nuts. Call me in thirty if you haven't heard from me.”
Connor tossed the phone next to him onto the seat and gripped the steering wheel. Knuckles white, his fingers curled around the finger-grip indentations in the molded plastic. Each thump of the tires on the road echoed her name. Alyssa. Alyssa.
An eternity passed before the congested logjam of traffic unsnarled and he drove like the proverbial bat out of hell, the accelerator pedal stomped nearly to the floorboards of the gas-guzzling monstrosity he'd liberated from the parking lot.
Blip.
The text message tone chirped. He snatched the cell phone from the seat, grabbed it one-handed and used his thumb to swipe across the screen, revealing the new message.
Hope U R making good time, Connor, my boy. Go through Baton Rouge proper. Keep driving north. Outside city limits, stop. Will be in touch.
Baton Rouge. At least he had a destination, a starting point. He hit speed dial. Remy answered on the first ring.
“Text came—north of Baton Rouge.”
“That's it?” Remy's voice sounded tinny and distant. Bad connection.
“Yeah, said to stop once I got through the city, outside Baton Rouge proper.” Connor winced as the car bounced out of the huge pothole he'd just hit.
Keep it together, idiot. Can't be calling Triple A to rescue your sorry ass when you've cracked the axle on a stolen car.
“Hang on, man. I've got a friend who works for the PD there. I'll have him . . .”
“No! We don’t know who's involved in this besides Bethany. For all I know this bitch may just have me chasing my tail and is sitting back laughing her ass off watching me spin in the wind. We'll play it out, follow instructions, see where it leads. Alyssa is my
only
priority.”
A green and white sign on the side of the road proclaimed, “Welcome to Baton Rouge, Louisiana.”
“Remy, I'm in Baton Rouge now, just got here because of that damned construction. How far back are you?”
“Made up some time on you, so maybe twenty minutes.” Static garbled the rest of what Remy said. Connor wanted to bang his head again on the steering wheel, but settled for slamming his fist against it instead.
“Remy? You there?”
Crackles and pops answered him, then silence. He knew the line would clear in a few minutes, especially in a city the size of Baton Rouge. It was the state capital, after all, probably had the best cell reception in the state.
Hold on, Alyssa. I'm coming. When I find you, I'm holding on and I'm never letting go again. Ever. Be strong for me, baby. Love you. Love you.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sunday
T
aglier watched the crying older woman seated at the battle-scarred table in the New Orleans Police Department interrogation room. This was the part of the job he hated. She didn't look like a killer; she looked like somebody's sweet ole grandmother. But the facts pointed at Trudy Miller as a stone cold murderer.
He hadn't been satisfied with the answers he'd gotten from the folks on the tour bus. Except for Alyssa Scott. With her sweet smile and honest eyes, he knew there wasn’t a lying bone in her perfect little body. Still, he had the itch on the back of his neck. The same one he got every time his cop instincts took over and told him to look past the evidence, past the witness statements. Search out the tiny discrepancies usually missed, because everybody always lies. Always.
Which led him to Trudy Miller. An anonymous tip called into his office while he'd been out on another case. The tipster stated she'd seen Mrs. Miller leaving Abigail Spencer's room late in the evening, clutching something in her hand. When asked why she hadn't come forward before, the caller stated they were too scared, afraid they'd end up like “poor Abigail.”
The familiarity of the caller with both Abigail Spencer and Trudy Miller pointed to somebody who knew both women well. Meaning, somebody on the bus with them. Doing his due diligence, though, he'd questioned every female employee of the hotel, since the caller was definitely a woman. No one admitted to seeing anything or making the call.
The autopsy report wasn't completed yet, but preliminary reports showed blunt force trauma to Mrs. Spencer's skull. That coincided with the evidence from the scene as well as Connor and Alyssa Scott's witness accounts. Yet the telltale itch to his neck remained. Something more, something he'd missed.
He didn't like this whole situation one little bit. Nothing felt right—he wasn't on his home turf, didn't control the situation here in New Orleans. Hell, he'd even had to ask for permission from the local cops just to use the interrogation room.
As soon as he'd hit town he'd contacted NOPD, asking for local backup while he questioned the two ladies from the Whispering Pines bus. Made sure not only was a local law enforcement officer present, but Mrs. Scott as well, to keep the ladies comfortable and not scare them. The last thing he needed was to have one of them keel over from a heart attack. He chuckled. Can't have that, it'd mean more paperwork.
Everything pointed to Trudy Miller. The call. Evasive answers to questions he'd posed. Plus, they'd found Abigail Spencer's diamond pendant in her suitcase.
“Mrs. Miller.” Taglier kept his voice calm and reassuring, speaking in a low tone. Her sniffles had slowed, though tears stained her wrinkled cheeks, her eyes red-rimmed.
“Ma'am, I read your Miranda rights at the time of your arrest, but I'm going to say them again. Please notice, there is a video camera recording this interview, so everything you say will be on record. This is for your protection also.”
Trudy snuffled into the wad of tissues in her hands, before nodding. “I understand.”
Taglier quickly read her the Miranda rights again, making sure she understood them.
“Mrs. Miller, you are entitled to have an attorney present while I'm questioning you. Would you like the officer”—he nodded to the same uniformed policewoman seated down the table who'd been with him at the hotel—”to contact someone for you?”
“No, just ask your questions. I want to go home.”
Taglier shook his head. She didn't see the big picture. Arrested for murder, chances were good she'd never go home again. Home would be four gray walls and a solid iron door. He hooked his foot around the chair leg, pulled it closer and sat across from her.
“Mrs. Miller, did you see Abigail Spencer on the night she died?”
She nodded her head vigorously, chins wobbling. “I already told you, Esther and I saw Abby. We talked to her for a while and went back to our room. She was most definitely alive when we left her.”
“Yet somebody saw you coming from her room later that night alone.”
“No! That's not right! I swear I didn't see Abby again. I stayed in my room and went to bed.”
“Was anybody else with you?” Taglier softly voiced his question, a brief hesitation, before he repeated it. He studied her face, took note of the subtle nuances. He was damn good at reading people, able to spot a lie almost before it left their lips.
“Nobody was there for a while. Esther and I shared a room but she'd didn't come back right away. She went to the coffee shop with a couple of the other gals. They wanted to play a few hands before bedtime.”
Taglier waited while Trudy blotted her eyes again and blew her nose into the bedraggled tissues clutched in her chubby fingers. He pushed a box of fresh tissues across the table.
“I watched television until Esther came back to the room.
Jeopardy
came on, then
Wheel of Fortune.
I fell asleep with the TV on.” Taglier made a note in his crumpled pad, reminded himself to check the times for those two programs on the local stations.
“What time did Mrs. Shapiro come back to your room?”
“I . . . I don't know. I fell asleep, like I said. When I woke up the next morning she was in bed.”
“So nobody can prove you were in your room at approximately ten thirty?”
He saw the exact moment everything clicked in Mrs. Miller's mind and she realized exactly how much trouble was barreling in her direction. Her widened eyes, the flushed cheeks, telltale signs the gravity of her situation finally sank in. Her choked breathing as she sucked in a lungful of air confirmed her panic.
“Detective, I didn’t go back to Abigail's room. I swear, when Esther and I left she was still alive and kicking.”
“Why did you and Mrs. Shapiro go to visit Mrs. Spencer?”
“Um, well . . .” Her words trailed off as the light of panic lit her eyes.
Ah, there it is. The hidden truth within all the lies
.
“We talked about our plans once we hit New Orleans.”
“Exactly what were those plans, ma'am?”
She lowered her gaze, refused to meet his eyes. Liars often made that mistake, he thought. Better to brazen it out, make the listener believe you're telling the truth by staring at them straight on.
“I swear it wasn't my plan. Honest. Esther said she and I would hit the blackjack tables, work together and make a tidy little profit to take back home.”
Taglier had trouble biting back his smirk.
Why did everybody think they could beat the system? Fools to even try. The house always wins.
“Go on.” He prompted.
“Esther counts cards. She's really fast and sharp as a pistol. Last year, when we went to Atlantic City. . .” Mrs. Miller froze, aware she'd said too much.