Annie on the Lam: A Christmas Caper (4 page)

“Is she?”

“What do
you
think? The woman works at a bank during the day and waits tables at Landau's at night.”

“A rich broad like that?” Dino scoffed. “Why does she need to work at all?”

Joe thought about his phone conversations with her father. The fact that there was tension between the old man and his daughter had come across the line loud and clear.

“Milford Macy pulled some mighty big strings back in the eighties to keep the details surrounding his wife's demise hushed up,” Joe told his cousin. “Didn't even tell Miss Annabelle the whole truth. But she found out recently, and I'm bettin' she wasn't too happy about being kept in the dark all these years. The job with Landau is probably her warped idea of payback.”

“Funny way of gettin' back at her father, if you ask me.” Dino looked out the window and up toward the building's top floor. “You ever met Harry?”

“Can't say I've ever had the pleasure,” Joe answered sarcastically.

But Landau's name had come up more than once over the past year in his own personal private investigation of Frank Reno's many business endeavors. Reno headed up one of the city's most profitable drug rings. Everyone knew it. No one could prove it. Yet.

Dino laughed and shook his head. “I went to school with Harry. The guy dresses like a pimp. Did all right for himself, though. Legally or not, I couldn't say. But I hear the restaurant's classy. Wouldn't know personally.” He sniffed and nodded at Joe. “The place is too uptown for our blood.”

“Speak for yourself,” Joe said, and smiled. “What makes you think I can't afford Landau's?”

Grinning, Dino answered, “Oh, yeah, that's right. I forgot about those five cases of yours.” He shifted his long wiry frame, shivered and reached for the door handle. “Your mama's been calling mine worried about you.”

“Tell Aunt Sophie to tell her I'm good.”

“Maybe you oughta tell her.”

“I have.” Every time she called. Which was daily. “Maybe Aunt Sophie will have better luck convincing her than I have.”

Dino gave Joe's shoulder a soft punch. “You know my mama would never lie to her sister.”

“I'm good,” Joe repeated, averting his gaze to the newspaper in the seat. He heard the passenger door open, felt the frigid blast of air from outside, sensed Dino sliding out.

“No high-speed chases in my cab, understand?” his cousin teased.

“I'll try to keep it down to ninety.” Joe smiled but didn't look up. “And speaking of your cab, the radio's on the fritz again. Never know if it's gonna work or not.”

“I'll check it out tomorrow.”

When the door slammed, Joe slipped the plugs back into his ears. He decided he should pay his mother a visit soon, cajole her into cooking his favorite meal, tease her about her new neighbor, Mr. Manning, until she blushed and laughed and shooed him out of her apartment. He didn't like her worrying about him. And he didn't like worrying about her. He had exaggerated to Ed Simms about her state of mind since his father's death. She was lonely. And Joe didn't like her living in the old neighborhood alone. All their close neighbors who had been there when he was growing up had either died or moved, and with the exception of Mr. Manning, the remaining tenants were not the sort he wanted his mother around. Joe wanted to help her move someplace safer, but she wouldn't hear of it until he had a “real” job again. One with steady pay.

He tapped his finger against the
Savannah News
and thought again that he had probably made a big mistake taking this case. Sure, the money was great, and he could put it to good use. But his gut told him that whether Miss Macy was in over her head or not, her daddy was being overly protective of a middle-aged daughter who wanted out from under his thumb. Macy probably really wanted a bodyguard for Miss Annabelle, not just a watchful pair of eyes.

After turning in his badge, Joe had promised himself he'd never again take on the responsibility of another person's safety. Especially if that person was female. The idea of breaking that promise, even for another possible chance at Reno, bothered him.

With one last glance at Annie Macy's photo, he folded the paper.
Damn those eyes.

Raucous
laughter and strains of “Jingle Bell Rock” drifted down the hallway outside Harry Landau's dark office. Landau's Christmas party was at full drunken tilt.

Standing before an open file cabinet, Annie fought an oncoming sneeze. She wasn't sure whose Christmas gift was worse—Harry's perfume or the one his sister Lacy had given her. Lacy might not be the sharpest pencil in the box but she understood sarcasm; the woman knew condoms would be wasted on Annie. Lacy often teased her that if she didn't accept a date soon, she'd quality as a virgin again. The woman had a warped sense of humor.

Beyond the wall of office windows, Manhattan sparkled like a trimmed Christmas tree dusted with snow. Flakes danced in the night sky, the beginning of the blizzard the weather reports had predicted.

With trembling fingers, Annie pulled folders from the cabinet drawer and placed them into the empty briefcase she'd found in Harry's closet. Her heart pounded hard as she glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. She would've come more prepared, brought her own bag to haul all this stuff away in, but until Harry cornered her a few minutes ago, she had only intended to do some nosing around, not take anything. Not yet.

But now she knew she wouldn't be coming back. Risky or not, this was her last chance. When she walked out of Landau's for the last time, she would carry proof that Harry was laundering money through the restaurant. And she'd bet every dime of her inheritance that the proof would implicate Frank Reno, too.

Frank Reno
. Annie bit down on her lip. She'd yet to meet the man, but she hated him. Over the past months, she'd scanned every newspaper and magazine article she could find on Reno, old and new. He'd made quite a name for himself over the past twenty-four years, rising to the top of New York's criminal who's-who. Yet, no matter the crime, he always managed to walk away scot-free. Just like he had after cheating her mother.

Not this time. Not if she could help it.

Before leaving Georgia to move to New York, Annie had visited the woman who had been her mother's best friend since childhood. When pressed, Barbara Tyler admitted that Lydia had confided in her about her intentions to leave Annie's father and move to New York upon firming up plans to open a restaurant. After that confession, Lydia's contact with Barbara became less frequent, so Barbara knew little else. But she did remember the name of a woman in New York Lydia had stayed with on more than one occasion.

It took some searching, but after arriving in New York City herself, Annie finally found Karla Wilshire in a hospice dying of cancer. Her mother's old acquaintance told her that she'd stayed quiet for years due to her fear of Frank Reno. But she had nothing to lose now, and she was willing to talk.

Karla said that Lydia had met Reno through a mutual friend. When Reno learned that Lydia wanted to move to the city, he offered her an investment opportunity in a restaurant he planned to open. Lydia came through with her end of the bargain; she gave him a chunk of money. And Reno ran with it. Literally.

Karla was with Annie's mother in the hours preceding her death. They'd gone out to a club with friends and ran into Reno. Lydia and Reno argued, and the club manager asked them to take it outside. Barbara watched them exit the front door, thinking they'd have their say and Lydia would return. But Annie's mother never came back. Karla didn't have any idea why Lydia might've left with Reno in his car, but she figured Annie's mom had insisted on driving because Frank was “flying higher than a kite” that night.

Thinking about that gave Annie the courage she'd needed to break into Harry's office. She blamed Frank Reno for her mother's death. Whether directly or indirectly, he was responsible; nobody could convince her otherwise. For whatever reasons, her mother had been troubled and desperate, and Frank Reno had taken advantage of that fact.

She closed one file drawer and opened another. Her nose twitched, her eyelashes quivered, her lips trembled as she tried to hold in the sneeze. What had she been thinking when she tested that perfume? She had inherited Aunt Tess's unladylike sneeze—a fact that had occasionally caused her some embarrassment, but until now, never anything life-threatening. Harry would kill her if he found her in here.

Annie continued dumping files into the briefcase. How could she have been so completely wrong about Harry? Everything about him seemed to indicate his sexual preference leaned toward the male gender. But that wasn't her only misconception. From the moment she met him up until the past couple of weeks, she had decided that if he was crooked, he must be the most mannerly criminal in the city. In the beginning, Harry was always friendly. Always polite. He could be charming and witty. She had applied for the waitressing job hoping she might meet his uncle Frank face to face. But after her first interview with Harry, she had assumed that he had not inherited any of his uncle's sleazy genes.

So much for assumptions.

When she'd overheard one of Harry's private conversations two weeks ago, her suspicions had flared. Seeing him shove Lacy and threaten her to keep quiet had inspired Annie to investigate those suspicions. But tonight was the only shove
she'd
needed to muster her courage and take action, to expedite and follow through on her plan.

Annie's hands shook as she slipped the last folder into Harry's briefcase, then closed and latched it. She set it on his desk and reached for her purse on the floor, placing her beaded bag beside the briefcase. She told herself that when this was all over, she needed to work on her perception skills involving men. When Harry Landau had found her alone in the hallway twenty minutes ago, she learned three truths about him. One: women's bodies ranked high on his list of interests; two: mature handling of rejection was not one of his strengths; and three: Harry wasn't fond of eggnog. At least not as a face cream. Recalling the fury in his eyes, Annie shuddered.

A second sneeze threatened. Closing her eyes, she drew in spasmodic breaths. She grabbed the briefcase handle with one hand while clamping her other hand across her mouth. Pinching her nostrils between her forefinger and thumb, she tried to muffle what she knew was to come. No luck. She succumbed.

Seconds after the sneeze, footsteps sounded in the hallway. The doorknob rattled. The lights in the office flashed on.

Briefcase in hand, Annie whirled around, knocking her purse off Harry's desk, scattering lipsticks and loose change, a hairbrush and compact, her cell phone and condoms…lots and lots of Lacy's Christmas gift condoms…across the leopard-print silk rug.

Harry stepped into the room. All five foot six inches, one hundred and forty lean, spidery pounds of him. In his tailored gold Christmas-party suit, green tie and red Santa hat, he looked too pretty to be male, too festive to be a crook, too silly to take seriously. Then his eyes narrowed.

“What in the hell are you doing in here?” he growled.

Annie slowly backed up until she bumped against the credenza behind Harry's desk. “I—” She swallowed. “I was just leaving.”

“Why are you wearing my coat?”

She'd been trying to think smart, to plan ahead, when she'd slipped on the long fur parka she'd found draped across Harry's chair. It was freezing outside and she didn't know if she'd have to hoof it when she left here or if she'd be able to flag down a cab. Her own wrap was down the hall and she had not wanted to chance going back for it and running into Harry again. Since she was borrowing Harry's financial information, she'd decided she might as well help herself to his coat, too.

Taking the briefcase with her, she stooped to scoop everything back into her purse. But she'd only managed to retrieve her small leather journal and a few other items from the floor before the tips of Harry's buffed shoes appeared in her field of vision. Annie glanced up.

Harry's gaze took in the strewn condom packets before settling on her face. He grinned. “Changed your mind, did you?” He shifted his attention to the case in her hand and the grin disappeared. His smooth, pointed chin jutted out like a dagger, sharp and firm and uncompromising. “What are you up to?”

Crushing her purse against her stomach with her free hand, Annie stood, then darted for the opposite side of the desk—her only clear pathway to the door.

Harry grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged. “That's my briefcase, you bi—”

Annie swung the case across her body, over her shoulder. It connected with something solid—Harry's mouth, she supposed, since a strangled grunt replaced his words. He released her hair and she turned and hit him again.

Harry reached between the lapels of the coat and grabbed the scooped neckline of her satin blouse. She heard a rip, felt the fabric give way. His nail scraped her skin. He slammed her against the credenza, wrapped his long slender fingers around her neck and squeezed.

Pressure filled Annie's head, panic fluttered in her chest. She tried to gasp but couldn't find any air. Channeling all her fear and adrenaline into the movement, she jammed her knee up hard into Harry's groin.

Harry recoiled.

Annie ran.

 

J
OE'S HEAD ACHED
and his eyelids sagged as he stared at the lobby door of the building across the street. When it swung open, he sat up straight.

A woman ran out, wobbling on classy high-heeled boots. She wore a long fur coat, clutched a purse in one hand, a briefcase in the other. Wind blew long blond hair across her face. Car horns blared and tires screeched as she darted across the street. Caught in a blur of headlights and swirling snow, she dodged and staggered but kept on moving.

Joe tugged the iPod plugs from his ears and tossed them aside. She was headed straight for him. He started the engine.

Behind the blonde at the building's entrance, a skinny little man in a garish gold suit and a Santa hat stumbled through the same door she'd exited. Doubled over, the man paused for a beat, looked left then right then into the street. Spotting the woman, he yelled something and pursued, one hand covering his crotch.

Joe rolled his window down. “Hey!” he shouted to the blonde as he threw the cab into gear. “Get in!”

She crammed her purse under her arm, almost tore the back door from the hinges, slid inside, shut it.

Mere seconds later, Santa reached the back window and slammed his fist against the glass.

Joe hit the locks.

“Go!”
the woman shrieked as her pursuer shouted obscenities and continued to pummel the rear windshield.
“Go, go, get out of here. Hurry!”

Joe jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The cab shot away from the curb. Tires squealed and horns blasted as he swerved into traffic. When they were a safe distance away, he glanced into the rearview mirror. The little guy in the gold suit stood at the edge of the street, one fist raised high, the other still guarding his crotch.

The woman turned and looked back, too.

“Friend of yours?” Joe asked, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“Boss,” the lady said, then turned back around. For several moments, her fast, staggered breaths were the only sounds in the cab.

“You show up late for work, or what?”

“You might say I cleaned up his office a little.” A short hysteria-laced laugh sounded from the back seat. “How was I supposed to know he likes things dirty?”

Thanks to the quick dose of adrenaline their fast getaway had shot into his bloodstream, Joe was wide-awake now, but his head pounded even worse than before. He drew a long, deep, nerve-settling breath.

City lights reflected off the snow, illuminating the cab's interior. Stopping at a red light, he cast a quick peek over one shoulder at his passenger. Her briefcase lay in her lap, her purse on the seat beside her. She gripped the case with one hand, the edge of the seat with the other as she twisted again to look out the back window.

“Relax. He's long gone,” Joe said. He didn't require a second inspection of the photograph on the folded newspaper beside him to know that the woman in his back seat was the socialite he'd been hired to follow. Annabelle Macy—Annie, her father had called her. Heiress from one of the wealthiest families in the state of Georgia. Hell, probably in the nation. Owner of that pair of troubled eyes that had haunted him all day. He opened the glove box, slipped the newspaper inside, latched it again.

Her slow drawl had caught him off guard, though he wasn't sure why. The money-dripping accent only confirmed what he'd suspected when he saw the newspaper photo. She sounded like she spent her days sitting on a plantation porch, sipping mint juleps and fanning her face while a staff of servants hovered around her.

Joe felt a sneer coming on. He had no patience for simpering Junior League types who fainted away when things got too hot. He should be shot for taking this case. He had better things to do than babysit a reckless, flighty, full-grown woman who liked to play games. Like take three aspirin and bury his throbbing head beneath a pillow.

Joe faced the street again. The light turned green. He started across the intersection, then adjusted the rearview mirror and caught another glimpse of his back seat passenger.
Whoa
. Full-grown was right. Miss Macy had turned away from the rear window. Her coat had fallen off one shoulder; the blouse beneath was torn, revealing the lacy top edge of a black bra and a nasty red scratch on the smooth swell of breast just above it. She slid down in the seat far enough to rest her head against it, closed her eyes. Wind-blown hair swept her shoulders in pale waves.