Dangerous Deception (12 page)

I
needed to stall him. I had to keep him here until I figured out a way to get help.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I said.

He shook his head. “Too bad. I don't have time for that.”

“What's your hurry?”

“I have to load the stuff that's downstairs, plus I have another full room in a building down the street.”

“I thought the police took all the things you stole.”

“Only from this apartment.” A smug smile crept across his face. “The cops didn't find out about the downstairs apartment or the place Max rents.”

He put his hand on the doorknob.

“I have to go really bad!”

“Not my problem,” he said.

“You could untie me and lock me in the room. I can use the bathroom while you go get your truck. Then you can tie me up again. It won't take more than a minute or two.”

“Forget it. I'm out of here.” He opened the door and stepped into the hall.

Mentally I scrambled to think of a way to talk him into untying me. Money, I thought. What he cares about is money.

“Your landlord won't give you back the damage deposit on this apartment if I pee all over the floor,” I said. “Mr. Winkowski is really fussy about the damage deposit.”

He turned back, stepping into the room again. “How do you know who the landlord is?”

“Sophie told me. She said they didn't get their deposit back because Mr. Winkowski found out they'd had a cat inside when pets aren't allowed.”

He walked over to where I sat and glared down at me.

“Even though Midnight didn't do any damage,” I added, “Mr. Winkowski wouldn't refund their money, so you know he won't give you anything if the room smells like urine. How much was the deposit? Two hundred dollars? Three hundred?”

He swore under his breath, but he put the laptop on the floor, jerked on the rope ends to untie the knots, and began to unbind my feet and hands.

I could hardly believe my argument about a damage deposit had worked. Didn't he realize that in order to get the deposit he would have to tell his landlord where to send the refund check, which meant the police would be able to find him, too?

He pulled the rope loose. I stood, shaking my hands to get the circulation back.

“Make it fast,” he said.

After insisting I needed a bathroom, I really did have to go so I hurried into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned the lock. One look at the toilet and sink convinced me he would never get any damage deposit back no matter what I did.

“Hurry up!” he yelled.

I didn't have time to clean the fixtures. I used the toilet, promising myself I'd take a shower the minute I got out of there. While the toilet flushed I put the plug in the bathtub drain and turned on both the faucets. I did the same in the sink. I hoped that the noise of the toilet flushing would cover up the sound of running water.

The old fixtures had no emergency overflow drains. It shouldn't take long for the water to run over the tops of the sink and tub. Then water would soak through the floor, and Mrs. Spangler's ceiling would drip. She would call the landlord. Winkowski Associates would send a plumber out, and the plumber would find me. I hoped the water wouldn't do too much damage to Mrs. Spangler's apartment.

“Come on!” he yelled.

I slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me. No Help stood beside the chair, holding the rope.

“Sit!” he commanded.

I sat.

I kept talking, hoping my voice would prevent him from hearing the running water. Instead of begging him to let me go, I asked him where he had met Max.

“He used to work with me, when I washed dishes at Porky's Pig Palace. He helped in the kitchen. I could barely make my truck payments but he always had money to burn, so I asked him how he managed it. He told me he ran his own business on the side.”

He grabbed my hands, bound them the same way he had before, then tied my ankles. He was rougher this time, jerking on the rope in his hurry to leave.

“What kind of business?”

“That's what I wanted to know. I kept pestering him with more questions until he asked if I would be interested in helping him. Two weeks later we both quit Porky's. We've been partners ever since. Until now.”

As soon as I was tied to the chair again, he picked up the laptop and headed for the door.

Hurry
, I thought.
Get out of here
. I wanted him gone before any water came under the bathroom door.

No Help turned the catch so that the door would lock behind him. Then he stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut. I heard his feet clatter down the stairs.

When No Help left, any danger of my getting shot went with him. I still had more problems than a stray cat has fleas, but at least an angry thief with a gun was no longer one of them.

If he planned to pawn the items that were stored downstairs, plus a room full of stolen goods that were stashed somewhere down the street, it would take him a while to get it all loaded onto the truck. Maybe Mrs. Spangler or someone else would notice what he was doing and wonder about it.

Or maybe not. Mrs. Spangler hadn't opened her door when he was unloading the truck earlier. She probably wouldn't look out now. Maybe she didn't hear him.

If someone walked past on the sidewalk or drove down the street while No Help loaded his truck, they'd assume he was moving. There would be no reason to call the police.

Outside, daylight gave way to darkness. Inside, the walls seemed to slide closer as it became harder to see, until I could only make out an oblong of gray where the window was. Soon that, too, turned black.

I wished he had turned on the light. Even the bare bulb beside a dangling ceiling chain would be better than waiting in the dark. I took a deep breath, telling myself to stay calm.

I did not feel calm; I felt panicky. I was alone in an empty apartment miles from where I lived. I was tied up and abandoned, and nobody knew where I was.

I wondered how long it would take for the water to overflow the tub and sink, and start under the bathroom door.

A tear rolled down one cheek. I couldn't brush it away because my hands were tied, so I gritted my teeth and forced myself not to cry. I refused to start bawling and get myself all stuffed up when I couldn't even blow my nose.

My shoulder throbbed where it had hit the floor when I tipped the chair over. I sat in the darkness, listening. Faint noises from Mrs. Spangler's TV drifted upward. Twice, headlights briefly illuminated the window as a car drove past.

I shivered. Was there any heat in this apartment? Probably not. I realized my feet were cold because my sneakers were wet. I couldn't lean over to feel how deep the water was but I could lift my toes a couple of inches. I raised them as far as I could and then stomped down. Splash! Water flew up, splattering both legs of my jeans. There must already be an inch or more on the floor. Soon I felt it seep over the tops of my sneakers.

I had assumed the water would soak through the floor and cause a leak to the room below, or that it would run under the door to the hallway and cascade down the stairs. Either way, the water would alert Mrs. Spangler, or anyone else who saw it, that there was plumbing trouble in No Help's apartment. I had not expected the water to stay in his apartment, getting deeper and deeper while I sat tied to a chair, unable to get away.

I remembered that the stairway was permanently lit, but when I squinted at the bottom of the door I couldn't see even a sliver of light. The door fit so tightly that there wasn't space for the water to escape.

I learned to swim when I was only three, and every summer Lauren and I spend hot afternoons at the public pool. My family enjoys going to the beach, too.

This was different. When I'm in the pool, I can swim to the side and hoist myself up any time I want to, or go to the shallow end and walk up the steps to the pool deck. At the ocean, I always run along the edge, letting the waves lap over my bare feet, squishing the wet sand between my toes.

I had never before been in danger from water. If this water didn't soak through the floor or flow under the door to the hall, it would keep rising until someone turned off the faucets and pulled the plugs out of the drains. It would come up and up, past my knees, my waist, and my shoulders while I sat helpless, unable to make it stop.

T
hree police cars stopped in front of the Rushford residence. Mrs. Rushford, who had been watching from the window, flung open the door as the officers hurried toward her. Two officers from one car headed toward the back of the Rushfords' house, one on each side. Two other officers went to the door.

“I'm Sergeant Whitman,” the tall gray-haired officer said. “This is Lieutenant Benson.”

Mrs. Rushford introduced herself and Mrs. Braider.

“Tell us what happened,” Sergeant Whitman said.

Mrs. Rushford went through the whole story. Mrs. Braider told what she had witnessed. “Emmy is not answering her phone,” Mrs. Rushford said. “She always either answers or calls back within a minute or two. Always! Something is wrong.” Her voice broke. “Something is terribly wrong.”

“I believe we can issue an AMBER Alert,” Sergeant Whitman said. “We'll need a current picture of Emmy.”

Mrs. Rushford had seen AMBER Alerts in the past, where the description and photo of a missing child were sent to local radio and TV stations who interrupt their programming to broadcast the information. The child's name and description are also displayed in bright lights over all the major freeways, along with any information about the suspected abductor and his/her vehicle. More than once, a citizen who had seen an AMBER Alert recognized the missing child or a suspect's vehicle and alerted authorities.

“I carry her most recent school picture in my wallet,” Mrs. Rushford said.

One of the officers who had gone to the backyard now came inside and got permission to search the bedrooms and the rest of the house. Meanwhile, Mrs. Rushford opened her purse, removed the wallet, and found Emmy's picture. She slipped it out of the protective sleeve and handed it to Sergeant Whitman.

He looked at the photo. “A lovely girl,” he said. “We'll do our best to find her.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Rushford said, once again choking back tears.

Sergeant Whitman handed the picture to Lieutenant Benson, who looked at it and gasped.

“I met this girl,” she said. “I didn't recognize the name, but I know the face. She came into the station and turned over photos that she took of an apartment full of stolen goods.”

Mrs. Rushford's hand flew to her throat. “What?” she said. “When was this?”

“Only a few days ago. Her tip led to the arrest of a man who had burglarized nearly two dozen homes. She showed me the photos and gave me his address.”

“Is that the one who got caught red-handed with his apartment full of stolen computers and TVs?” Sergeant Whitman asked. “I wasn't involved in the case, but I heard about it.”

“That's the one. Donald Zummer. He was arraigned yesterday.”

“Are you sure it was Emmy?” Mrs. Rushford asked. She found it hard to believe that only a short time after confessing all of her trips to Sophie's neighborhood and promising never to do anything like that again, Emmy would not only get involved with a burglary suspect, but also would go to the police with photos and not tell her parents what she had done.

“It was her,” Lieutenant Benson said. “I have the paperwork on file that she filled out when she showed me the pictures. I remember now, she said her name was Louise.”

“That's her middle name,” Mrs. Rushford said. “She's named after my mother, Emmy Louise.”

“I recommended that she tell her parents about the photos,” Lieutenant Benson said. “Obviously that didn't happen.”

“No,” Mrs. Rushford said. “It didn't.”

“Where's the burglary suspect now?” Sergeant Whitman asked. “Is Zummer still locked up?”

Lieutenant Benson shook her head. “It was a first offense,” she said. “The judge let him go when his business partner posted twenty-thousand-dollars' bail.”

The two officers looked at each other. “I don't like this,” Lieutenant Benson said.

“So if he posted bail, he could leave,” said Mrs. Rushford. “He was free to go. Is that right?”

“Correct,” said Sergeant Whitman.

Mrs. Braider said, “He might have figured out who tipped off the cops and come after her.”

This time, Mrs. Rushford did not even try to hold back her tears.

“Emmy believed that the suspect did not know she had taken the pictures,” Lieutenant Benson said.

Using a handheld computer, Lieutenant Benson found the photo of Mr. Zummer that was taken the day of his arrest. She inserted it in a file of generic mug shots and then said, “Mrs. Braider, I'd like you to look at a few photos, and tell me if you recognize any of them.” She began scrolling through the pictures while Mrs. Braider concentrated on the screen. When Donald Zummer's picture appeared, Mrs. Braider cried, “That's him! That's the man who was with Emmy.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm positive. He came here once before, and he's the one who pushed Emmy into the backyard this afternoon.”

As soon as the rest of the house had been checked, all the police officers left.

“We'll be in touch,” Sergeant Whitman said.

Mrs. Rushford wiped away her tears as she thanked them.

Before driving away, Sergeant Whitman sent in all the information needed for the AMBER Alert, which went into effect immediately. Using a portable scanner, he e-mailed Emmy's photo. Within minutes, her picture and the police department's mug shot of the suspect were sent to media contacts, the State Patrol, and the National Crime Information Center. Thousands of cell-phone users who had registered for the Wireless AMBER Alert program were notified.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Benson checked the Department of Motor Vehicles to find out if a vehicle was registered to Donald Zummer. She quickly had her answer. Mr. Zummer owned a 1972 Ford truck. License number A43883J. Color: white.

Lieutenant Benson called the police dispatcher and added a description of the truck to the AMBER Alert. She also asked the dispatcher for the address of Zummer's apartment. She remembered where it was but needed the exact street number in order to call for backup.

With any luck, he would be there, and Emmy Louise Rushford would be with him. Unharmed.

She called for backup as she drove, explaining the connection between her destination and the child who had triggered the AMBER Alert. As she turned onto East Sycamore, two other squad cars converged. The three officers jumped from their cars and sprinted toward the front of the building.

They were almost to the door when they got an All-Points Bulletin. “A truck matching the one in the AMBER Alert has been spotted going North on Highway 405, just past the Coal Creek exit in Bellevue. All available units respond.”

The three officers ran back to their squad cars and took off in pursuit of the truck.