Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [92]
It was in that moment, that tiny flicker of time, that a number of thoughts collided in my mind: The disarray of my house after the break-in juxtaposed against Nadine’s perfectly formed letters. The memory of Laney’s stolen jacket … so like mine. The jacket I hadn’t worn since pulling it over my pj’s and careening to Glendale following Micky’s call for help. Lavonn’s dilated eyes. Jackson’s dreamy, drawled warning. Blood dripping on rosewood. Missing recipes. Clean toxicology reports. Intensity!
I was scrambling for my phone in a matter of seconds, but Solberg’s cell rang before I ever touched mine. It jangled out the wedding march as I straightened, breath held, premonition skittering along the arches of my feet.
“Probably someone regarding the new venue,” he said, grinning as he answered. “’Ello.”
“Hello…. Solberg?” I could only hear a few of the caller’s words.
Solberg was still grinning at me. “That’s right. The future Mr. Butterfield.”
There was a pause from the caller. I was holding my breath.
“I hate to … but I’m afraid your fiancée has fallen … bad luck.”
Watching Solberg’s face, it was as if the world had suddenly ended. His expression went from unfettered glee to blank nothingness in a shattered heartbeat of time. His lips parted, but for a moment no sound came out.
“Who is it?” My own voice sounded raspy over the harsh beat of my heart.
Solberg shook his head, trembling and pale.
“Who is it?” I asked again, but he didn’t respond. I snatched the phone from him.
“What have you done to her?” My tone sounded abrasive now, high-pitched with terror and dread.
“Ms. McMullen, I presume?” The man on the other end of the line sounded amused.
My stomach twisted into a hard knot of dread. “What do you want?”
“Me?” He laughed. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. “I simply wanted what was mine, Ms. McMullen. But now I’m thinking I might want what was Mr. Solberg’s, too.”
There was something in his tone that made me want to curl into a fetal ball, but I kept myself upright, barely breathing. “If you hurt her you won’t get anything.”
“Hurt her? Why would I do something so vile?”
“I’ll give him whatever he wants.” Solberg’s voice was little more than a croak. Two patches of red flamed in his cheeks, and his eyes looked manic.
“How much do you want?” I asked and the kidnapper chuckled.
“That’s the spirit.”
“How much?” I asked, again.
“Twenty million.”
I felt the air rush from my lungs. Felt the floor give way beneath me. “Are you out—”
“I can do that.” Solberg’s voice was clear now. He straightened slightly. “I’ll just need a little time.”
I turned my attention back to the phone, repeated his words.
The line went quiet for a moment, then, “If you go to the cops there will be retribution.”
Retribution! The word rang like a death knell.
“No cops,” I said. “But I want to talk to Elaine.”
“Perhaps you’re not aware, Ms. McMullen, but we don’t always get what we want.”
I felt calmer now, almost numb. “So I’ve heard,” I said. “But you’ll get twenty million. Guaranteed. If she’s safe.”
“You’re so distrustful.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I have no desire to allow you to speak—”
“There’ll be an extra million if you put her on the phone,” I said.
There was a moment of breathless anticipation, then a huffed laugh. “Ahh, capitalism at it’s finest,” he said, then paused for a moment. “You get one second for every million I’m to receive,” he said, then aside, “I must warn you, Ms. Butterfield, people have been underestimating me since my conception. I hope you will not be so foolish.”
In a moment she was on the phone.
“Mac?” Her voice was soft but steady.
“Laney!” Relief sluiced through me, but I funneled it away, focusing on her words, her inflections. We had twenty-one seconds. I concentrated on using every one of them, on keeping my voice low. “Where are you?”
“I’m worried about my cat.” Her voice sounded strange. Dreamy. Shocky.