Night of the Living Deb (21 page)

So I typed in the numbers—$212,000—which, after the Dell sputtered and whirred for a bit, pulled up more than 139,000 matches.

Yowza.

Who’d of thunk it?

I did an Evelyn Woods speed-read of the dozen entries that came up first and saw one common denominator, and a bizarre one to boot. All had to do with the dognapping of Paris Hilton’s pooch. Apparently, the amount was precisely what the poor, jittery Chihuahua was ransomed for, before all the publicity scared the would-be bad guys and the critter was returned, unharmed.

Coincidence?

It was possible, I guessed.

Or were my boyfriend-nappers Paris Hilton fans?

Heavens to Britney! How frightening was that?

Because being enamored of the world’s most infamous dilettante clearly implied a lack of common sense and a huge dose of irrationality, not to mention a high degree of celebrity worship that hinted at a lifelong subscription to the
National Enquirer
.

It could also mean whoever was involved kept up on the local dish and the doings of Dallas society, which might be how they’d known about my status as a daughter of fortune.

Hmmm, interesting supposition, and maybe less off-the-wall than it had sounded initially.

So the $212,000 might not have been as random as it seemed. Less a figure pulled out of thin air than a need to be a copycat. Or else they figured Brian was my pet, like Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua?

Could it mean the kidnappers had a sense of humor? Or were they merely money-grubbing idiots?

Not wanting to get sidetracked by that clearly unsolvable riddle, I went ahead and dissected the phrasing the bad guy had used on the phone, searching for those parts I recalled verbatim.

“I won’t waste a bullet” and “sharpen my knife” came to mind, though the search for those terms merely brought up link after link with gun- and knife-related pages, some that looked like online diaries that detailed violent fantasies or lyrics to songs, even a few dealing with hunting.

I tried a few variations, but still came up empty.

I didn’t see anything that triggered an “ah-ha” kind of response, the way the $212,000 had.

So I went ahead and searched for “Trayla Trash,” because I was curious about the woman who’d caught Malone’s eye at the strip club—for whatever reason, and I was thinking of the obvious because, well, he was a heterosexual man and he wasn’t blind.

I turned up half a dozen pages related to exotic dancers at strip clubs across the country, even the cast of a porn flick called
Hillbilly Ho
. As much as I itched to find out more about Ms. Trayla’s career, I was nervous about clicking onto any of the links. I didn’t want to get trapped into triple X-rated pages that wouldn’t let me out.

Just for variation, I tried “Traylor Trash,” but most of those listings had to do with an Ohio garage band.

Who was Trayla Trash really?
I wondered, recalling that Lu had called her “Betsy,” but said she didn’t know much more than that about her private life.

Maybe strippers didn’t befriend barmaids. I wasn’t up on the chick-bonding protocol at gentlemen’s clubs.

Out of curiosity, I plugged in the name of the case Malone and Allie were working on as part of the defense team, taking several stabs at the spelling of “Oleksiy” before I found the one that triggered a handful of links.

I hadn’t asked Allie about it in detail, so I didn’t realize that Oleksiy was the dude’s first name. His surname was Petrenko, and he was a Ukrainian immigrant, a regular Horatio Alger who’d risen from poverty to minimogul, owning a string of dry cleaners and quietly investing in assorted other local businesses. Somewhere along the line his partner—his brother, as it were, who’d been sleeping

with Oleksiy’s wife, according to the pretrial articles—had turned on him, ratting him out to the feds for things like embezzlement and money laundering.

A money launderer who owned dry cleaning franchises?

That was classic.

As was the brother sleeping with the wife and then turning on his sib.

How very Cain and Abel.

There was only the grainiest photo of Petrenko, and all I could discern was that he looked rather ordinary. Not tall, not short. Neither bald nor thick-haired. A middleaged man who wouldn’t draw second glances. The online pieces didn’t share much personal info or name any of the witnesses who’d be testifying in court, besides the turncoat brother; though I figured Allie had more of that scoop at her fingertips.

I considered the amended witness list that Brian had taken from the file. Had someone on it wanted Malone out of the way? Had that same person killed Trayla Trash because of what she knew or had seen?

Was this Oleksiy Petrenko a patron of The Men’s Club?

More importantly, was he a client of Trayla’s? In particular, was he the elusive boyfriend who’d promised her a ticket to something better?

Still, I couldn’t figure out why Malone would want to talk to her or why doing so would get
him
into trouble.

I could understand why a rich man who was truly guilty of his alleged crimes and afraid of jail time would, perhaps, want to eliminate a player from the opposing team who intended to crucify him on the stand. But why would Oleksiy Petrenko mess with someone from his own defense team?

It simply wasn’t logical.

I only wished I’d asked Brian more about the case. He might’ve dropped something about Oleksiy that could shed light on what was going on, if there indeed was a connection.

There was a lot I didn’t know about Malone’s job.

Did he like his secretary? Was the coffee good? Did the cleaning people go through his desk drawers? Did his boss treat him like a lackey?

It was rare for him to bring up a current case with me, as he was fairly close-mouthed about anything ongoing. If he dished at all, it was mainly about successful verdicts or a hard-fought case lost.

Did that make me a crummy girlfriend?

Was I supposed to be deeply interested in every facet of his life, including the daily grind at ARGH, even if I found the legal world less than exciting?

Oh, man.

I could make myself crazy doing that, torturing myself with the “what ifs” and “wherefores.”

But I had to stop.

Second-guessing my past actions wasn’t going to fix things now.

About to sign off the Internet, I stopped myself and did one last search; this time for Brian Patrick Malone.

Like magic, related links appeared, and I scanned each one, seeing mostly attorney directories, a listing on ARGH’s Web site, and a few mentions of old cases in the archives of the local papers, as one would expect.

What I didn’t count on finding was a link to the Dallas Zoo, where Brian was a “zoo parent” to a Bengal tiger. He’d also sponsored several fund-raising efforts by MADD, and had participated in the last Susan Komen run.

He hadn’t he told me any of that.

It was good stuff, for Pete’s sake. It would’ve made me think all the more of him. Maybe it was just that he didn’t like to brag.

Or, perhaps, he needed to keep a few secrets.

I thought of what Allie had said after we’d gone to The Men’s Club.

When you think about it, really, how well do we know anyone? Everyone has secrets. Even Malone.

I hadn’t wanted to believe her then, but I realized she was right.

In the past twenty-four hours, since Brian Malone had vanished from the face of the Earth, I’d discovered more about him than in the four months we’d dated and talked and kissed and shared the sheets in my bed.

What was wrong with that picture?

There was so much more that I wanted learn about him, about his family, his cases, and I was scared witless that I might not have that chance.

Frustrated tears welled against my lashes, and I brushed my sleeve across my eyes to dry them.

I would not—could not—fall part.

The last thing Brian needed was a wimpy girlfriend.

He was counting on me, and I wouldn’t let him down.

I shut off the computer, picked up my still-silent cell phone, and left the familiar confines of my childhood bedroom where the gown intended for my debut still hung in the closet: still pristine white, never worn.

As I headed down the stairs, I heard the click of the front door unlatching. I saw Stephen enter as I descended quickly to the foyer.

He carried a fat black bag, which he deposited carefully against the wall as he turned to shut the door behind him.

When he saw me standing and watching him, he nodded grimly and said, “We’re all set, Andy. Let’s sit down, so I can tell you what I’ve done.”

Mother emerged from the hallway that led to the kitchen, her hands clasped and worry wrinkling her normally smooth brow.

“Is everything all right?”

Stephen reached for her and took her hand between his.

“I’ve got it under control, Cissy, I promise.”

She looked up at him and smiled, and I could see that she bought every word he’d said.

I wanted to believe as well. Only trust wasn’t exactly my strong suit.

“I need to talk to you both,” Stephen said, and jerked his chin in my direction.

“Shall we go to the den?” my mother suggested.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, not quite up to polite.

The kidnappers could call again at any moment, and I wanted to be as prepared as I could get.

Without another word, Stephen retrieved the satchel he’d set down by the door. It was the size of a bowling bag, though it didn’t look nearly as heavy.

“What’s in there?” My mother eyed the thing suspiciously, though I figured I knew what it held.

Two hundred twelve thousand dollars. Cash. Or maybe lots of bundles of plain paper with real hundreds banded on top, like in the movies. For Brian’s sake, I hoped it was the real thing. I didn’t want to mess up and have to live with what happened.

“I’ll show you after we sit down and chat,” Stephen assured us, and we headed back to the room where we’d previously gathered.

I glanced at the clock on the mantel as I settled on the sofa, the same spot I’d taken before.

It was just past four o’clock.

My mother came up behind me, setting her hands on my shoulders, and I felt grateful for her touch.

I palmed my cell, willing it to ring, hoping I would do the right thing when it did. I didn’t want to mess up.

“Andy, you with me here?”

I shifted my gaze from the mantel clock and toward Stephen. He’d set the bulging black bag on the coffee table, and his left hand rested on the zipper flap.

“Sorry,” I told him. “What’d I miss?”

“The pay phone number,” he said. “It’s from a booth outside the IHOP on Northwest Highway, near Love Field.”

“Near the airport,” I murmured, thinking of all the implications, because that’s where Brian’s car was found, and it wasn’t far from the strip club where he’d gone with Matty. “Is there any way to find out who made the call?” I asked, realizing it was a stretch even as I said it. “I have the time of the call on my cell.”

Stephen shook his head. “I drove out there myself, Andy, after I located the number in the reverse directory.

But there’s no security camera outside the restaurant that faces the pay phone area. The lighting’s bad besides, and there isn’t a window in the restaurant that gives a clear shot to the phone. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks for trying,” I said, and he nodded.

“Listen, honey . . .”

Whoa, that got my attention, as Stephen had never called me “honey” before, and it reminded me of my dad, the way he used “pumpkin” when he’d address me.

“. . . I want you to know you’re not alone in this. I’ll be there, every step of the way, keeping an eye on you.”

Every step of the way?

But the kidnappers wanted me alone!

Did he want to jeopardize everything?

I started to protest, and he must’ve read the panic in my face, as he quickly got out, “Andy, breathe easy. I’ll stay out of sight. No one will know I’m there. Trust me.”

There he went with that “trust” thing again.

“Listen to him, Andrea,” my mother said and squeezed my shoulders.

It was hard to do, but I gulped down my reluctance.

“Don’t let them see you, Stephen, please.”

“I’ll be careful, honey, don’t worry.”

I nodded, but I worried just the same.

“So what’s in the bag?” Cissy asked without further ado, and Stephen slowly began to unzip it. When he was done, he tipped the gaping belly toward us There they were, in black and white . . . and green.

Bundles of bills bound with paper wrappers.

And lots of them, from the looks of things.

I leaned toward the coffee table so I could peer deeper into the bag. “Is it all there? Everything?”

“Two hundred twelve thousand, yes,” he said. “Go ahead.

Touch it, Andy. Tell me how it looks.”

I set my cell in my lap and cautiously reached forward to dig into the bag’s gaping middle. I withdrew a firm stack of hundreds, sniffed them, and riffled the bills with my thumb like a deck of cards.

Yep. They looked like crisp Benjamins, only not the new kind with the bigger middle. The older style, but I guessed that was all right.

“Do they feel okay?” Stephen asked.

What an odd question.

Mostly to humor him, I gave the bills a squeeze before I put the bundle back. “Yeah, they feel just fine.”

“How do they look to you?”

That was weird question number two.

“Why? Are they not real?” I asked and squinted at Mother’s beau, wondering what his question implied.

Were they fakes? Funny money? Forgeries?

If they were, they were good, to my layman’s eyes, anyway.

Stephen leaned elbows on knees, gazing at the money bag. “Yes, Andy, they’re counterfeit. I have a good friend who was a Treasury agent for thirty-five years. A couple times, he came across fake bills he didn’t have the heart to destroy. They were works of art to him, and he saved a few for posterity.”

And some people merely pilfered office pencils.

“They’re just on loan for tonight,” Stephen explained. “I told him I’d have them back by morning.”