He gritted his teeth. “This isn’t
Starsky and Hutch
.”
“No kidding. Maybe we should get out of the car.”
“And do what? Take a flying leap off the overpass?”
“We could run to the ramp—”
He snorted. “And when he takes off we’ll be left trying to run down a Humvee on foot.”
“Well, we can’t just sit here,” she said, but he noticed she made no move to leave the car.
His BMW crawled forward another yard, and the UNSUB got out of the parked yellow Hummer.
“Jesus.” Dante gripped the wheel. “Where the hell are the cops?”
“Maybe he’s just going to leave her there,” Zoey said. “Maybe he saw us following him and got scared.”
Dante glanced at her in disbelief.
Not likely.
But he didn’t want to crush the hope in her voice. The UNSUB pulled open the green and white door to the gas-station convenience store. What was he doing? Taking a leak? He must know he’d been followed.
The SUV ahead stopped suddenly, and Dante again nearly ran into it. He felt his neck muscles contract. The asshole wouldn’t stay in the convenience store forever. If he could just get down there. Maybe he should take Zoey’s advice and leave her with the car. If he ran down the ramp he could make the gas station in a few minutes.
He unlocked his door.
Zoey leaned forward, staring out her window. “What—?”
He looked over. A little bright green Civic had been parked to the side of the BP station. As he watched, two elderly women hopped out, ran to the Hummer, and got in.
Dante leaped from the BMW and ran down the side of the overpass, his black dress shoes sliding on the ice.
The Hummer pulled out of the BP station and crossed two lanes of traffic, narrowly missing a navy sedan. It bumped over the concrete divider, turned left, and accelerated through the yellow intersection stoplights.
“Fuck!” Dante slammed both fists on the overpass rail, watching helplessly as the Hummer drove by underneath. “Fuck! Fuck!
Fuck!
”
He had no idea who’d taken the kid, he had no idea why he’d let Zoey Addler get in his car, and he had no idea who the second kidnappers were. In fact, the only thing he did know was that under their winter coats, the elderly women had been wearing Indian saris.
Thursday, 5:03 p.m.
Y
ou are driving too fast, Pratima,” Savita Gupta said, clutching both the door and the dashboard of the truck at the same time.
“Pardon me,” Pratima Gupta replied tartly to her sister-in-law, “but I was not aware that you knew how to drive, Savita-di.”
Pratima steered the very large yellow Humvee truck into a turn, fishtailing just a tiny bit, which was only to be expected. After all, she had never before driven a Humvee truck, a vehicle designed by the US of A army to be used in wars, not on the streets of Chicago. Streets that were even at the best of times slippery with ice. Also, here in the US of A, Pratima must constantly keep in mind that vehicles drove on the
right
side of the street, instead of the more natural left as was done in India.
“Right. Right. Right,” Pratima chanted under her breath.
“I may not be able to drive, but only a fool would not understand that you are going too fast,” Savita-di said. “And what is that you are saying? I cannot understand you!”
“I am not saying anything, Savita-di,” Pratima said cheerfully. “Perhaps you are imagining things.”
Savita-di was hunched on the passenger side of the truck, her little round body almost in a ball in the big seat. Her shiny hair was streaked with gray, and she’d had it cut in a bob within a week of their arriving in the USA. Pratima still wore her own long hair pinned up at the back of her head—the same style she had worn since the age of twelve. Savita-di had on a long, puffy, silver down coat, a twin of Pratima’s own coat. Although, of course, Pratima’s coat was several sizes larger, as she was nearly half a head taller than her sister-in-law. Underneath the coat, Savita-di wore a green and mustard-yellow sari, and on her feet were heavy black boots—Savita-di had a fear of slipping and falling on the icy Chicago sidewalks.
Pratima Gupta and Savita Gupta had known each other for all of their lives. Or at least all of Savita-di’s life, for she was the older of the two ladies by one year and nine months. They had grown up in the same middling-sized town in the Marwar region of India, their houses only a stone’s throw apart. Naturally they had played together as little children. As young girls they had shared a mutual interest in the English language, which they learned from a battered collection of Victorian romance novels. And eventually, when they had come of age, they had married the brothers Gupta. Savita-di had married the elder, more handsome brother, Pratima the younger but more business-wise brother.
Now, nearly fifty years later, their husbands were dead and their children grown, with families of their own. When Savita-di’s youngest daughter, Vinati, had implored her to come to America, naturally Savita-di had asked Pratima to come, as well. They might be only sisters-in-law, but by this time they might as well be sisters in truth.
And if they were sisters in truth, then that would make Savita-di the bossy older sister. “Do you wish us to be arrested by the police?”
Pratima lifted her foot from the gas pedal, because truth be told she did not want to be pulled over by the police. There were two reasons for this. One, that she and Savita-di had just stolen back their precious supply of Grade 1A Very, Very Fine Mongra Kesar. And two, because while Pratima was a very good driver indeed, she did not actually own a driver’s license.
“You must look into the box to see if our Grade 1A Very, Very Fine Mongra Kesar is intact,” Pratima said in order that her so-bossy sister-in-law would stop complaining about her driving.
They were on Skokie Boulevard now, traveling very fast, but of course
not
speeding. Pratima drove in the direction of their wonderful restaurant. For that was the dream that both women had held in their hearts for many years: a restaurant of their own where they could serve the secret recipes of their youth. Now that dream was so very close to being realized.
“Yes, yes, I am already doing so, Pratima,” Savita-di replied rather crossly. She reached to the box sitting on the floor between her feet.
Pratima did not reply, for the other woman’s hands were shaking as she pried open the lid of the box. It was a plain wooden box, a little smaller than a shoebox, and not marked at all. One would never know, looking at it, what treasure it hid inside.
“Ahhh,” Savita-di breathed as she lifted the lid. “Everything is most wonderful. Our Grade 1A Very, Very Fine Mongra Kesar is intact.”
She moved aside the bunched plastic tail of the bag inside the box. Revealed were the dark maroon threads that lay inside the plastic. It was a full kilo of the very finest kesar—
saffron
in English—from Kashmir, India. Mongra kesar was fantastically expensive, legendarily flavorsome, and very, very illegal indeed. It was also the essential ingredient to Mrs. Savita Gupta and Mrs. Pratima Gupta’s top-secret Very Special Kesar Kheer recipe. Their kesar kheer was going to be the crowning dish in the wonderful Indian restaurant the sisters-in-law would open in Albany Park. It would make them famous and ensure their restaurant’s success, thus making them very, very rich indeed. Pratima had seen grown men weep when the first spoonful of Very Special Kesar Kheer touched their tongues.
Unfortunately, India was quite stingy with its kesar. The Indian government had banned all export of the miniscule annual crop of Mongra kesar for years. This had made it somewhat difficult for Pratima and Savita-di to obtain the kesar, until they had enlisted the daughter of Pratima’s aunt’s son. This girl most fortuitously worked in the Indian consulate in Chicago and for a small fortune had smuggled the kesar out of India in a diplomatic pouch.
All had been delightful then, the kesar in their possession, the restaurant about to open, everything in readiness. Until That Terrible Man had walked into the kitchens last week, demanding protection money. Protection money! Here in the US of A? This was the Land of the Free! Most naturally, Pratima and Savita-di had refused That Terrible Man, waving their wooden cooking spoons indignantly. He had left, cursing them in foul language.
And then disaster had struck, for That Terrible Man had returned the next day—this last Tuesday—when Pratima and Savita-di had not been about to protect their investment with their wooden spoons. That Terrible Man had broken several dishes, frightened the elderly man hired to mop the floor, and, most criminal of all, stolen their kesar. He had then held their precious spice as ransom so that they would pay the protection money. What iniquity! Naturally they had not the funds to pay the protection money, and naturally they must steal back the kesar to open their restaurant.
“Do you think he will follow us?” Pratima asked now. She looked worriedly into the rearview mirror. She was not intimidated by That Terrible Man, but he was very large and she would not like to meet him whilst driving his stolen yellow Humvee.
“No, I do not,” Savita-di stated with certain authority. “How can he? We have taken his Humvee, thus ensuring that he is without a car. I do not believe that anyone will give such an ugly and disagreeable man a lift in their car, no I do not.”
“I think you are right, Savita-di.”
“Yes, of course I am right,” Savita-di said. “Was I not right in saying that That Terrible Man would still have our Grade 1A Very, Very Fine Mongra Kesar in his yellow Humvee truck?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And was I not right in thinking that we would find That Terrible Man by waiting near the BP petrol pump in a stealthy manner because it is where he daily buys an Illinois lottery ticket?”
“This is true,” Pratima admitted reluctantly, because Savita-di needed no further encouragement to her already monstrous ego. And besides, it had been Pratima’s idea to follow That Terrible Man about all week to find out what places he habituated.
Not that facts ever deterred Savita-di. “And was I not right that That Terrible Man would leave his keys in his vehicle because he is extremely lazy?”
“Ye-es.”
“And was I not right—”
At that moment they came to a red stoplight, and Pratima pressed both feet on the brake to stop the enormous yellow Humvee truck. Pratima turned to Savita-di, who looked rather out of sorts as she retrieved her purse, which had been flung against the dashboard by the force of their stop, and opened her mouth.
But the words that Pratima was about to speak were forever erased from her mind, for she heard a small, birdlike sound from the back seat. Pratima’s eyes widened as she looked at Savita-di, frozen in place, and then both ladies slowly turned their heads to stare into the back seat.
Where not one, but
two,
babies stared back.
Thursday, 5:07 p.m.
W
ho were they? Could you see?” Zoey demanded as Lips threw himself back in the Beemer.
“I don’t know,” he said tightly, gripping the steering wheel as if he wanted to crush it into powder between his fists.
“But what were they doing?” she nearly wailed. “They looked like little old ladies in saris—”
“They
were
little old ladies in saris.”
“So why’d they steal the Humvee? Why’d they take Pete?”
Zoey closed her eyes on the words
take Pete.
Oh, God. Her thirteen-month-old niece was out there somewhere, being driven who knew where by total strangers. She wanted to scream. Pete was like flesh and blood. She’d been there when Pete was born, had helped cut her cord, had held her and watched her tiny, tiny fingers open and close on the first day of her life. She loved the baby almost as much as if she’d given birth to Pete herself.
Zoey bit her lip. “Maybe the sari ladies made a mistake. Maybe they just wanted to try a Hummer out, y’know, drive it around the block. Maybe they’ll be back soon.”
Lips rolled his eyes at her.
“Okay, that’s lame,” she conceded. “But they left their little car and . . .”
Oh, shit, her Prius!
Zoey stopped talking, her mouth half open like a freshly pithed frog. “I left my Prius running in front of the apartment!”
He looked at her. “What?”
“My Prius! I saved for three years for that car. It’ll be paid off in nine months. I love my Prius!”
“Isn’t it a hybrid?” he said slowly and rather pedantically. “I thought hybrids have a radio key. If you took the key with you—”
“I didn’t take the key with me!” she yelled at him. She was clearly hysterical now, but dammit, she didn’t care anymore. Pete had been stolen by little old ladies in saris, her beautiful car was probably gone, and some human sympathy would be nice right about now.
Not that she was going to get it from the robot sitting next to her. He’d obviously gone into male logic mode. “That was stupid. You should never leave your keys in a parked car. Do you have any idea how many cars are stolen a year because the owner—”
“I know that!”
He looked at her, clearly confused. “Then why leave your keys in the car?”
“Because I was busy keeping you from stealing my parking place!”
The traffic was stopped again, and Baldy the kidnapper still hadn’t come out of the gas station. Lips was turned in his seat to face her, so she saw the exact moment when his mouth twitched.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You think this is funny.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Losing my Prius is
not
funny.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“But you’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not—”
“I saw you smile!”
“I don’t think you did.”
She folded her arms across her chest, perilously close to pouting. “I had to special order the color, too. The light blue is really popular.”
“I don’t think you have to worry,” he murmured softly in a deep voice that no doubt he used in the bedroom to great success. “The police have probably impounded your car by now.”
“Shit!”
“Unless it was stolen, of course,” he said helpfully. “It takes the Chicago police a while to respond, even to a shooting, and a newer car just sitting there, running in the middle of the street”—he shook his head—“you might as well have written
steal me
on the windshield.”