Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [96]
“She knows.”
There were tears in his eyes. “I don’t want her to forget.” One tear dripped silently down his thin cheek.
“I won’t let her,” I said.
He nodded, then tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “What now?”
I sketched out the plan as he drove, then took a deep breath and dialed Rivera.
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
I glanced down. I had undressed in the car and now wore nothing but a robe and a wig, but I put those embarrassing truths out of my mind.
“I need your help,” I said.
“Should I rest up?”
I looked toward the front seat, hoping they couldn’t hear the conversation.
“Laney’s been kidnapped.”
There was a momentary pause filled with tension and angst, then, “Listen to me, McMullen. I want you to stop whatever you’re doing. I want you to go home and lock your doors.”
I nodded. “I’ll do that,” I said, “when she can go home with me.”
“McMullen, this is police business. If you interfere—”
“You’ll have to threaten me later. Right now I’m in a hurry. I think she’s been abducted by Jackson Andrews. She’s in an apartment building on Thirty-seventh and Marigold. If we’re not out of there in ten minutes we’re going to need an ambulance and backup.”
“Backup! Are you nuts?” His voice was rising with every word. “You’re not a cop, McMullen. Get your ass—”
“Rivera.”
There was a pause. The tension had amped up a thousand percent. “What?”
“I think I love you,” I said, and hung up just as we pulled over to the curb on Thirty-sixth Street.
I switched my phone to vibrate and dropped it into the pocket of my terry-cloth robe. It was almost dark. I glanced at my cohorts, feeling chilled to the bone and scared enough to pee in my pants. If I had any on. Which I didn’t.
“Are we ready?” My voice sounded funny—distant and vague.
My companions nodded in unison.
I took a deep breath. “Call me when you’re in position,” I said, and, reaching over the parking brake, pulled the keys from the ignition. I wrestled off my Mace and handed it to Aalia. “A brand-new can of protective spray,” I said. “Flip the red trigger, then point and spray.”
She stared at it. “What of you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be running like a raped ape,” I said. Secretariat wouldn’t be able to catch me.
Solberg tightened his grip on the bat and stepped from the car. They headed south on Thirty-sixth together, but would split up before they could be seen from the third floor of Terrace Garden Apartments. I held my keys in a death grip and headed north.
Half a block up, a multicolor cluster of boys whistled catcalls. But I was too occupied to either appreciate their sense of humor or be offended. Upon reaching Sandcrane Street, I turned left. My bellowing breath sounded like a freight train. By the time I reached the cross street I felt as if I was going to pass out. There was only one streetlamp working. But maybe that was just as well. Anyone who would mistake me for Laney would have to either be blind or high. I said a quick prayer that Jackson was both.
Staring at Terrace Garden Apartments, I hurried across the street and took a breather behind a battered jade plant. I counted three stories up and ran my gaze across the row of windows. All of them were dark. Several looked broken. But the second-most southerly one seemed darker than the others. As if a blanket had been strung across the opening.
My phone buzzed just as I slipped between two vehicles. The pickup truck was up on blocks, the little Geo seemed to be short an engine. They wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. Hunkering down between the two bumpers, I recognized Solberg’s number and flipped open my cell.
“Are you in?” My voice sounded hollow and empty.
Solberg’s was similar. “We found an open door.”
I closed my eyes and steeled my resolve. “You know what to do?”
“Yeah,” Solberg said. His voice had deepened some and sounded oddly like the Terminator’s. “Bring Laney home.”
“Be careful,” I said, but he had already hung up. I dropped the phone back into my pocket, kicked off my flip-flops, and played out the coming drama in my head: Aalia