Into the Whirlwind (25 page)

Moore gave him the smug, condescending smile Jonathan had come to hate. “Well done,” he said. “You're quite a proficient liar when you put your mind to it.”

“You didn't give me any choice.” Moore had called him at the office, given him an address on the island, and insisted Jonathan meet him there. When he'd arrived at the empty warehouse, Moore and his two thugs had been waiting.

He glanced at the disposable phone the man had insisted he use to call Meg. “What if she tells someone she's meeting me?”

“Just tell them she never arrived. There won't be any proof.”

He had made the call and set up the meeting just as Moore had demanded. He didn't want to lose any more appendages so playing the part of repentant father hadn't been as difficult as he'd thought.

“I've done what you asked,” he said. “I don't want any more to do with any of this. Go do whatever evil you have planned and leave me out of it.”

Moore chuckled softly. “Unfortunately for you the choice isn't yours. You're leaving here with these two gentlemen—one way or another.” His gaze touched on each of his men. “I'll meet you at the airport.”

Jonathan felt sick. He knew Moore's plans, knew he had a private jet waiting at Boeing Field to fly Meg out of the country. OGAR International, Gertsman's company, was based in Buenos Aires. Where the big German would be taking Meg from there, Jonathan had no idea and didn't want to know.

She'll be all right
, he told himself. Otto was a businessman, not a murderer. He just wanted to spend some time with a beautiful woman he'd become somewhat obsessed with. He also wanted Jonathan to suffer in some way for the money he had borrowed and couldn't pay back.

Eventually he'd let Meg go.

Or at least that's what he told himself.

He wondered what would happen to him if Meg returned and pointed an accusing finger, but he couldn't let his mind stray that far ahead or he wouldn't make it through the morning.

“Time to go,” the boxer said, shoving him toward the big metal door he'd driven in through. A white van sat next to where he'd parked his candy-apple red Cadillac just inside the warehouse entrance. The boxer gave him a shove toward the van, then opened the sliding door on the side and urged him to climb inside.

Fear pounded through him, became a roaring in his ears. What if they didn't let him go? What if they killed him instead?

“Don't piss yourself,” the boxer said, following Jonathan into the van, apparently reading his mind or perhaps the bloodless color of his face. “The boss said to bring you back and let you go as soon as we deliver the package to the airport. He says you know you're a dead man if you don't keep your mouth shut.”

The smoker slid into the driver's seat and lit the cigarette still dangling from his lips. He blew out a lungful of smoke, making Jonathan's nervous stomach heave. The engine started, the metal door rolled up, and the van pulled out onto the road.

For a moment Jonathan closed his eyes. The boxer was probably telling the truth. They weren't going to kill him. He was more valuable to Gertsman alive than dead. He was the president of Seattle State Bank. There were people he knew, decisions he could influence from such a powerful position.

The German had him by the balls and both of them knew it. He'd do whatever he was told from now on.

He didn't like it, but he wasn't man enough to do anything about it.

He knew it. And so did Otto Gertsman.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The weather had improved. Dark clouds continued to hover over the city, but this late in the morning the temperature had warmed, and sometime last night it had stopped raining. There were a couple of workman's orange cones in the spaces in front of Starbucks when Meg arrived so she pulled into the parking lot next door.

There were plenty of unoccupied spaces, which made parking easier anyway. She turned off the engine, pulled her light jacket a little snugger around her, and slung her handbag over her shoulder. Climbing out of the compact BMW SUV, she started across the lot. She didn't see Jonathan's red Cadillac coupe, but a white van idled just a few feet ahead of her, blocking her view of the windows and the people at the small round tables inside.

She made her way around the side of the van, heard the rumble of the heavy panel door sliding open. The next few seconds passed in a terrifying blur as two men leaped out of the back and grabbed her. A meaty hand clamped a rag over her mouth as she tried to scream and the men dragged her the few feet backward toward the yawning dark cavern that was the inside of the van.

She tried to kick, tried to fight, but the man's big hand kept the rag over her mouth and only a muffled squeak escaped. She recognized the smell, the sickly sweet odor she had noticed in Charlie's bedroom—chloroform—and a fresh shot of adrenaline tore through her.

Lashing out with her arms and legs, she tried to twist her face away from the cloth, but the man held her firmly. No longer standing, she felt herself being lifted and carried, then tossed into the back of the van.

She landed hard, her head banging on the wooden floor. The beefy man climbed in behind her. He slapped a piece of duct tape over her mouth, used another piece to bind her wrists in front of her.

She knew what was happening even as her limbs refused to function and her muscles went limp. She was only vaguely conscious of a familiar voice coming from inside the van as the other man rounded the vehicle and climbed into the driver's seat.

“I'm sorry,” Jonathan said, sounding on the verge of tears. “They made me do it. You'll be okay. Just do ... do what they tell you.”

Her eyes slid closed. She thought of Dirk, remembered she had called his cell and left him a message. He'd find her. She'd told him she was meeting Jonathan. Dirk would know Jonathan was involved in her disappearance and he would go after him.

And God curse her ex-husband's black soul, Meg didn't dare imagine what Dirk would do when he found him.

* * *

Dirk left M-Jazz's luxury lakeside home late that morning, confident the protection detail he had arranged would keep the rapper safe for the next few days. Dee Montoya and one of the other guys who worked security for BOSS, Inc. had agreed to travel with M on his upcoming tour.

From the rapper's house, he drove straight to the office. Sadie had called before his meeting—thank Jesus—and said she was back at work. She'd assured him she hadn't forgotten her promise to look deeper into Jonathan Hollander.

Since then, knowing it would only slow her down, he'd forced himself not to phone her again. He glanced at his heavy black wristwatch as he pulled into the parking lot. He'd waited long enough.

Pushing through the back door, he climbed the stairs and strode down the hall to her office, tossing a wave at Ian, who sat at his desk pounding away on his computer keyboard.

His boss waved back and Dirk continued down the hall.

Sadie looked up as he reached her door. The worried frown on her face put him on alert.

“Glad you're here,” Sadie said. “I phoned, but the call went to voice mail.”

“I was working with a client. For the money I charge, I figured the guy deserved my full attention. I turned it off. Guess I forgot to turn it back on.”

He did that now, but from the look on Sadie's face, what she had to say was more important than checking his messages.

“What've you got?” he asked, sitting down in the chair next to her desk.

“You wanted to know about Hollander. I've got enough to fill a book.”

“Let's hear it.”

“First, he doesn't have a troubled past, no sealed juvie records, nothing like that. His folks put him through Harvard, made sure he had the best of everything, made sure he ran with just the right crowd.”

“Yeah, I found out that much from his Facebook page.”

“What you didn't find out was the guy has big money troubles. His folks owned Hollander Steel. They lost everything in the late nineties, filed for bankruptcy in 2002.”

“I read that on the Net. According to Meg, her dad didn't care about Jonathan's lack of family money. He had plenty of bullshit charm and the Hollander name.”

“So that's old news. Well, get ready, because this isn't.” She shoved her reading glasses up on her nose as she studied the computer screen. “A few years back, Hollander opened an offshore account in the Caymans and started dumping in money. I've got no idea where it came from, but it went in and out fairly quickly, most of it into the stock market.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“A little over two million. I was able to follow some of his transactions. He lost almost all of it. There were no new deposits for a while, then six months ago the account in the Caymans gets another big hit, this time three million in a single lump sum. And guess what? That money gets drawn out, too.”

“What'd he do with it?”

“I'm just guessing, but I think he may have paid back the original debt or whatever it was and invested what was left. The guy needs a good broker because those stocks went in the toilet, too.”

“So he's broke.”

“That's right. And if the second batch of money was borrowed, he owes someone at least three million bucks.”

“Plus interest.”

“Not much way around it these days.”

The facts came sharply into focus. “So Jonathan Hollander had every reason to arrange the kidnapping of his son,” Dirk said.

“Ten million in ransom. Money enough to pay back what he owed and plenty left over for him.” Sadie pulled her reading glasses off her nose and tossed him a look. “This is your man. No doubt in my mind.”

Dirk's hand fisted. No doubt in his mind either. “I've got to call Meg. Hollander still needs money, right?”

“Yup.”

He pulled out his cell, saw that one of the messages he had missed had come from her. She never phoned while he was working so he listened anxiously to the call.

“Hey, babe, hope you're having a good day,” she said.

He smiled at the warmth in her voice and the endearment she had never used before.

“I know how you are about Jonathan, so I wanted to let you know I'm meeting him for coffee.”

His stomach tightened.

“We're going to the Starbucks on East Madison. Lots of people, so you don't have to worry. He wants to talk about Charlie. He's still Charlie's dad, you know, so I feel like I need to go. I'll see you tonight.” The call ended.

Dirk frantically hit the Send button, returning the call, but her phone went to voice mail. He hit Redial, same thing.

“I gotta go.” Slamming out of Sadie's office, he streaked down the hall, down the stairs, and out to the parking lot. Jerking open the car door, he jammed in behind the wheel and started the engine.

All the way to East Madison Street, he dialed Meg's phone. But he never got an answer.

Jesus God, he never got an answer.

Chapter Thirty

Dirk found Meg's car at Starbucks, but there was no sign of her. He phoned Sadie and asked her to ping the location of Meg's cell phone, but Sadie said the phone was turned off. The closest she could get was a cell tower near Starbucks. Since then, nothing.

None of the Starbucks employees or customers had seen a woman who fit Meg's description—hard to miss with all that flaming red hair. One of the baristas remembered seeing a white van in the lot, but no one had caught a plate number. The barista remembered the van had blocked her view out the window for a while, then it was gone. No one saw anything out of the ordinary around the time the van had been parked outside.

He phoned Rose Wills, just to make sure Meg hadn't somehow returned back home. Rose said Meg had mentioned she had a couple of errands to run, had mentioned meeting Jonathan, and talked about an appointment with the leasing agent at Rainier Square. The agent had phoned half an hour earlier looking for Meg. The agent said she never showed up.

“It isn't like her to miss an appointment,” Rose said. “I hope nothing's wrong.”

Dirk worked to keep his voice even. “I'll keep looking till I find her, Rose. Can you stay late if she isn't back by the time you usually leave?”

“Of course. You don't even have to ask. You'll call, won't you? Once you know she's okay?”

“I'll call, Rose. I promise.”

Next he headed for Seattle State Bank, where he asked to speak to Jonathan Hollander. His secretary said he'd been in early that morning but had left an hour or so after he got there and was taking the afternoon off.

Dirk had a file on Hollander that included his home address. He headed for Hollander's house. By the time he got there, with traffic jams and running down information, three hours had passed and Meg still hadn't answered her phone. His gut was churning, telling him Jonathan had lured Meg into some kind of trap. The guy was desperate for money. Clearly this was a second ransom attempt.

Dirk itched to call the FBI, but he needed more than an empty car in the Starbucks lot and a cheerful message from Meg on his cell phone.

He needed to talk to Hollander.

He knocked on the front door, pounded with his fist. No one answered. He had to find him. Every instinct told him Hollander knew exactly where to find Meg.

He hated waiting. He'd never been a patient man.

At the moment he had no choice.

Parking the Viper out of sight around the corner, he phoned Sadie one more time, told her where he was, and asked her to ping Meg's cell again. Sadie got the same result.

Running out of options, he phoned Agent Ron Nolan and laid it out for him.

“Meg's gone missing,” Dirk said. “I think she's been kidnapped. She was supposed to meet her ex-husband for coffee, but I found her car abandoned in the lot. She had an appointment with her leasing agent this afternoon, but she never showed up.”

“How do you know she isn't off shopping with one of her girlfriends?”

“Hollander's the man behind her son's abduction, or at least he's deeply involved. He's got big-time money problems. You'll have to find a way to come up with that information yourself, but off the record, he's millions in debt. The first kidnapping failed; now he's got Meg. I figure we'll get another ransom note, maybe as soon as today.”

“You sure about this?”

If he was wrong, he'd look like a fool. “I'm sure.”

“All right. I'll locate him and have him brought in for questioning. For now that's the best I can do.”

Questioning.
Where Hollander would lawyer up and say nothing.

Not good enough, buddy
, he thought, but said, “Thanks, Ron, keep me posted.” Dirk hung up and climbed out of the Viper. Clipping his Browning nine mil onto his belt behind his back, he pulled his leather jacket on to cover it, grabbed his tool bag from behind the seat, and started for the house.

Hollander didn't know Dirk was on to him. Odds were he'd play this the same way he had before. Go on with his life as if he knew nothing. Not about Charlie's kidnapping, not about Meg's disappearance, or the ransom demand when it came.

A phone call to his cell would only tip him off. Dirk was betting that sooner or later he'd come home. When he did, Dirk would be waiting.

He made his way to the side gate, then slipped quietly around back. Manicured lawns, a covered terrace, a flower garden perfectly tended. Nice digs. Expensive digs. Hollander had been raised with money. He had expensive tastes.

Dirk took a look at the alarm keypad next to the back door. Wireless. He knew the system. He used a program on his iPhone to jam the signal, then worked his lock-pick tools in the door and let himself in to the house.

No sign of Hollander inside. No car in the garage. The house was immaculately clean, the interior professionally decorated, with a contemporary sofa in the living room, a pair of wingback chairs, and dark wood furniture. The only room that seemed to have had any use at all was the study, which, besides the desk, had a comfortable brown leather couch and a huge flat-screen TV.

He searched every drawer in the study. Nothing.

Dirk prowled down the hall to the master bedroom. He smiled grimly at the mirror over the big round bed. Mr. Casanova. Jesus, no wonder Meg had divorced him.

He searched the dresser drawers, scoffed. Silk underwear. Figured. A throw rug covered the carpet in front of the chair. Seemed a little out of place so he went over and picked it up. The carpet underneath had recently been scrubbed, leaving a faint pale stain.

He prowled a little more. He wasn't sure how much longer he could pace through the silent rooms without going stir-crazy. He called Meg's number again, but still got no answer, called Sadie, who said the phone was still offline.

He was about to give up and go back to the office, try another approach, when the sound of the garage door opening put him on alert. He took a position behind the door in the kitchen that led to the laundry room and garage.

When Hollander walked in, Dirk recognized him—barely—from his photos on the Internet. Six feet tall, black hair, gray three-piece suit, good-looking in an over-the-top,
GQ
sort of way. But his hair badly needed combing and his expensive suit was wrinkled and covered with dirt.

The suit and hair were incongruous with the house and everything Dirk knew about the man. From the looks of him, wherever he'd been, he wasn't sipping cocktails at the country club.

Dirk felt a wave of fury so strong his hands balled into shaking fists. He waited out of sight behind the door until Hollander flipped on a light in the kitchen, then quietly stepped up behind him.

“Where is she?”

Jonathan shrieked and whirled to face him. “Who . . . who are you? How did you get into my house?”

“Tell me where you've taken Meg and I'll leave. You don't, I'm probably going to wind up killing you.”

The color leached out of Hollander's face. He was older than Meg, forty to her not quite thirty, and his age had begun to show. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Dirk caught him by the front of his starched white shirt and lifted him up on his toes. “You're going to tell me. All of it. Where she is. Who took her. How many men are holding her. How much ransom they want for her release. What is it? Fifteen million this time? Twenty? You're going to answer every one of my questions—that I guarantee.”

“You're . . . you're Reynolds.”

“That's right. Now start talking.”

Jonathan shook his head. “Meg didn't show up for our meeting. I don't know why. I was busy. I didn't wait long. I don't know what happened to her.”

Dirk grabbed him around the throat and forced him to walk backward into the living room, then shoved him down hard in one of the wingback chairs. Crossing the room, Dirk pulled the drapes, flipped a switch that turned on a couple of lamps, then returned to where Hollander sat in white-faced silence.

“I know about the money you borrowed. I know you lost it in the stock market. Millions. That's why you kidnapped Charlie. You were willing to sacrifice your own son to get the money you needed.”

“That's not true! I would never harm my son!”

“Where. Is. Meg?”

Jonathan started shaking.

Dirk pulled out the little derringer he kept in his jeans pocket and pressed it beneath Hollander's chin. “You want to die, Jonathan? Because it won't bother my conscience a lick to kill a little pissant like you.”

Hollander jerked away. “You won't kill me. You think I know where to find Meg. If you kill me, you'll . . . you'll never find out.”

A fresh rush of fury rolled through him. He wanted to grab Hollander by the throat and squeeze till his eyes bugged out.

But the bastard was right. Dirk pocketed the pistol, took a steadying breath, and told himself to stay calm. He needed information, needed Hollander alive. He reminded himself to take it slow, bide his time.

Then he thought of Meg, of what might be happening to her—and lost it, drew back his fist, and punched Hollander square in the face. Jonathan's head snapped back and blood spurted from between his split lips. Jonathan whimpered.

“You're a real pretty boy, Hollander. You want to stay that way, you've got two choices. You can tell me what I want to know or I can knock every tooth out of your goddamned head, one by one, till you've got nothing left but bloody gums.” Dirk drew back his fist.

Tears filled Jonathan's eyes. “Don't hurt me, I'm begging you. If I could tell you, I would. If I do, they'll kill me. They already cut off my toes!”

Luke's voice rumbled from behind him. He must have talked to Sadie. Dirk hadn't heard him come in.

“You don't tell us what we want to know, you won't have to worry about your toes.” The soft
whoosh
of an eight-inch serrated blade sliding out of the sheath tied to Luke's thigh made Hollander cringe. “I'll cut off your fucking head.”

Holding up the blade, Luke took an ominous step closer to the chair.

“Wait! I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything. Just ... just don't hurt me again.”

As Luke sheathed his blade, Dirk felt an unexpected wave of pity for the man whose life had been nothing but a string of bad decisions. He wasn't sure how far he would have gone if Hollander hadn't caved. Fortunately he didn't have to make that decision.

Luke, on the other hand ...

Then again, with Luke, just the threat seemed to work.

“Where is she?” Dirk asked.

“She's on a plane out of the country. On her way to Argentina. I don't know where.”

Dirk glanced at Luke, who looked as poleaxed as Dirk felt. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Otto Gertsman. I owed him six million dollars. I couldn't pay him. Gertsman wanted Meg so we made a deal.”

“For chrissake, you sold Meg for six million dollars?”

Next to him, Luke's features turned grim. “How much ransom is he expecting to get?”

“There is no ransom. Meg for the six million. That was the deal.”

Dirk sat down hard on the sofa, his head dropping into his hands.

“Where in Argentina did Gertsman take her?” Luke asked with soft menace, clearly not feeling the least trace of pity for the guy and wiping away what little Dirk had once felt.

“Gertsman's company is based in Buenos Aires. That's all I know.”

Dirk took a calming breath and shoved up off the sofa. “What about The Fixer? How are you and Raymond Neville connected?”

“I don't know anyone by that name.”

“But you know someone who works for Gertsman, right? Medium height, athletic build? Maybe changed his appearance a couple of times since the two of you met?”

Jonathan looked sick. “Thomas Moore. Thomas Calvin. I don't know who he really is. He's Gertsman's man. He set up both kidnappings. I don't know anyone else who was involved.”

“When did you see him last?”

“This morning. He flew out with Meg on a jet taking off from Boeing Field. I don't know any of the details.”

Dirk pulled out his cell and sent a call to Sadie, put it on speaker so Luke could hear. “We need info on a guy named Otto Gertsman. Hollander set Meg up, but Gertsman's the man behind the kidnapping. His company's based in Buenos Aires.” He glanced at Hollander. “What's the name?”

“OGAR International.”
Otto Gertsman Argentina,
Dirk figured.

“You get that?” he asked Sadie.

“I got it. So I guess you didn't kill him,” Sadie said dryly.

Dirk almost smiled. “It was a close thing, but no. Dig deep, sweetness. Luke's here. We've got a couple of things to take care of; then we're heading out.”

“You got it.”

Dirk hung up the phone. His next call went to FBI Agent Ron Nolan. “I'm with Hollander, Ron, at his house. He set Meg up. She's on a jet to South America. Raymond Neville's trip to Argentina was a diversion. He came back, set up the second abduction. Now he's on the plane with Meg. Guy behind the kidnapping is a man named Otto Gertsman. Buenos Aires. You know anything about him?”

Silence fell on the other end of the line. “We need to talk,” Nolan said. “I'll have my men pick Hollander up at the house and bring him in. Where are you headed from there?”

“Back to the office. I've got some things I need to do.”

“I'll meet you there. We'll talk about Gertsman when I get there.”

Unease filtered through him. “We need to keep Hollander's arrest on the down low until we get Meg back.”