Who was this guy? What did he want?
Jesus, help me,
Asa silently pleaded. He watched helplessly as first a six-inch piece of duct tape was sliced from a roll and slapped over his mouth, then his hands were jerked roughly behind him bound first by the same tape, and fortified with a plastic-coated steel fishing wire he recognized as the same type he used when he was trying to land a marlin. The tape would have been enough: the wire was some kind of statement.
All hope failed as his ankles were taped together, but no fishing wire used. Then a hood was forced over his head and tied at the neck. There were air holes so that he could breathe, but he was surrounded by darkness.
Just like in ’Nam.
He’d been captured by the Gooks. Held in a cage for nearly two weeks before he managed to escape. Well, he’d do it again, goddamn it. He’d fight back the terror, the bone-numbing fear, and beat this son of a bitch at his own damned game.
He was hauled to his feet by the collar of his jacket. He tried to fight, to spin away, but it was useless. He heard a car door open and his assailant pushed him inside, banging his forehead as he fell into what smelled and felt like the backseat of his Jag. His legs were pushed up so that they bent at the knees, then the door was slammed shut.
A few seconds later he heard the attacker climb behind the steering wheel, the car sinking slightly with the added weight, and then that door, too, shut. With a deafening click, all the doors were locked, the gearshift rammed into reverse, and then the perfectly tuned engine revved as they backed down the quarter mile to the main highway.
Asa’s only hope was that someone would recognize his car.
But it was late.
Few vehicles drove this stretch of isolated road.
For now, he had to do whatever this bastard had in mind. No doubt it was money. He’d be held for ransom. Well, that was fine; he had enough cash to pay whatever exorbitant figure the kidnappers came up with.
He might lose a finger in the process.
Or an ear.
He inwardly cringed, but reminded himself it was worth it, if he could just get out of this alive.
Vanessa would willingly pay the ransom, right?
The board of directors at Pomeroy Industries included his children. They would be eager to fork over the cash, wouldn’t they?
Hadn’t he helped his wives and children, even his grandkids, for Christ’s sake? He’d paid for braces, college, vacations, any damned thing his progeny needed, even the ones who disdained his wealth, claimed they needed only a “little something” to “get started” or to “find themselves.” He’d shelled out for face-lifts and boob jobs and trips to psychiatrists. Health spas, new cars, even a boat; he’d come up with it, so those who owed him not only their lives but their lifestyles had damned well better offer up the cash to bail him out of whatever the hell this was.
Don’t count on them, Pomeroy.
You’ve been in tough spots before and who was the only person who came to your rescue?
No one but your own damned self.
And the truth of the matter was, if he examined his life closely, he had a lot of enemies, and some of the worst were his own kin. Backstabbers, money-grubbers, liars, and cheats…all either having been married to him or with his blood running through their veins.
And then there were his series of partners, most of which he’d screwed over.
Was this his punishment?
Don’t think that way. This is just some greedy, sick opportunist. You’ve dealt with worse across a boardroom table.
As the car purred down the smooth, winding road, some of Asa’s disorientation cleared. He thought of his wife who didn’t love him. His kids who didn’t respect him. His two sons both of whom were missing a screw or two and his daughter, a gold digger like her mother. His grandchildren were just as bad and thought of him as their own personal ATM. His business partners who only pretended to like him because of his net worth.
Had one of those sons of bitches set him up?
Hot anger replaced his cold fear. He might be hog-tied now, defenseless. But that was only temporary.
Whoever the hell the bastard driving his Jag was, he would damned well get his. The idiot hadn’t even checked his pockets, didn’t know that Asa’s own knife was, even now, resting against his thigh, right next to his money clip. If he got half a chance, Asa planned to use the Pom 3.5F, a deadly folding knife that would slice right through muscle and hide. Asa hadn’t spent some of his army hitch with the special forces and not learned how to slip a blade between a man’s ribs and slice the heart. It was just a matter of getting the jump on his attacker.
It had been years since he’d practiced killing a man, of course, but he was certain he could take the guy out. This time, the kidnapper had picked the wrong goddamned mark.
“A
sa Pomeroy is missing,” Lynn Zaroster said as Montoya walked into the small kitchen at the station the next afternoon. He’d spent the day catching up on paperwork, going over autopsy reports, and interviewing witnesses all the while waiting for the pictures that he’d taken the night before to be blown up. The bodies of Luke Gierman and Courtney LaBelle were being released to their families, the DA wanted answers, and Montoya felt no closer to knowing who had committed the double homicide than the day he’d walked into that cabin by the river.
Zaroster was carefully dunking a tea bag into a steaming cup of water. Montoya headed straight for the coffeepot.
“The millionaire?”
“Multi-multimillionaire if
Industrialist
magazine can be believed.”
“You read that crap?” Montoya asked as he grabbed a paper cup and poured a thin stream of coffee into it.
“My boyfriend does,” she admitted.
“Wait a minute. Doesn’t Pomeroy live in Cambrai?”
“Outside of the little downtown area. Kind of out in the boonies, maybe even the swamp.”
He felt a tightening in his gut. He remembered driving past the elaborate iron gates securing the Pomeroy estate. “He lives close to Abby Chastain.”
“Really?” she asked, tossing the used, wet bag of English Breakfast tea into the garbage.
“Yep. They’re neighbors.”
“How weird is that?”
“Weird enough.” Montoya didn’t like the feeling that was creeping over him. Didn’t like it one bit. “What happened to him?”
“Don’t really know. I just ran into Vera from Missing Persons in the ladies’ room and she told me that the wife was out of town, came back this morning and he wasn’t there. The bed was still made and apparently he never even pulls the covers up. A real slob. Anyway, both the maid and the gardener hadn’t been able to get into the house, the automatic lock was jammed or something. It looks like maybe someone changed the electronic code according to the security guy who came out and checked. So the Mrs. calls Asa on his cell phone but he’s not answering. At this point she’s starting to get worried and then Asa’s secretary calls from his office: Asa’s late for a big meeting. After phone calls all around, including the cell again, his cronies, family members, and no one has any idea where he is, the wife called the station and is coming in to file a report…it hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, but it’s not looking good.”
“Where was he last seen?”
Zaroster, testing her tea, held up her free hand and shook her head. “I said I don’t know anything. It’s just gossip at this point. It’s not our case.”
Yet,
Montoya thought uneasily, remembering how close the Pomeroy estate was to Abby Chastain’s house. What were the odds that her ex-husband would end up murdered the same week her next-door neighbor turned up missing?
“Oh,” Zaroster said, sipping from her cup. “I called my uncle up at All Saints.”
“Yeah? And what did you find out?” Brinkman asked as he, hitching up his pants, strode into the kitchen and grabbed the pot of coffee, pouring himself the last of the dregs. “Don’t tell me, the coven meets at seven every Sunday night like my aunt’s bingo group.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“And so, instead of homemade cookies and punch, they all bring their vials of blood for a little drinkie-poo?”
“Was Courtney’s roommate
that
bad, or is he just being a prick?” Zaroster asked Montoya.
“You tell me.”
“All I know is that my uncle said there’s this big Goth movement up at All Saints. Nothing scary, just some kids into black hair, boots, lipstick, and white face makeup. It’s not that big of a deal.”
Brinkman snorted.
“But there are a few who take it a little more seriously.”
“Like little Miss O, I’m bettin’,” Brinkman said.
“Maybe. There’s always gossip, of course, and there is talk of some vampire worship and blood drinking, you know, the usual college stuff.”
Montoya laughed.
“What’d I tell ya?” Brinkman took a sip of his coffee and scowled. “Next thing ya know they’ll be sacrificing virgins, except now that Mary LaBelle is already dead, they won’t be able to find any. She had to be the last virgin in college.”
“You might be surprised,” Zaroster said, irritation showing.
“Yeah, right.” Brinkman took a swallow from his cup, and his face drew together as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. “This tastes like shit.”
“Then make a new pot,” Zaroster advised and, when he started to open his mouth, added, “And don’t give me any garbage about you not knowing how or it’s a job better suited for a woman, okay?”
“Well, it is.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
He lifted a shoulder.
“How much of a baby are you? Look, the packs are premeasured.” She pulled a sealed foil package of coffee from a basket filled with packages of tea, coffee, and smaller packets of sweetener. Then she held the foil envelope in front of Brinkman’s nose. “Pretty damned easy. You flip one of these into the basket of the coffeemaker, add water, and push a button.” She dropped the unopened package back into the basket. “And presto, in a few minutes, you’ve got fresh brewed.” She skewered him with a don’t-mess-with-me-anymore look. “Any Cretin can figure it out, so I’m assuming someone with a B.S. in Criminal Law should be able to whip up a pot without too many problems. Oh, don’t forget to open the pack first. You know, take the foil off.”
Her cell phone jangled and she picked it up, then, carrying her cup of tea in the other hand, stormed out of the room.
“Whew. She must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of the bed,” Brinkman grumbled, watching her backside as she disappeared around a corner. “Now that’s something I’d give a week’s pay to see, her gettin’ out of bed with her hair all mussed.” He took another sip and squinted at the thought. “Imagine her in heels and her shoulder holster. Nothing else.” He sucked his breath in through his teeth. “I bet she’s hot.”
“Tell her that and she’ll have you up on harassment charges so fast your head will spin. That is, after she’s busted your balls.”
Brinkman chuckled and Montoya walked back to his desk. He thought about Asa Pomeroy. What were the chances that the millionaire’s vanishing act was connected to the Gierman-LaBelle murders? That was a stretch really. Or was it? Just because some rich old coot didn’t show up for work, or hadn’t slept in his own bed, didn’t mean someone had killed him. And so what if his estate was close to Abby Chastain’s property; that was probably just circumstance. It was nothing. No link whatsoever.
Nonetheless, the uneasy feeling wouldn’t leave him as he checked his e-mail and waded through phone messages that had come in over the night and early morning. He picked up the phone and called Missing Persons. No harm in finding out all he could about Pomeroy.
Just in case.
“…the funeral will be at eleven,” Luke’s brother Lex was saying, “and I thought you might want to know. The service will be at St. Michael’s. No casket. He wanted to be cremated. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m talking about this. It just really hasn’t sunk in yet, I guess.”
“I know.”
“So…maybe we’ll see you there.”
“Yes,” Abby said, “thanks for calling.” She hung up her cell phone and sighed. The thought of the funeral was depressing. Not only would it be surreal to meet all the people who had known Luke in life and witness their grief, but it was just so hard to believe that he was actually gone, that he would be eulogized, that she would have to smile while everyone told all their “good ol’ Luke” stories. And then there was facing his mother and father. “Not fun,” she said to Hershey as she slid the phone into her pocket.
She’d been working in her studio all afternoon. Her digital camera was connected to her computer, which was set up on the desk. After digitally cropping the pictures, she printed those she needed, checked them again in case she wanted to change the parameters, then once she was satisfied with what would become the prints, she burned them onto CDs for her clients as well as kept copies on her hard drive and a separate CD for herself. She always printed out the final shots as well, then sorted and filed them.
She’d been at it for hours, barely taking off any time, except to get a cup of coffee or tea. Breakfast had been toast and peanut butter, then she’d spent a couple of hours packing and taking down some pictures from the walls, then removing the nails, using a hammer on the most stubborn ones. Afterward, around ten, she’d gone to work in the studio and she’d been too absorbed to break for lunch. The hours had flown by, and now, it was after eight. Her stomach growled, her back ached; she rubbed her shoulders and neck where a headache was starting. She only hoped she had a microwave meal in the freezer. She was stretching her back when Hershey, lying in the corner on her blanket, shot to her feet. Growling low, head down, she stalked to the door.
“Now what?” Abby muttered as all afternoon the dog had been nervous, wanting in, wanting out, barking at squirrels who scolded from the magnolia tree on the back patio.
The hackles on the back of Hershey’s neck rose and her head lowered. Unmoving, she stared at the studio door.
“Give it up, Hersh,” Abby said as she stared at her computer monitor and pictures of the Shippman wedding. She discarded the ones where the bride’s expression was dour or the groom’s cowlick showed prominently.
Hershey growled again.
“Stop!”
She studied the monitor again.
Every hackle on the dog’s neck was raised. This time the growl was almost inaudible, but it was enough to break Abby’s concentration. She finally gave in. “Okay,” she said, refusing to be infected by whatever it was that made the Lab nervous. “Show me.” She decided to call it a night and shut off the computer, then switched off the lights and opened the studio door.
The dog shot out like a rocket, barking and running back and forth along the back edge of the veranda, glaring into the dark trees beyond.
Abby felt a frisson of fear slide down her spine. Hershey was making her edgy, that was it, but she didn’t need any help in that department. Ever since finding out about Luke’s murder, she’d been nervous. And if she’d thought visiting Our Lady of Virtues would help her deal with the past, she’d been dead wrong. She hadn’t slept well since walking through those forgotten hallways. Three images had stayed with her from her visit—her mother’s locked door, the shutting of all the doors on the second floor, and the shadowy image of a man behind the third-floor window’s glass. Even now, just at the thought, her skin pimpled.
She dead-bolted the studio, followed the short walkway to the house, and unlocked the door. Hershey was still growling, hair ruffled, eyes trained on the woods, when Ansel suddenly streaked across the patio and shot straight into the house. The big Lab galloped after the tabby, tail wagging furiously.
“Great,” Abby muttered. She didn’t know which animal she should throttle first. “You scared me half to death, Hershey.” Angrily she turned the dead bolt. “You’re supposed to be a guard dog, but you do not, and I repeat,
not,
have to protect me from Ansel, okay? Sheesh!” She kicked off her shoes. “Ansel is not the enemy. Try and remember that!” The tabby had hopped onto the counter and was perched near the window, his tail flicking in agitation, his pupils still black and dilated. Bristled up to twice his size, he hissed at the dog. “You knock it off, too. Both of you…give me a break. I can scare myself. Got it? I don’t need any help from either of you!” Abby scooped the cat from the counter and set him onto the floor. She opened the freezer door and found only extra coffee and an ancient pizza.
“Bon appetit,”
she said as she pulled the pizza out and preheated the oven. The pepperoni looked as if it had been made in the sixth century, the cheese showing little crystals of ice, the crust possibly freezer burned. But it was all she had and she figured she could get creative, slice up a tomato and onions. When she rummaged in her pantry, she came up with a tiny can of black olives. “Gourmet,” she told the animals, then, as the oven warmed, dug in the cupboard and found a bottle of red table wine with no other information on it and a curled gold ribbon with a tiny card that said,
Thanks for the hospitality! Love, Alicia.
Abby smiled, remembering Alicia’s last visit. They’d discovered a little wine shop on Decatur, where they’d found the bottles of white and red table wine placed next to shelves of imports from Germany and France, and they’d loved the plain white labels with big black letters:
WHITE TABLE WINE
and
RED TABLE WINE
.
No color, no foil, no fancy script.
“Don’t you love this?” Alicia had said, holding a bottle by its neck, “It’s so
un
pretentious, so
un
cool. Not wine-fashionable at all!” She’d rotated the bottle under the dim lights of the tiny shop, ignored the owner’s pinched-mouth expression, and read, “‘Smith Winery, Napa, California.’ Smith Winery. Like, where’s that?” Her green eyes had twinkled. “Do you think there’s really a Smith Winery, or is it just an alias? You know, like when lovers supposedly sign into a no-tell-motel for a hot night of sex?” She’d lowered her voice. “Not that I have ever done that, mind you.” Then she’d tossed back her head and laughed in that naughty, fun Alicia way. “We have to have this…and the red, too!”
They’d uncorked the bottle of white, seated outside on the verandah, listening to the sounds of the evening, picking at barbecued fish. Luke had called and said he was going to spend the night in town. “Work” he’d mentioned, “getting ready for a new format. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love ya, babe.”
Yeah, right.
When Abby had hung up, Alicia had said, “He’s such a loser, Abs. Divorce his ass and be done with it.” She’d poured them each a second glass as the wind had sighed through the trees while a night bird had trilled. “But let’s not let
him
ruin our night. That son of a bitch is so not worth it.”
Oh, how right she’d been, Abby thought now. This bottle of red had been pushed into the cupboard, where it had collected dust for over two years. She’d made Alicia promise they would drink it the next time she visited, but that hadn’t happened and now she was selling the place.