Nothing to Fear (19 page)

Chicago, Monday, August 2, 5:45 P.M.

Mom. Alec was home. His mom was stroking his hair and he was home. It had all been an awful, awful dream. He’d tell her about it, make it into a joke. But she’d stay with him anyway, stroking his hair until he went back to sleep. She always did.

He’d tell her all about it, when he opened his eyes. But it was hard to do. Hard to open his eyes. He fought, so hard. He wanted to see her, needed to see her. She was stroking his hair and nothing had ever felt so good.

He struggled with his eyelids, felt them flutter. Lifted them enough to see her face. Blurry pictures ran together, then apart, then slowly together again. Mom.

The scream caught in his throat. It wasn’t her. Wasn’t his mother. His mother’s face was smooth and beautiful. This face . . . A long red scar ran down this face. The mouth didn’t smile. He fought to breathe. Mom.

But the hand continued to stroke his hair and he drew a breath. Not his mom. Not a dream. Who was she? Her unsmiling mouth moved strangely and he knew she was talking to him. Still her hand soothed. His eyes fluttered back down. He fought hard, fought the current that pulled him under. It was black and dark. No. Not again. Mom.

Evie looked up when a shadow fell over the boy. “He’s asleep again,” she murmured.

Jane’s eyes narrowed, then she relaxed when she saw all was well with her son. “He woke up?” she whispered hopefully.

“No, not really. He was thrashing around in his sleep.” Evie had been sitting with Erik for a full hour, stroking his hair, hoping he’d give her some indication that he was all right. He’d opened his eyes at one point, and there’d almost been a spark of recognition, an indication that he knew where he was. She gave a final parting stroke to Erik’s hair and stood up. “I just wanted to be sure he was all right. So how was group?”

Jane shrugged tightly. “It was okay.”

Evie patted her arm. “Don’t worry, it’ll all come together for you and Erik.”

“That’s what Dana said in group, just now.” The woman braved a smile that tore at Evie’s heart. “It’s hard to believe people can be so nice, after . . .”

“I know. I remember when I first came here. You wonder when the other shoe’s going to fall. But here it doesn’t. There’s nothing to fear here. Look, if you want me to come sit with Erik, to give you a break, just let me know.”

“You’re very kind,” Jane murmured, dropping her eyes to the floor. “Thank you.”

Evie hesitated, then put her arm around Jane for a short, hard hug. “You’re welcome.”

From beneath her lashes, Sue watched the scarred woman’s bare feet pad out of the room. These women had better learn to leave well enough alone. Dupinsky with her constant talking, Caroline with her damn rules, and now Scarface who had way too much interest in the kid. Sue closed the door to her room, then took the two steps to the bed and grabbed the kid’s shoulders, lifting him off the bed. She shook him savagely, and for a moment his eyes opened. But there was no spark, no defiance. Just stupor. Which was exactly what she wanted him to have. She’d planted the seeds of the kid’s mental deficiency with Dupinsky several times now. Erik was epileptic and autistic. No one had seemed to doubt her and if they did, well, then, hell, she wasn’t a doctor, just a poor country woman running from her bastard husband. Here, the story rang true.

She dropped the kid back on the bed. Still no response. Good. For just a moment she stood and looked at him. Waited for a flicker of compassion for the boy she’d taken from his bed, drugged out of his mind for days.

Then gave a brisk nod when the flicker never materialized. She’d been a little worried that all this bleeding heart shit would rub off. She shouldn’t have been. Because retribution was within her grasp and the kid was the carrot. The lure. The prize.

The sound of voices down in the alley behind the shelter caught her ear. Caroline and Dana were getting into separate cars. Dana apparently was off to her date. Caroline was planning to make her fashion worthy. Then Dupinsky would go off to her date and Caroline would go off to meet Fred. But she wouldn’t know it. Not until it was too late.

Chapter Ten

Chicago, Monday, August 2, 6:15 P.M.

With a curse Ethan jumped out of the shower. The hotel phone was ringing. “Yeah.”

“I called your cell and you didn’t answer,” Clay complained.

“I was in the shower. What’s happened?” Ethan asked, toweling off.

“No new e-mails, but I have some info on Stan. I’ve been going through his books.”

“What books? Stan’s never kept the books. That was always Randi’s job at the store.”

“Not anymore. Stan hired an accountant . . . and started keeping his own books.”

“Hell.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s all on his laptop, which he initially wouldn’t let me see.”

Ethan pulled a pair of boxers from the dresser. “So what’s on his laptop?”

“Appears to be classic money-laundering. Looks like Stan is just a go-between. He makes a sale to one client, takes in a whole lot of cash, then turns around and buys from another. I need you to tap into the legit books on his company’s server to confirm.”

Ethan shrugged into a shirt. “Can’t Randi get you in?”

“I don’t want to ask her until I know for sure. Besides, she’s kind of . . . tranq’d.”

Ethan sighed. “Let me get dressed and change phones. Then I’ll tap in.”

Ten minutes later Ethan was in Stan’s company server courtesy of the file Clay had found on Stan’s laptop listing his account log-ons and passwords. Apparently Stan didn’t trust his memory. It was appalling, but all too common. Ethan saw CEOs of major corporations writing their passwords down so they wouldn’t forget them. When that happened, security was compromised. Like this moment as Ethan easily breached Stan’s company’s computer system. “I’m in. Give me transaction dates from Stan’s records.”

Clay did, but not one of Stan’s dealings matched the official company books. Ethan sighed. “How long has this been going on?”

“It started right about the time he opened the third store in Philly three years ago.”

“When Alec had his surgery. Dammit. Now we know where he got the money.”

“It doesn’t appear to have become a habit until he expanded into New York State.”

“Which is when he became so successful,” Ethan said grimly. “I guess he liked having the cash even after the surgery was paid for. This will kill Randi, with Alec missing, not knowing if Stan had a part in it. He’s going to jail.” Ethan pressed his knuckles into his eye sockets. “Is it possible Stan wanted out and this is a ploy to convince him otherwise?”

“If it is, he’s not saying. But I think it’s pretty obvious now why he didn’t want us going to the police. This all would have come out and he didn’t want that to happen.”

Ethan blew out a breath. “I’d still like to think that was secondary. That his primary intent was to keep Alec safe. I can’t believe he knows anything about Alec’s kidnapping.”

“I know, E, but we can’t afford to ignore this. All his transactions are with people in the New York/New Jersey area. He does have a few contacts in Chicago, but no money’s changed hands with them. I’ll keep looking. Any progress on the Hooter’s girl?”

“I got some good shots of her body, but not her face. I’ve printed that list of pharmacies we talked about. I’ll canvass them and the other businesses around the copy store in the morning, closer to the time she would have been there. Not many of the places would have been open then, so hopefully the ones that were saw something.”

“It would be a hell of a lot better if you could show them her face,” Clay said doubtfully.

“I’m planning on going back to the bus station tonight to look at more tapes. If I see her face I’ll have even more to show tomorrow. But first I’ll grab something to eat. I’m starving.”

Wight’s Landing, Monday, August 2, 7:50 P.M. Eastern (6:50 P.M. Central)

Lou sank into her chair, massaging her temples. Coroner John Kehoe gave her back a brusque pat.

“I always hated identifications,” he said. She supposed he’d done enough of them in his thirty-year career as a medical examiner. She’d done too many herself. One was too many.

“Me, too. John, why don’t you call it a day, go down to the pier?”

He stood, unsteadily. “I think I might. What about you?”

“I’ve got a little paperwork yet. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She’d put no more than a superficial dent in the stack when the phone rang. Dora appeared in the doorway. “Sheriff, Detective Janson from Morgantown is on line one.”

“Thanks.” Lou picked up the phone. “Janson, this is Moore. My body was officially ID’d as Paul McMillan by his parents.” Ironically, by a scar from the appendectomy that saved his life the year before. “The Vaughns don’t know what he was doing in their shed. They said they gave Rickman time off because their son went to Europe with his grandparents.”

“You believe them?”

“No. I know the grandparents are in Europe and I tried to contact them, but Vaughn claimed he didn’t know exactly where they were. I sent a request to the customs department to find out if the kid really did leave the country, but that’ll take a few days. Stan Vaughn and his wife know something, but their alibi is tight.”

Unfortunately, their alibi was so tight she’d been unable to convince the judge to give her a warrant. It still stuck in her craw. In Boston, the DA would have issued her a warrant in an hour. But this wasn’t Boston and apparently the judge had known Stan Vaughn’s father for years, and had as much trouble believing Stan was involved as John Kehoe had. One call from Stan had railroaded her attempt at a warrant before she’d even petitioned.

“They had room service delivered to their hotel the night McMillan was killed,” she told Janson. “They were both seen over the next two days by a number of the staff. It would have been hard for them to drive up to Morgantown and back. It’s twelve hours round-trip.”

“Well, that was my next question because I’ll be making the drive tomorrow morning.”

Lou straightened in her chair. “What do you have?”

“Rickman’s parents called. They got a call from the sheriff in Ocean City. My MapQuest tells me that’s about an hour from you. They have a seventeen-year-old punk in custody for armed robbery of a convenience store at about midnight on Wednesday.”

“Between our murders. He could have done McMillan, but not Rickman.”

“True, but it gets better. Punk has in his backpack a laptop power cord covered with Cheryl Rickman’s prints. The Ocean City sheriff called Rickman’s parents to ask about the power cord and the parents called me. I just got off the phone with the Ocean City sheriff. Punk’s clammed up tight. I’ll be down there by ten A.M. Want to meet me at the jail?”

Lou sat back, a satisfied smile curling her lips. “Thanks. I appreciate you including me.”

“We both want to catch whoever killed this young couple. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lou hung up. “Hey, Dora, has Huxley gone home yet?”

“No, he’s out on patrol and I already called him. He’s on his way in to talk to you.”

Lou would have Huxley set up a watch on the Vaughns’ beach house. And while she waited, she’d do some checking on the man visiting the Vaughns. Everything about the man had screamed cop. She typed his name into the search screen. Clay Maynard.

That Maynard was in Wight’s Landing on vacation was an outright lie and it was obvious that he didn’t like Stan Vaughn one little bit. Lou couldn’t blame Maynard for that. Slimy sonofabitch had an answer for everything. She lifted her brows as Maynard’s results came through. Thirty-eight years old, D.C. resident. Former cop. No surprise. DCPD, eight years, decorated. Former Marine. Made sense. Currently ran his own business with an Ethan Buchanan. Security consulting.

Now, why would the Vaughns need a security consultant? It was a good question. No doubt Stan Vaughn would have a damn good answer. Trouble was, she wanted the truth.

Chicago, Monday, August 2, 7:10 P.M.

Ethan’s nose located the hot dog stand before his eyes did. A line of about twenty people waited for the best dogs in town. He searched the clusters of people, looking for the one he prayed was still waiting for him. Expelled a huge sigh of relief when he saw that she was. And stood, stock still, just looking. Drinking in the sight of her.

She stood in the middle of the crowd, but apart from it somehow. Watching the way everyone else had fun. She’d dressed up for him and the knowledge made his heart knock hard in his chest even as he felt frustrated that the simple black dress and the killer high heels would be wasted. The dress hit her legs midthigh, making them look even longer. Hugged her body in all the right places, making his hands itch to run over every inch, every curve. From fifty feet away he could feel the way the very air crackled around her. She simply took his breath away.

He spied a group of teenagers on skateboards. “You guys want to make ten bucks?”

They eyed one another warily. “What do we have to do?”

“Stand in this line and get me some hot dogs and fries and Cokes.”

One of the kids gave him a suspicious look. “Why don’t you just stand in line yourself?”

Ethan pointed to Dana. “See that lady over there? I’ve got about twenty minutes to have dinner with her, and I don’t want to spend it standing in a damn line. You get it?”

The boys followed his pointing finger and slow grins took over their faces. “Guess so,” said the first kid. He stuck out his hand. “Gimme the money first.”

Ethan pulled a few bills out of his pocket. “This’ll cover the dogs. You get paid when I get my dinner. Now pull your tongues back in your mouths and go.”

Dana felt him coming before she saw him. She’d thought herself prepared this time, but the slam of awareness once again stole her breath as she watched him approach with single-minded determination. Head and shoulders over most men in the crowd, his hair glinted golden in the rays of the evening sun. Broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, he stood out from those he passed, his suit and tie to their shorts and T-shirts. It was a different suit from the one he’d worn that morning. He’d slept, she thought. His eyes no longer held the shadows of exhaustion. Instead they were bright and arresting. And focused on me.