Found Wanting (6 page)

"Humor me."

She blew out a breath. "All right."

"Check out his kid, too. Maybe there was some gang activity --"

"Now you're reaching. That family is as squeaky clean as Alaina Chancellor and her kid."

"Yeah, well, she's only clean on the surface, isn't she?"

"Mitch, I hate to keep repeating myself, but this job is bad news. I think you should walk away."

"It's too late now. I was hired to find the kid, and now the cops are all over the place where he was supposed to be and isn't. To me, that means he's at risk."

After a long moment, as if she could wait out his resolve, she sighed. "I'll get back to you as soon as I know something new."

"Thanks."

As he slipped the phone back in the leather holder on his belt, headlights slashed across the front of the house. Squinting, he shielded his eyes. The driver of the small SUV didn't kill the lights, and Mitch heard a door open and close.

When the driver came into view, shock froze him.

She staggered and would have fallen if he had not moved quickly to catch her by the elbows. He felt the tremors shuddering through her, saw she was pale and perspiring, the green scrubs she wore damp and clinging. Her eyes didn't look right. They were wild with fear -- the kind he would have expected earlier if she'd thought Jonah's life were in danger.

"Let me go," she gasped, pushing him away with surprising strength and stumbling toward the house.

Mitch chased after her, grabbed her arm. "He's not in there."

* * *

Alaina wrenched away from him, her strength manic. At the front door, she dodged a cop, barely seeing him.

Instead, she saw a mess. Overturned chair. Coffee table on its side. A busted lamp.

A large bloodstain on the light carpet.

Oh, God, no.

She swayed as her heart thumped in her ears, slammed against her ribs. Ignoring the dizziness that came in waves, she searched for Jonah, didn't find him. Maybe he was upstairs.

Ordering her jelly legs to obey, she lurched toward the staircase. "Jonah!"

The man from the driveway blocked her way. She saw his lips moving but couldn't hear his voice over the ringing in her ears. All she could smell was blood, metallic and sweet.

Her knees threatened to buckle, and she sank her fingers into his damp shirt to keep from falling. She felt his arm go around her and fought the black spots. But she was losing the battle. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

There was no time for this. She had to find Jonah.

But her body had other plans.

She fainted.

* * *

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

Addison Keller turned to face FBI Assistant Director Norm Potter as he walked into the office and shut the door. He was a tall, lanky man with thick red hair and a face full of freckles. She'd been skeptical the first time she met him three weeks ago, the day she had sat across from him at a Dupont Circle coffee bar and told him that the revered and respected Layton Keller was plotting the murder of her sister.

Potter hadn't shown one twitch of surprise. Without hesitation, he'd told her the FBI would be more than happy to find and protect her sister and nephew. He'd followed that up with a smooth request for her help in return.

It had stunned her that the FBI was already investigating Layton. For what, Potter refused to say. And while he didn't tell her that the feds would protect Alaina and Jonah in return for Addison's assistance in the investigation, he implied it, and Addison was frightened enough for her sister and nephew to agree to help. So far, though, Potter had asked for nothing, and she'd begun to think that maybe he didn't need her help after all. Until he'd called today and asked her to meet him. He'd given her the name of a dentist and told her to make an appointment. He would meet her at the dentist's office.

She had arrived for her "appointment" five minutes before, and the receptionist had led her down a long hallway to a sparse room at the back of the office. The room held a gun-metal gray desk, a chair behind it and in front of it, and a lamp. It was as stark as her life had become.

Potter's somber expression didn't help. A chill passed through her, and she clasped the edges of her coat together. "What's going on?"

Potter gestured at the chair facing the desk. "Why don't you sit down, Mrs. Keller?"

"I don't want to sit down. I want you to tell me what's happening. It's dangerous for me to be sneaking around like this. You know that."

"Yes, and I'm sorry about that, but I felt it was important for us to have this conversation in person."

She felt a little dizzy as the implications of that statement whirled through her head. Alaina dead. Jonah lost and alone. The Chancellor-Keller empire wiped out by the one man who had nearly single-handedly built it.

Potter touched her elbow. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Addison shook her head, swallowing. "I'm fine. Please, let's ..." She trailed off, searching for the right word. Talk? Negotiate? But hadn't they already done that? Hadn't she already traded her husband's future freedom for the safety of the sister she had spent nearly two decades detesting?

Potter leaned back against the front of the desk, his brow furrowed as he crossed his arms. "I'm not going to lie to you."

Addison grasped the back of the visitor's chair for support. "Please, just tell me what's happened."

"Your sister and nephew are missing."

"They're together?"

"We don't know. Your nephew was last seen at a private home in Mount Prospect, a Chicago suburb. A father was shot, and his son was knocked around at the home."

Addison decided to sit after all.

Potter moved behind the desk and lowered himself to the chair, folding his hands on his desktop. "Your sister was last seen at a Chicago hospital after being struck by a car running away from the two agents I sent to take her into protective custody."

"Is she okay?" Addison asked.

"She walked out of the ER, so her injuries weren't that bad."

"So what you're telling me is that everything went wrong."

He cleared his throat. "The Bureau is committed to fulfilling its end of the deal, Mrs. Keller. I've got agents working night and day to find your loved ones."

Loved ones. She didn't know whether to laugh or dissolve into tears. "You didn't bring me here to tell me this. You could have told me over the phone."

Instead of responding, Potter took a cellphone out of an inner jacket pocket and punched some buttons. "We're ready for you," he said into it.

After stashing the phone, he said, "A gentleman is going to be here shortly to show you how to distribute listening devices throughout your home and your husband's cars and offices."

Addison felt exhaustion and defeat settle over her like a heavy, black cloud. "We made a deal."

"Yes, we did. And the Bureau has made, and continues to make, a good faith effort to fulfill its part. Now, it's your turn."

Chapter 6

Alaina opened her eyes. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar. So were the scents -- mint, stale cigarettes and the faint odor of bleach. A frantic glance around told her she was in a hotel room. And apparently alone.

Ignoring the slashes of pain from various bumps and bruises, she tried to sit up. That's when she discovered her left wrist was handcuffed to the wooden slatted headboard of the bed.

Her heart jackhammering in alarm, she scanned the room for clues. It was standard Best Western -- two double beds, a TV on top of the dresser, a desk and chair, flowered décor in teal and wine and heavy curtains that blocked whatever light might have come through the single window. Someone's belongings littered the room -- loose change scattered on the desk, a denim shirt draped over the back of the desk chair, a suitcase open on the other bed. In it, she could see balled socks, folded T-shirts and polos, a couple pairs of rolled blue jeans, a black leather belt. Man things.

Her shoulder throbbed, and she massaged it, realizing that the hospital scrubs she wore were wet and cold, clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

And then she remembered the blood on Grant Maxwell's carpet. It hadn't been from an accident. Furniture wouldn't have been overturned from an accident. Police cars, lights flashing, wouldn't have been there because of an accident. Something horrible had happened. And Jonah had to have been there when it did. That was the Wednesday routine. He took the bus with Lucas after school to Lucas' home and waited for her to pick him up after work. So whatever had happened at the Maxwell home might have happened to Jonah. The blood might have been his.

Panic spilled through her, filling her head with a deafening roar. She fought it down, inch by nauseous inch. Jonah knew what to do. She had trained him, painstakingly drilled into him the details of what to do and when to do it. Ever since he'd been old enough to read. The teen was as prepared as any adult to do what he needed to do to survive. Alaina had made sure of it.

She flashed again on the blood on Grant's carpet, and her brain stuttered.

Guns. She had not prepared Jonah to handle people with guns. She hadn't known how to without scaring him, hadn't known where to begin. Now she realized what a mistake that was.

Panic welled again, like blood from a pinprick, and she shoved it away. Getting hysterical wasn't an option. She had to focus on how to free herself so she could find her son.

The bedside clock told her it was 5:32. Judging from the dampness of the scrubs, it had been only an hour since she had swiped Rachel's keys. That meant the hotel couldn't be far from Mount Prospect.

Turning her attention to her restraints, she tried to slide the handcuff over her hand. When that didn't work, she tried to snap the wooden slats encircled by the opposite cuff, managing only to bruise her captured wrist and send throbbing pain shooting through her injured shoulder. She accomplished more of the same trying to snag the phone that sat on the other bed, its cord just a finger's length beyond her reach. She couldn't reach it with her foot, either.

Finally, she searched the drawer in the bedside table for anything she could use to pick the lock, but it held only hotel stationery and a Bible.

A subtle click brought her head around as the electronic key on the room door tripped. She could do nothing but hold her breath.

The man who walked in wore faded blue jeans, a white polo shirt and a black leather jacket, a backpack over one shoulder and a navy sports bag dangling from one hand. He had dark brown eyes, razor stubble and short, dark hair salted with gray. He reminded her of George Clooney, and under ordinary circumstances, she would have considered him very attractive. Except, unlike the actor, this man didn't look the least bit affable. In fact, he looked pissed off.

As the door closed behind him, he paused, his dark gaze flicking over her, unreadable as he dropped the bags at his feet.