“What am I gonna do with a kid?” Tony asked, and he sounded really interested, like he wanted to hear the answer.
Neil shrugged, even though he was alone in the SUV and there wasn’t nobody around to see. “It’s the asshole’s kid. I thought you could hold it hostage, like.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Neil,” Tony said gently. “If you still had the kid. But you don’t, do you?”
Sweat slid down Neil’s spine. How did Tony find these things out? It was fucking unnatural. Made working for him a real unsettling job, too. “I don’t got the kid, but—”
“Get the kid.”
The phone clicked, and then the dial tone buzzed in his ear.
Neil felt like throwing the fucking phone out the window, but the anger management classes called that “counterproductive.” Also, he had a call that he still had to make. One that he’d been putting off for the last couple of hours.
Sighing, he punched in the number and waited for Ash to pick up while he tried to think of what to say. ’Cause he was going to have to explain that not only had he lost the asshole’s kid and the Hummer, but he’d also lost the other thing in the Hummer.
Which happened to be Neil Junior.
Thursday, 7:25 p.m.
I
t took some doing to get the old guy to open the back-alley door to the Indian restaurant. First, because he must’ve been scared half to death by all the shooting and yelling, and second, because he didn’t seem to speak any English. But despite the language barrier, Dante kept at it, mostly using his kindest tone of voice, with now and then a shouted threat thrown in for variety. In the end, the old man probably let them in more out of exhaustion than fear of the law.
“Thought I’d freeze before he’d open up,” Zoey muttered as they tramped in. “How come the cops haven’t turned up?”
Dante shrugged, putting away the FBI badge he’d been waving in the old guy’s face. “No one called in the shots? Or maybe they’re just late.”
“Lucky for us. I’m getting tired of getting shot at.” Her tone was light, but she wasn’t fooling Dante. The woman was scared.
The battered metal door led into a huge kitchen with industrial metal counters and a bank of dented refrigerators and freezers. The old guy was cowering in a corner, holding up a mop, presumably in defense.
Dante sighed and raked a hand through his hair. Way to go. Now he was scaring the shit out of old men. “Uh . . . who owns this restaurant?”
The old man started at the sound of his voice and raised his mop. Not going well. The janitor or whoever he was couldn’t’ve been more than five foot five. He wore a faded blue coverall with a green cardigan over it, and running shoes on his feet. His hair was snow white, and there was white stubble on his jaw. He looked like he might be from the Middle East, but Dante hadn’t a clue where exactly.
“The restaurant?” Dante waved his arm but then dropped it when the old man shied. “Owners? Boss?”
Beside him Zoey cleared her throat. He glanced at her in time to see her roll her eyes.
Then she took her package of licorice out of her pocket. “Twizzler?”
Dante stared at her incredulously. Did she really think she could win over this old guy with rubbery red candy? Although, come to think of it, watching her eat Twizzlers had sure impressed him. She had a way of pursing her lips around the red candy stick before she bit into it that had him thinking all sorts of nasty thoughts. Thoughts that made sitting in a car for long periods really uncomfortable.
The old guy reached out a hand that looked more like a desiccated claw and took a stick of licorice. He opened a maw with a single prominent tooth in the front and maneuvered the Twizzler into the side of his mouth, where presumably he had enough teeth to bite into the stick. Then he chewed happily—and open-mouthed—as he grinned at Zoey, his newest bestest friend.
Thoroughly revolted, Dante looked around the kitchen. The place was obviously not in business—the first clue being that it was now past suppertime and the doors were still locked. But also there were no stacked boxes of supplies, no recipes and orders taped to the walls, no pans waiting to be used. In fact, the kitchen looked pretty pristine. A lone corded phone hung on the wall next to the front counter. Dante went over and picked it up. There was a dial tone but no number anywhere on the phone.
Farther down the painted cinderblock wall there was a single wooden door. Behind him, the old guy was chattering to Zoey in who knew what language. Dante glanced over. Zoey was nodding her head somberly as if she understood every word. Dante caught her eye and tilted his head in the direction of the door. She nodded and edged around a bit, the old guy following her as he chattered, until she’d maneuvered him so that he had his back to Dante.
Dante tried the handle of the wood door. Locked. But it was one of those cheap locks with a push-in button on the inside doorknob. Dante glanced at the old man, still talking away, and took out a ballpoint pen. He pressed the tip into the little hole on the outside doorknob and heard the button pop on the inside.
Opening the door, he ducked in. There was a basic office setup here: a battered wooden desk, a chair, and a gray metal filing cabinet, but no computer. Dante sat in the chair behind the desk and started pulling open drawers. On the third one he hit pay dirt. There was a folder with several bills inside, orders for various supplies for the restaurant. Across one was written the name Savita Gupta, with an address and phone number. Both the address and phone number were different than the ones Kevin had given him from the car license plate.
Dante smiled and reached into his inside suit jacket pocket, taking out the ballpoint pen and a small leather notebook he always carried. He copied the information from the bill before searching the rest of the office. There wasn’t much else to find—a few more bills, a newspaper clipping announcing the opening of an Indian market, and a few papers handwritten in a looping language. Dante pocketed these last.
Back in the kitchen, the old guy was still talking up a storm and Zoey’s packet of Twizzlers was almost empty, but she had her head cocked toward the man, nodding every once in a while, as if she found every word he said terribly important. Dante paused for a second in the doorway, just watching her. She’d been a pain in the ass earlier, jumping on his car like a lunatic and telling him how to do his job. Yet now she was taking the time to listen to a stranger babble at her in a language she probably didn’t even understand. Her head was tilted, a little line between her brows, the multicolored ties from her reindeer hat hanging down on either side of her face. Her full cheeks were flushed from the cold outside, and she looked kinda sexy.
She caught his eye and smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her lush mouth curving, a dimple appearing in one cheek. Dante found himself staring, remembering what that mouth had looked like sucking on candy. This was just bizarre. She was so totally
not
his type. The last few hours had been full of tension and adrenaline. That must be the reason for his fascination. Adrenaline. Everyone knew it was an aphrodisiac.
Dante mentally shook himself and crossed to where she stood with the old man. “Let’s go.”
She looked dubiously at the old guy, who was still talking. “Shouldn’t we offer him a ride home?”
Dante raised his eyebrows. “You’re kidding, right?”
She frowned at him. “No. It’s dark outside and the neighborhood isn’t safe. What if the kidnapper comes back? What if—”
“Okay, okay.” Dante held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll give him a lift if you can figure out how to tell him that.”
She shook her head like he was brain-dead, then turned to the old man. And somehow, without speaking the same language, she conveyed the offer of a lift to the guy. Either that or the man figured they were taking him out to dinner. In any case, he followed them outside the restaurant. He paused to lock the back door, and a few minutes later they were all piling into the BMW.
“Nice,” Dante said as he pulled his seat belt out. “That was very nice. But I don’t know how he’s going to tell us how to—”
From his position smack in the middle of the back seat, the guy pointed, straight-armed, dead ahead.
Dante twitched a smile at the old guy and turned the ignition key. “Right.”
“Did you find anything in the office?” Zoey asked.
“Yeah, I—” Flashing blue and red lights suddenly reflected in his rearview mirror, and Dante felt his pulse kick into heart-attack territory.
“Oh, my God!” Zoey was twisting in her seat to look behind them.
There was nowhere to go, nowhere to turn. The police car was coming up fast on his rear. Dante started to press down the accelerator.
And the flashing cop car sped by them on the left, drove another couple of blocks, and took a right farther down. The cops hadn’t been interested in them at all.
“Jesus.” He eased off the accelerator, wishing his heart rate could calm down as easily.
“Good thing I used that restroom,” Zoey muttered.
Dante shot her a look. Her words were cocky, but her cheeks were pale, and the sight bothered him. She shouldn’t be frightened. She was the type of girl who took the world head-on. Much as her sarcasm and orders irritated him, he preferred them to the white face. He needed to get her away from this craziness as soon as possible. Before she was hurt.
A squawk from the back seat interrupted his thoughts, and an arm appeared over Dante’s right shoulder, pointing left.
“All right, all right,” he muttered as he maneuvered around the truck in front of them. “Just give me a second so I don’t rear-end this guy.”
A digital song started playing in the car.
“Darn.” Zoey fumbled for her phone. Her frown smoothed to an expression of worry when she looked at the caller ID. “It’s Nikki.”
She flipped open the phone. “Hi, sweetie . . . no, I’m okay . . . yeah, I know.”
Dante stopped at a light. “Don’t tell her where we are.”
She glanced at him. “I’m with a friend. No, it’s . . . No, it’s okay. No, really . . .” She sighed as Nikki talked for a long bit, then said, “I’ll call you later . . . Promise . . . Yes . . . love you, too. Bye.”
Zoey shook her head as she hung up. “She’s almost insane with worry.”
Guilt tightened his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Her face was hidden as she put away the cell.
He accelerated as the light changed.
“Shouldn’t we switch cars or something?” Zoey asked. “Won’t the guys who’re chasing you know what car you drive?”
“One thing at a time.” He needed to get her to a safe place. The problem was that she was his only witness that he
hadn’t
kidnapped a baby and shot three of his colleagues. Sooner or later the fact that she was a witness to the truth was bound to occur to whoever had set him up. The case against him was a whole lot stronger if Zoey were missing. Or dead. Which left a question: Was Zoey safer with him, or by herself?
“Hey, maybe we can break into the city’s impounded-cars lot and liberate my Prius,” Zoey said.
He widened his eyes in mock admiration. “That
is
a good idea. A Prius is just what I’d like to be driving if we’re chased again.”
“No need for the macho sarcasm,” Zoey huffed. “Besides, who says
you’d
be driving the car?”
Dante didn’t bother answering. They were in a neighborhood composed of brownstone duplexes and more modern square apartment buildings. The old guy tapped Dante on the shoulder, and he took that as a signal to slow down.
“Or I know someone we could ask to borrow her car,” Zoey continued. “’Course she drives a Beetle. And it’s purple.”
The old guy gave a yell from the back, and Dante stomped on the brake in reflex. “Jesus! What?”
He turned to find the old guy scrambling out of the back seat.
“Bye!” Zoey called, and they both watched him skitter across the street and into one of the duplexes. She turned to him with a bright face. “Want to try for the Beetle? Or do you have a better idea?”
Dante put the BMW in gear. “I’ve got a better idea.”
Thursday, 8:05 p.m.
W
here are we going?” Zoey asked. It was dark now, the streetlights reflecting off the slush piled against the curbs.
“I need to drop you off,” Lips said. The car was shadowed, but she could make out the grim set of his jaw. “Do you have a friend or relative you can stay with?”
“No.” Her heart had sped up at his words. The last thing she wanted was to have him dump her somewhere. It was important that she stay with him. Important that she find Pete.
“No one at all? What about the friend who owns the Beetle?”
“She just had a baby. My mother lives in Indiana. I’ve got one friend who’s just left for two weeks in Cancún, and another who lives in a dorm at the University of Chicago.”
“A dorm?”
Zoey shrugged, glad that he couldn’t see her face. She was skating the truth on all of this, and she wasn’t the best liar in the world. “She’s getting a law degree.”
“You don’t have any brothers or sisters?”
“Not besides Nikki.” She swallowed. “Well, I’ve got some foster brothers and sisters from way back, but we’re not in touch. I don’t even have current phone numbers.”
Lips sighed. “Okay. Give me your cell phone.”
She dug in her coat pocket and handed it over, mute.
He tapped in a number one-handed and held it to his ear. “Kevin? Yeah, it’s me. What’s happening?”
He drove silently as Kevin must’ve said something at length.
“Christ, Kev.”
His tone was sharp, and Zoey watched him curiously.
“Look, I need you to trace the money for me. . . . Yeah, I know it won’t be easy, but . . . Just do your best . . . Yeah . . . The usual place . . . What about Headington? Christ. . . . Okay.”
Lips flipped the phone shut. He had a thoughtful expression on his face.
Zoey couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. “What? What’d he say?”
Lips glanced at her as if surprised by her outburst, then looked ahead again. “My boss is unavailable. And, apparently I’ve got a bank account in the Cayman Islands. Three million dollars was deposited into it an hour ago.”