“I don’t know yet. I’m someplace high up right now—I can see that tall tower thing from the window. But I’m going to get out of here. Hurry, Claudia, he’s coming.
Hurry.
I’ll call you later.”
“Annabelle—
Annabelle
? Hello?” She was speaking to dead air.
Chapter 25
On a foggy Tuesday morning the flight was half empty. Claudia threw her purse onto the seat next to her, grateful to have a row to herself, questioning the wisdom of giving in to Annabelle’s pleas and jetting off to Nevada. She didn’t even know where—or if—she would find the girl.
Maybe it was that unfulfilled-motherhood thing. She was a sucker for a kid with a sad story.
If I had any brains I’d have called Pike
.
Claudia leaned her forehead against the cold porthole glass and stared down at the blue lights flanking the tarmac as the engines thundered to life. The big wheels began to turn and the aircraft was pushed away from the gate and moved out to runway two-five right.
After the usual safety briefing, the flight attendants strapped themselves into their seats at the bulkhead, casually chatting with each other, unaware that the passenger in 7C was on a rescue mission.
The Boeing 737 rolled along the runway slowly, almost languidly at first, gathering momentum. Then the jets were screaming, the nose lifted, and the aircraft thrust upward like an enormous whale breeching.
Or a shark,
Claudia thought, remembering with a shudder the way the marine beast had clamped its teeth on that piece of flesh.
A few minutes later they were above the marine layer that hid the coastline. They flew toward the sun, throwing long shadows across the endless rows of houses and commercial properties spread out below. Los Angeles County—more than four thousand square miles, a mushrooming population in excess of ten million. A tangled web of freeways loaded with morning-drive commuters, still miniature from this faraway perspective.
Las Vegas. What the hell is she doing there?
When the flight attendants came around with the beverage cart Claudia refused the offer of coffee. She didn’t need caffeine jitters adding to the misgivings already playing ping-pong with her insides.
Her thoughts scudded to Paige, remembering Annabelle’s assertion that “It’s all my fault.” She had brought along the girl’s diary, hoping to find something significant that Giordano had missed in his reading of his daughter’s private thoughts. She turned to the final entry and reread the words that had returned to her again and again like a recurring nightmare.
Neil was mad about the belt, but too bad. He asked if it was for my father—as if! Then he guessed who it was for, but, too bad. I don’t care what he thinks. It’s my art project. When Cruz finds out I made it myself, he’ll like me even better.
She only had Cruz’ word for it that he and Paige never saw Annabelle that night. Now Paige was dead and somehow Annabelle had ended up in Las Vegas. Assuming she was telling the truth, she had been in a hospital under some kind of guard. The questions kept coming: What phone had she used to call Monica, and now her? Why had she waited so long to make contact? And the million-dollar question—how in God’s name was she going to escape and meet up with Claudia?
A sudden drop into an air pocket jerked her out of her musings and Annabelle’s diary slipped onto the floor. Claudia reached for it under the seat in front of her, chagrined to see that some of the pages at the back of the book had become folded over in the fall.
With the book open flat so she could smooth the pages, her eye was drawn to a slit along the edge of the binding. A hiding place. For what? Love notes from a secret boyfriend?
God help him if it’s Cruz.
With the edge of her fingernail Claudia felt paper. It slid it out easily, a sheet of notepaper folded into quarters, its creases so frayed they had almost separated. Annabelle must have read these words many times.
The first stanza of the poem for which Poe was so well known had been copied in violet-colored ink. Around the margins a skillful hand had drawn garlands of pink roses that looked so alive you could detect their perfume.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
Following the poem was a letter from a young mother to her child.
Dearest Beautiful Baby Girl,
This is my favorite poem. When I read it, I knew I was going to name you Annabelle Lee because I love you so much, the way the girl in the poem is loved. You are the only one in the world who loves me just because I’m me, not because I’m rich or pretty or
because I can help them get a part in a movie. Even when everything else is falling apart, my life is worth living because of you.
One day, when you’re grown up, I’m going to tell you all about how you got to be the little Giordano princess. You deserve to know the truth about your daddy. But before that happens, we’re going to have a whole lot of fun together. I love being your mama, and when
The letter ended abruptly midsentence. What else had Valerie Vale intended to say? And what had interrupted her?
The handwriting itself was large and round, the words spaced close together—a young woman with a profound need to love and be loved, and one who would habitually draw an abuser to her. The attention and approval of a man would be of primary importance in her life, yet she was ill equipped to choose a man who would be good for her.
She had a feeling that the approval of the Dominic Giordano she knew would last about as long as the attention his trophy wife brought him.
She reread the letter, curious about the reference to “the truth” about Annabelle’s daddy. Was Giordano correct in his belief that she was not his child? If that’s what Vale had intended to reveal to her daughter, her death had put an end to that. Claudia flashed on Annabelle’s drawing and found herself wondering how thoroughly Vale’s death had been investigated before it had been closed as an accident.
Feeling like a voyeur, Claudia carefully refolded the letter and replaced it in its hiding place. This tangible connection to her mother must mean a great deal to Annabelle, and Claudia was glad the girl had it.
The nose of the plane leveled out as it reached altitude, almost immediately making a subtle downward movement for the descent into Las Vegas. An hour after leaving L.A., Claudia was looking down at the crayon-colored turrets of Excalibur, the mini Eiffel Tower of Paris, Las Vegas, the massive black pyramid of Luxor. In the morning light it resembled a sprawling amusement park.
Yet the remarkable skyline failed to hold Claudia’s attention. Her thoughts were riveted on where in that neon jungle she might find Annabelle Giordano.
Chapter 26
Neon lights pulsing, slot machines endlessly pinging. Terminal C of McCarran Field at Las Vegas International was an extension of the casinos on the strip. Even first thing in the morning—or what was probably more accurate, the butt end of the evening for last-minute gamblers awaiting the call for flights out of town—they crammed dollar bills into insatiable electronic bandits.
Claudia powered on her cellular the instant the plane taxied up to the gate and checked her voice mail. She had two messages. The first was from Jovanic.
“Hey, babe, sorry I didn’t call last night. I fell asleep early. You’re not still pissed, are you? I’ll be unreachable for most of the day, so don’t call me back. I’ll catch you later when I can.” Just hearing his voice made her smile.
The second message was from Dominic Giordano, who sounded mad enough to spit glass.
“Where the fuck are you? That asshole Pike just called me. Did you talk to him? They’re talking about an arrest warrant for Annabelle. Goddamn it, Claudia, call me back. I’m with my lawyer. Tell Louise to interrupt.”
Claudia set the phone to vibrate so as not to miss Annabelle’s call and slipped it into her pocket. Giordano would have to wait until she had a handle on the situation here.
After stopping at an ATM machine to pick up some extra cash for a cab, Claudia strode along the concourse to the baggage claim area and through the exit doors. Outside the terminal the desert air was cool and crisp, unlike the relentless blistering heat that would turn the summer months into hell.
Her last trip here had been during Thanksgiving. For once, she had screwed up the courage to blow off the big family dinner, which invariably ended up in bitter recriminations from her mother anyway, and drove to Vegas with Jovanic. She smiled, remembering the long, uninterrupted nights of lovemaking, pagers and cell phones switched off for once.
Then her cellular rang and wiped away the smile. She answered quickly without checking the source.
“Annabelle?”
“Ms. Rose?” An unfamiliar male voice. “This is Detective Pike. I got your message. I’ve been trying to call you, but I’ve just been getting voice mail.”
Shit!
She’d forgotten about him.
“Oh, uh, yes, my phone was off for a while,” she said, trying to sound cool and knowing she had failed. She hadn’t told him about Annabelle in her message, just asked him to call her back. “Er, thanks for returning my call, but I, er, actually, I’m in the middle of something. I need to get back to you a little later.”
“Is everything all right, Ms. Rose? Sounds like you’ve been running.”
“Uh—yes, I’ve been running. Call you back.”
She clicked off before he could question her further, wishing she could enlist his help—at least Pike could have taken the burden.
Who was she kidding? Her voluntary participation in Annabelle’s current drama might well be viewed as obstruction of justice. Or even worse, accessory to murder if they actually charged the girl, as Giordano claimed.
One way or another she was going to be in deep shit, and she wasn’t at all sure that Jovanic would be able to help her out of it this time. Until she knew more about what had happened to Paige, sharing information with the police seemed like a very bad idea.
Not sure what to do next, she strolled in the direction of the taxi stand, where a crowd of French-speaking tourists milled around, waiting for a bus. A dispatcher with a clipboard and walkie-talkie started toward Claudia, but she waved him away. Where could she tell him she was going?
Call me, Annabelle. Dammit, call me!
She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. How long would she have to wait for the girl to call?
What if she doesn’t call at all?
The baggage claim doors slid open, disgorging another wave of travelers swarming to the parking garages and taxis. They hurried past her rolling suitcases, ready to jump-start vacations, hauling laptops to business meetings or conventions.
Claudia paced the pavement, checking the cellular in case she had missed a call, checking voice mail.
Nothing.
She looked at her watch for the ninetieth time: 9:10. Time seemed to be moving backward.
Going back into the terminal, she picked up a shot of caffeine and a cinnamon scone at a Starbucks, then claimed a table in the food court and watched the local news on TV while she ate. Same old crap she could view any day in L.A.:
Man’s death and woman’s disappearance link pair to slaying suspect; traffic deaths climbing; pilot error cited in crash.
In the ladies’ room, she tried out a series of arguments in her head as she washed her hands, searching for something that might convince Pike of Annabelle’s innocence. The girl
had
to be innocent. Despite any evidence to the contrary, Claudia couldn’t bear it any other way.
Yet, she hadn’t even been able to convince Jovanic, and he was supposed to be on her side—why would Pike listen to her?
When she activated the automatic faucet again and realized she had washed her hands twice, Claudia dropped the crumpled paper towel into the overflowing trash bin, took a last glance in the mirror, and returned to the concourse.
What next?
Window-shopping gave her something to do while she waited for Annabelle to call, but the concession stands hawked the same shot glasses and magnets as every other airport she had ever visited, just a different name on the same kitsch. She browsed magazines, ridiculously high-priced clothing, the duty-free shop. Killing time.
An hour later she couldn’t stand it anymore and left the terminal again to resume pacing near the taxi stand. The French group had given way to a busload of Japanese, and the sidewalk was alive with tourists. Two hours had passed since she’d landed.
Had Annabelle managed to escape? Or had her courageous getaway attempt been scotched? Fear for the girl’s safety fused with irritation at her own forced impotence. Decision time: If Annabelle didn’t phone within ten minutes she would call Pike and let him take over.
But what if she didn’t call at all? What then?
Thirty seconds later, her cell phone rang.
Chapter 27
“Annabelle, I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Where are you?” Every other word disappeared into some cellular black hole. The cellular strength icon on Claudia’s phone showed only two bars.
“. . . did it . . . needle . . . away . . .”
There couldn’t have been a worse time for a weak signal if a master planner had arranged it. Claudia strained to understand what she was saying.
“. . . don’t . . . the number . . . the phone.”
“Where are you?”
“. . . go . . . that pyramid . . . starving . . .”
“Did you say pyramid? The Luxor?”
Her voice sounded hyper. “Yeah, the Luxor. Can you meet me . . . I’m go . . .”
“I’ll meet you there. Ask for me at the front desk. I’ll get a room. Annabelle, can you hear me?” Claudia heard three electronic beeps and the call dropped.