Remember Me (16 page)

He'd been out of the hospital a little over a week. According to the doctors, his recovery was going well, even beyond expectations. But it was not going fast enough for him. In his business, it was dangerous to be weak.

He shifted his mind onto a different plane, refusing to focus on the shaking muscles and stabbing pains. Learning of Francesca's fate was all the incentive he needed to get well.

It was ironic that the L.A. cops he had on his payroll could not help him in a matter like this. Initiating a search, or acknowledging they knew anything about the woman's presence in Pharaoh's life, would directly involve them in her abduction. In normal circumstances, there would have been one or two who could have done some checking without raising any notice. But these weren't normal times. The earth had rocked and cracked, destroyed—and killed. And Pharaoh could hardly put out a missing-person report on a woman he had literally stolen.

He gritted his teeth and lengthened his stride as he thought back over the past two years. He'd envisioned their reunion as something out of a movie—that she would see him and fall into his arms, swearing her undying devotion. Instead, she had screamed with fright and tried to run. He'd grabbed her then, reminding her of his vow to take care of her, reminding her that she belonged to him. But she had argued, saying she didn't belong to anyone but Clay.

That was when he'd made his mistake. He'd slapped her. It didn't matter how many times he had tried to apologize later, she still flinched when he came close and fought his every touch. And while her sorrow was almost his undoing, it became a matter of pride not to weaken. The fact that she didn't want him was almost secondary to the fact that he couldn't let her go. Everything good had returned after she'd come back into his life. Francesca had gone from being not only his heart's desire but his luck, as well. And like the bird in the proverbial gilded cage, she had everything power and money could buy, except the thing she wanted most—her freedom.

“Son of a bitch,” Pharaoh muttered as his legs suddenly gave way.

He grabbed at the treadmill, but missed. The floor was coming up to meet him when his momentum stopped abruptly. Dazed and disoriented, he reached toward a wall as Duke lifted him to his feet.

“Get me to a chair,” he muttered.

“Yes, sir,” Duke said, and slid an arm around Pharaoh's waist, then all but carried him to the leather sofa nearby.

“Should I call the nurse?” he asked.

“Not unless you're tired of breathing,” Pharaoh snapped.

Duke paled. As weak as Pharaoh was, he still feared the man.

“I'll get you some water.”

Pharaoh sighed as Duke headed for the bar. He leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the clink of ice cubes, then the sound of water being poured in a glass.

“Here you go, boss,” Duke said.

Pharaoh took the water while coldly eyeing the bland expression on Duke Needham's face. If he'd seen pity…He grunted his thanks and lifted the glass to his lips.

Duke was waiting to deliver his news.

It occurred to Pharaoh, as he drained the glass, that Duke's arrival must have been more than fortuitous. His men knew better than to disturb him when he was on private time. He set the glass aside and looked up at Duke.

“What brings you down here?”

“Good news, boss. We've found her.”

Pharaoh's expression stilled. “Where?”

Duke hesitated momentarily, but there was no getting around the truth.

“Where you suspected she might be…in Denver.”

Pharaoh said nothing, but inside, he was screaming. She was alive…and she'd gone back to
him.

And then it hit him. She'd gone back, but she hadn't told. If she had, the cops would have been all over him by now.

“What else?” Pharaoh asked.

“Details are sketchy, but word is she has some sort of amnesia.”

Pharaoh leaned back on the sofa. That explained why he was still here and not battling a court proceeding.

“You want we should pick her up again, boss?”

“No,” Pharaoh snapped. He didn't want her to see him like this—weak and helpless. “Not yet.”

Duke shrugged. For a man who'd been out of his mind wondering what had happened to her, or if she was even still alive, Pharaoh showed little concern. But it wasn't for him to judge. As far as he was concerned, they were better off without her.

“Yes, sir,” Duke said, and started to leave, when Pharaoh called him back. “Sir?”

“I want Law to stay on that house 24-7, do you get me?”

“Yes, sir. Round-the-clock surveillance.”

Pharaoh waited until Duke was gone before he dragged himself off the sofa and headed for his living quarters in the west wing. By the time he reached his bedroom, he was perspiring profusely, mostly from pain. With a silent curse, he stripped off his clothes and headed to the shower.

The bathroom itself was a masterpiece of architectural design. Bottle-glass bricks in lieu of windows and floor-to-ceiling tiles of mirrored glass. Green plants hung from the ceiling; others grew in pots upon the floor. The towels were white, offset by the antique-gold fixtures and yellow-gold soaps in the shapes of pyramids.

As he walked inside, the reflection of his nudity was thrown back at him from every angle. Although his six-foot frame was slim and firm, healing scars still showed a dark, angry red, and there was a faint purpling on his ribs. In spite of the obvious trauma he had endured, it was the small tattoo in the center of his chest he saw first. He walked closer to the mirrors, and then closer still, until he could see the throb of his pulse at the base of his throat.

The tattoo was a mockery.

Eternity.

Francesca did not know the meaning of the word. He splayed his fingers across the center of his chest, while his heart beat a tattoo of its own against his palm.

He wanted her to love him as he loved her. He wanted her undying devotion. But he wasn't going to get it. What he would get, though, was his way. He would have her back, even if he had to kill her husband to do it. But first, he had to get well.

 

“What do you mean, you don't know where he is?” Clay asked.

Detective Dawson shrugged. “Just what I said. You have to understand, there's a lot more going on out in L.A. besides running down a man for questioning. Everything is in turmoil. Emergency services are still not up and running full blast. There are areas of the city that people still can't go into. They're still uncovering the occasional victim. That earthquake was the worst in years. What did they say…7.6 on the Richter scale?”

“Something like that,” Clay muttered, and then gave Frankie a worried look. Oddly enough, she seemed calmer than he felt.

“So what
do
you know?” Clay asked.

Dawson flipped open the file on his desk and leaned forward, making a mental note to get his eyes checked. For the past few months, words had begun to blur.

“Okay…Pharaoh Carn, of the Allejandro cartel, was raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico, at Gladys Kitteridge House. He was working as a groundskeeper on the premises when he was arrested for armed robbery. He did five years.”

“After that…where did he go after that?” Frankie asked.

Dawson shuffled a couple of papers.

“Hmm, looks like the next thing we have on him, he was arrested for assault in Orange County.” Dawson looked up. “That's in California.” Then he returned to the file. “However, the charge didn't stick. After that, he began working his way into the cartel, doing a little muscle work here, a little legwork there. Within a few years, he was one of the men giving orders rather than taking him.”

Frankie shivered. “It's weird to think I once knew someone like that.”

Dawson nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. One day, about ten years ago, me and my partner were working narcotics when this bust went down. When we got inside the house, damned if I didn't wind up arresting a man who'd been one of my college professors.”

Clay wasn't interested in Dawson's past. It was Frankie's that was making them all lose sleep.

“So the young man who was obsessed with Frankie is the man who's part of a crime syndicate now.”

Dawson nodded, then gave Frankie a considering glance. “You haven't remembered anything else that could be pertinent to the case?”

Her shoulders slumped. “No.”

Clay slipped his arm around her and gave her a hug. “It's okay, baby. You will.” Then he looked back at Dawson. “Isn't there any way we can check out Carn's whereabouts during the time Frankie was missing?”

Dawson grimaced. “Mr. LeGrand, if it was that easy to keep up with scum like Carn, he'd probably be behind bars as we speak. Until and unless your wife remembers something specific that can tie him to the crime, we're stuck.”

“But what about the earthquake…and the tattoo?” Frankie asked.

Dawson looked apologetic. “Look, Mrs. LeGrand. You just
think
you were in an earthquake. You can't remember. And you just
think
that the man who kidnapped you had a tattoo that matches the one on your neck. Maybe you're just remembering the man you knew as a child. Maybe he's all mixed up with the real man who snatched you. Do you see what I mean?”

Frankie wanted to scream. “It's not fair,” she muttered.

“No, it's not,” Dawson said. “But you give me something solid to go on and I'll be all over the bastard like flies on honey.”

Frankie stood abruptly. “Clay, don't you think it's time we got out of Detective Dawson's way so he can do his job?”

Clay sighed. Frankie was mad, and he couldn't really blame her. Before he could say anything, Dawson stood, also.

“Mrs. LeGrand, I realize what I told you wasn't what you wanted to hear. Honestly, I think you may be on to something, but until Carn is located and questioned…” He shrugged.

Disgust colored her voice. “I know. All I have to do is wait around for the other shoe to drop.”

“If you were my wife, I might be inclined to suggest that you and Clay take a trip—a long, long trip.”

A dark flush spread across Frankie's cheeks. “I'm not running,” she said slowly. “I will be damned if I'll let some maniac dictate my way of life. When he comes back—and I believe that he will—I'll be waiting.”

“It's your call,” Dawson said.

“And she's my wife,” Clay said, then looked at Frankie, his fear for her overriding his better judgment. “Maybe we should—”

“No. I'm not budging. If he wants me that bad, I want to be sure he can find me.”

Clay went pale. “Goddammit, Francesca. You are not using yourself as bait.”

“It's my life,” she muttered. “And I want it back.”

Clay's belly was in a knot, but he knew better than to argue with her when she got like this.

“We'll talk more later,” he promised.

She gave him a look that pretty much said he could talk all he wanted, but she wasn't changing her mind.

“I'll order a patrol car to check your house off and on during the day,” Dawson said.

The look she gave Dawson in response wasn't much better. “Thank you for your patience,” she said. “I doubt we'll be bothering you again.”

Even after they were gone, Francesca LeGrand's words still rang in Dawson's ears. He tried to get back to his paperwork, but he kept thinking of the handgun she'd bought, instead.

He shook his head in frustration. Sometimes this job just plain sucked.

A
n entire week had come and gone since Frankie and Clay's return from Albuquerque, and every day that passed felt like the lull before the storm. No matter how ordinary their days or how quiet their nights, the stress of not knowing was wearing them down.

Clay was short-tempered at work, and Frankie fought a constant urge to dissolve into tears. Even though they had yet to locate him, the Denver police were still trying to pinpoint where Pharaoh Carn had been during the time Francesca had been kidnapped. And, unknown to Frankie, Harold Borden, the P.I. Clay had hired, was now monitoring everyone who she came in contact with. Everyone kept moving, but in place.

And then, a couple of days after Thanksgiving, it started to snow.

“Look, Clay, someone is moving into Mrs. Rafferty's garage apartment across the street.”

Clay glanced up from his desk to the window, where Frankie was watching it snow. Glad to have an excuse to abandon his paperwork, he got up.

“Hell of a day to move,” he said as he came up behind her and peered over her shoulder into the storm.

Frankie nodded, then wrapped herself in his arms. “Selfishly, I'm glad it's snowing.”

“I never thought I'd hear you say that,” Clay said. “You hate the cold.”

She frowned. “I still don't like it, but I like having you home.”

Dependency wasn't part of Frankie's personality. Clay hated the stress she was under and worried constantly about how long she would be able to withstand it.

“Sweetheart, all you have to do is say the word and I'll hire a bodyguard to stay with you when I'm at work.”

“Don't be silly,” she muttered. “You installed a security system already. Besides, we can't afford bodyguards and—”

“No, baby. What I can't afford is to be without you.”

Her chin suddenly quivered. “Sorry,” she said, blinking back tears. “It seems that all I want to do these days is cry.”

“If it makes you feel better, have at it. I know this isn't easy for you.” Then he glanced back out the window and frowned. “Looks like Mrs. Rafferty's new renter is traveling light. A couple of suitcases and a box of books isn't much in the way of worldly goods.”

Frankie squinted as she peered through the cloudy white swirls eddying off the edge of the roof. “I remember a time when I didn't own much more than that.”

Clay tilted her chin. “How about some hot chocolate?”

She sighed, then forced a smile. “With lots of little colored marshmallows?”

He rolled his eyes in pretend dismay. “I don't know. I'm a marshmallow purist, myself. But I suppose if you have to have colors, then—”

She punched his arm with her fist. “Just stop it, mister. At least I don't put mustard on my scrambled eggs.”

He grinned. “Hey, that's good stuff!”

“I try not to gag.”

“Just for that, the little green marshmallows are mine.”

“No way,” Frankie said. “You know those are my favorites.”

Clay's eyes twinkled as he lowered his voice in mock warning. “Okay, colored marshmallows it is, but you know it's going to cost you big time.”

She grinned. “Exactly how much?”

He scooped her off her feet and into his arms.

“It's not
how much,
it's
what.
”

Frankie tunneled her fingers through his hair, loving the spiky feel of the short dark strands against her palms.

“Exactly
what
are we talking about here?”

His answer was a grin as he started out of the room with her still in his arms.

“Hey, the kitchen is that way,” she said, pointing over his shoulder.

“Sorry, lady, but you know the old saying. ‘You get what you pay for.' You can't have the hot chocolate until you pay up.”

She started to laugh. “Exactly what is this cup of hot chocolate going to cost me, anyway?”

He dumped her in the middle of the bed and started peeling off his shirt. “Kisses galore.” Then he reached for her shoes.

She laughed. “And if I want those green marshmallows, too?”

He never cracked a smile. “That's going to up the ante.”

“To what?”

He undid her slacks, then started to pull. “You'll see,” he said softly. “I'll let you know when I've had enough.”

 

Simon Law tossed the last suitcase on the bed and then pocketed the door key as he surveyed the two-room apartment. As far as apartments went, he'd had better. But it was clean, and it was warm, and considering the damned blizzard outside, it was better than the Ritz. He brushed at the snow still clinging to his hair and coat, reminding himself what he'd been sent here to do.

“What the hell did I do with my phone?” he muttered, digging through his pockets. They were empty.

He looked back out the window and groaned. The last time he'd used it was when he'd checked in with the boss this morning from the van, then he'd tossed it on the seat.

He eyed the deepening snow with disdain. Waiting wouldn't make this trip better. With a muffled curse, he pulled the collar of his coat back up around his neck and made a run to the van.

The phone was on the seat, right where he'd left it. Within seconds, he was making his way back up the apartment steps and cursing the snow. An Illinois farm boy, Law had left the family home years ago for the California sunshine. But now, here he was, back in the miserable cold and wishing someone else had answered Pharaoh Carn's call.

Within the time it took him to lock the door and shrug out of his coat, he'd already punched in the number to Pharaoh's private phone and dug a pair of binoculars from one of his bags.

“Hey, boss, it's me, Law. Yeah, I'm in.” He stepped to the window, adjusting the binoculars to his vision. “Yeah, they're there. I saw them yesterday when I was looking at the place, then I saw them again this morning. Naw, they ain't goin' nowhere. Sure, I know what you said. Just watch 'em.”

Pharaoh Carn rolled the rabbit's foot back and forth between his fingers as he listened to Law's report.

“I want to know where they go, what they do—everything! Get me?”

“Yeah, boss, sure thing. I'll be in touch.”

Pharaoh hung up the phone. A thoughtful smile shifted the position of his lips—not much, but enough to register complete satisfaction. He hesitated briefly, then dropped the rabbit's foot in his pocket and reached for the intercom.

“Duke. Get the car. We're going to the Luxor. I'm feeling lucky.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Carn. I'll be right there.”

Pharaoh's smile widened. This would be his first venture out since being released from the hospital, and of all the casinos on the strip, the Luxor, with its ancient-Egyptian theme, was his favorite. He was in the mood to throw a little money around on the tables, maybe drop in at the Isis for a late lunch. The fine gourmet dining in the Luxor's elegant restaurant was never a disappointment.

He rubbed his hands together as he strolled to a mirror. Maybe while he was out he would get a haircut, eat a good steak. He'd heard Jimmy the Shoe was in town. He hadn't seen Jimmy in a couple of years. It would be good to reconnect with some of the guys.

He thought of Francesca again, but this time there was no sense of urgency. He knew where she was. When he was ready, he would go get her. He'd made a mistake the first time by leaving her husband alive. It wouldn't happen again. This time, when he went after her, she would have no one left to run home to.

A few minutes later, he was on his way. The day was cold, but a long, cashmere coat over a three-piece Armani suit was more than sufficient protection against any chill. The men riding in the front seat with the limo driver were all the protection he needed today against other, less obvious, dangers.

The Franco brothers were out of Philadelphia and had been with him for a little over two years. Both men were long on brawn and short on brains, but that was the way he liked them. Second-guessing Pharaoh Carn could get a man killed. The Francos were in no danger.

“Mr. Carn.”

Pharaoh looked up at Duke, who was sitting in the seat across from him. “What?”

“It's real good to see you getting out, sir.”

Pharaoh gave his right-hand man a rare smile. “Thanks, Duke. It feels real good to me, too.”

Duke nodded, then refocused his attention on the streets they passed. Part of his job was to make sure that Pharaoh Carn got no surprises. Duke was good at his job.

When they started south down Las Vegas Boulevard, Pharaoh's heart skipped a beat. Even from here, he could see the top of the thirty-story pyramid that was the Luxor. A few minutes later, the driver pulled up in front of the casino and stopped long enough for Pharaoh and his entourage to get out.

Duke exited first, along with the Franco brothers. The trio stood for a moment, surveying the crowd. Then Duke leaned in and nodded at Pharaoh.

Pharaoh winced slightly as he got out of the car, but he refused to let pain deter him. Not today. Today he felt vindicated in a way he couldn't explain. He took it as a sign that Francesca did not remember enough to have him arrested. He was untouchable, and he knew it.

He lifted his chin as the limo sped away, refusing to make eye contact with the Luxor's clients. It was something he'd learned on his first trip to prison. Staying aloof gave you a look of importance, and it often meant the difference between trouble and staying alive.

He took a deep breath, his pulse quickening as he moved toward the entrance. Immediately, his men surrounded him. One Franco brother led the way, Duke walked beside him, and the other brother brought up the rear. The swath they cut through the crowd was noticeable. A few feet inside the casino, a short, swarthy man in a tux stepped into their path.

“Mr. Carn! It's a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

Pharaoh smiled. Jahar was the floor manager and capable of granting unusual requests at any hour of the day or night.

“Jahar, it's good to be here.”

“How may we serve you, sir? Just ask. It will be my pleasure.”

“I came to play,” Pharaoh said, watching the intense smile break out on the little man's face. “But,” he added, “I don't intend to lose.”

Jahar almost giggled in response. “Well, sir, who knows? Lady Luck is a fickle bitch.”

Pharaoh glanced at his watch. “I assume my regular table will be available in the Isis around three?”

Jahar nodded vehemently. “Yes, sir. I will see to it immediately.”

Jahar disappeared into the crowd, leaving Pharaoh to amble about the floor at will. A few minutes later, he was at the baccarat tables, immersed in the game.

 

At a quarter past five, Pharaoh looked up from his dessert and coffee to see Jimmy the Shoe coming toward him from across the dining room. Duke saw him, too, and glanced at Pharaoh.

Pharaoh nodded. “Let him come.”

Duke stood, moving aside as Jimmy the Shoe gave Pharaoh a hearty smile and slid into the chair Duke had vacated.

“I heard you was in town,” Jimmy said. “Good to see you out and about. For a while there we didn't think you was gonna make it.”

Pharaoh's smile froze, never reaching his eyes. “That's the trouble with gossip, Jimmy. Do I look like a corpse?”

“No, no, you sure don't, Pharaoh. Never seen you look better.” And then he gave Pharaoh a quick, nervous smile. “Seriously, man, you come close, didn't you?”

Pharaoh considered his answer, then shrugged. “It doesn't matter how close a man comes to dying, or how many times it happens. What counts is that, when it's all over, he's still standing.”

Jimmy nodded. “You got that right.”

“So,” Pharaoh said, “is this a social call? Can I get you a drink, or something to eat?”

Jimmy leaned forward. “Nah, but thanks. I just thought you would want to know that the cops are asking questions about you in L.A.”

Pharaoh's good mood shifted. “What kinds of questions?”

“Real weird, actually. Nothing about the business. Just some stuff about a woman being kidnapped.”

Pharaoh took a slow, calculated sip of coffee without revealing his shock.

“Kidnapping is for fools,” he said slowly. “I'm not in the habit of indulging in pastimes that don't make me a profit, but, out of curiosity, who's asking? About the woman, I mean.”

“The local cops and a private dick from out of state.”

He sneered. “She must be some woman, to warrant that kind of interest. Who's she supposed to be?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I don't know. Just some woman.”

“So…what are the cops asking?”