Overdrive (28 page)

  •  •  •  

We gather at a park a few miles from Roger's mansion, cobbling together a plan, some kind of next step. I'm only half listening. Emma's voice whispers in my head about how I've fucked up, how I should have been there with her. How she
knew
I was up to no good.

I press my lips together, holding firm to the last of my worry. I can't break now. Emma needs me.

Where is she? Has she suffered another anxiety attack? God, how could she not? Being kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend is not exactly the definition of stability.

Nick reaches under the picnic table and takes my hand, his skin cool to the touch. I know he's shouldered some guilt of his own on this.

“We could go to the police,” Chelsea says.

The tips of her chrome fingernails are chipped and torn. I haven't bothered to see if she's changed the color on her toes to Nightmist Blue.

“Going to the cops means owning up to what we've done,” Mat says. “We'll go to jail.” His eyes meet mine. “But if it means saving Emma, I'll do it. I'll do whatever it takes, just so that's clear.”

It's this combined love for my sister that holds me together.

Nick shakes his head. “Riley isn't afraid of the police.”

“And some of them are on his payroll,” I say, thinking back to when the Aston Martin was taken from the airplane hangar. “We have no evidence to link back to any of this.”

But there's a mountain of it that could bring the four of us down. I can't help but think the rest of them are paying for my mistakes–especially my sister.

Nick rubs the top of my knee. “Riley's a thug, but he won't hurt Emma. Not as long as we stick to the plan.”

When it comes to his former boss, Nick's instincts have backfired, but I have to believe Riley is more interested in his business than in hurting a kid. “It's different now that we know Roger has had Eleanor all along.”

Saying the words makes my stomach roil. I've worked through every possible scenario, but none of them explains it. I suck in a breath to stop from crying. To think I almost started trusting Roger.

“Go through it again,” Nick says. “How did you find Eleanor, Mat? Maybe it will give us some perspective.”

Mat sets an old laptop on the picnic table. I stand behind him to block the sun from hitting the screen. A smiley-face sticker mocks me from the corner of the computer case.

“I started noticing weird patterns whenever I entered key words into the trawling program.” He powers up the screen. “No matter what I typed into the search, I got the same six dead ends. Like I'd been blocked or something.”

Technology shit usually goes over my head, but even I understand that there should be more than a half-dozen combinations, especially given the extensive list of key words we came up with. “Roger?”

Mat shrugs. “I had no reason to think so at the time.”

“Why would you?” Chelsea picks at the peeling blue paint on the picnic table. “Far as we knew, we were supposed to find the car for him.”

“I thought maybe my IP had been tracked,” Mat says. “So I switched computers. Twice. I got the same dead ends. I figured it had something to do with the laptops Roger bought, so I went back to old faithful.” He taps the top of his screen. “After shit went down last night, I installed the trawler and tried again.”

“Smart,” Nick says.

“I started a new scan, using some of the same key words . . . plus a few extras,” Mat says.

“Like
asshole
and
dickhead  
?” Everyone looks at me and I shake my head to stop from blubbering. This isn't the first time I've felt betrayed, but it doesn't make sense that Roger could be so cruel. Why send us on this wild goose chase? “What could you have added?”

“Hacking isn't always about exploiting technology,” Mat says with a slight grin. “It's also about exploiting humans. I dug around in Roger's virtual files”–he raises an eyebrow–“and his password to almost everything is the title of a Doors song. I also found this.”

He points to a picture on the screen. It's old and faded, probably taken in the late sixties. Just two guys standing next to Eleanor. The first guy is Jim Morrison–I recognize him from the poster in the basement. The second . . .

“Dude. Is that Roger?”

“That mustache,” Chelsea says with an exaggerated shudder.

“Okay, so he's clearly had a boner for this car for a long time,” Nick says. “But that doesn't mean he
has
that car.”

“Every car has a VIN number,” Mat says. “A unique code that includes a serial number for tracking. I hacked into his personal files and found a spreadsheet listing the VIN numbers of the cars he owns. There's no description of the cars, so at first glance, it looks kind of random, but I plugged in the VIN for Eleanor and it popped up right away.”

My entire body goes limp with defeat.

“That car is
not
in the Trophy Case,” Nick says. “I'd have remembered the color. So, where is he keeping it?”

“The garage,” I say quietly. “It's the one place Roger has banned us from.” A sliver of hope cuts through the gloom. Busting into the Trophy Case for one of the Shelbys might be a challenge, but breaking into the garage would be child's play for Chelsea.

“It's not in the garage,” she says. All eyes land on her. “You think I didn't tap that lock? Come on, guys.”

My optimism hits a dead end. “Anything in there we can use?”

She rubs her temples. “Nothing I can think of. It wasn't even a satisfying break-in–some junk, a bunch of movie memorabilia . . .”

I scrunch up my nose. “Jesus. What's the deal with that, anyway?”

“He likes to collect things, but . . .” Chelsea's eyes brighten. “Holy crap, that's it!” She stands and begins to pace. “Something has always bugged me about the props in the house. How they looked out of place, but somehow familiar.”

“Maybe they're from well-known movies,” Mat says. “Why else would Roger collect them?”

“Nah. That mask in the games room? That's from a super B-grade horror flick from the seventies. I don't even know why
I
remember it,” Chelsea says.

I pull out my phone and Google search the movie, scrolling through the pictures of the actors. I point to an image that looks somewhat familiar. “This actress . . . she was in that knight movie with what's his name? Hugo? Harry.”

“Henry!” Nick says. “I think it was called
White Knight Tale
.”

Chelsea makes a face. “That's the most ludicrous title I've ever heard.”

“Holy shit.” Mat turns his screen around so we can all see. “Check this out. According to IMDb, the actress who played alongside that guy is Eloise. Eloise Montgomery.”

My stomach clenches as I recognize her picture from the living room. “Roger's wife?”

Mat calls up a search engine and types in her name. Her IMDb listing credits her with more than a dozen obscure films. He scrolls through a series of articles written about her until we're all sure Eloise is Roger's wife.

Nick leans over Mat's shoulder, reading. “Check out her bio. The Trophy Case was hers. She loved muscle cars.”

I pull out my cell phone and type her name into Google. The first item is an article about her death. I zoom in on the picture of the car, a blue and white Chevelle similar to the one in Roger's driveway, except the one on my screen is totaled. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “She died in a car crash.”

“That's terrible.” Chelsea peers over my shoulder. “What else does the article say about her?”

I skim the text until I land on a paragraph that sticks out like a flashing burlesque sign. My mouth dries to desert sand. “You guys . . .” A sick sensation creeps across my skin. “Eloise Montgomery was supposed to be the next Bond girl.”

Nick's eyes go big. “As in James . . . Bond?”

I nod. “It was her dream role, but she died before they started filming.”

Mat whistles low. “It makes sense . . . why he wanted the car.”

“She never had the chance to act in her dream role,” I whisper. “Giving her the Bond car was probably Roger's way of honoring her.”

Chelsea presses her hand to her chest. “That's so sad.”

I blink to stop the tears from coming, thinking of the few times Roger talked about Eloise. The way he sometimes looks at Nick and me together, as if remembering his own love that was cut too short. He wasn't over losing her–not without finishing the Trophy Case. Maybe not even then.

“Check the date she died,” Mat says.

I know the answer before he reads it out loud. Eloise Montgomery, aspiring actress, Roger's beloved wife, was killed five years ago, one week from today, which would have been their twenty-fifth–silver–wedding anniversary.

The same day as our deadline.

My emotion squeaks out in a strangled cry. “I need to talk to him.”

Nick grabs my wrist. “And tell him what? That we know about Eleanor? About Eloise? How will that help us get Emma back?”

“He cares for her,” I say, desperate to believe that, amid all the lies, I can trust in that truth. “Maybe if we tell him everything, he'll let us have the Shelby, or one of them in the Trophy Case–at least to get Emma back.”

There would be other consequences, but we can deal with them.

Mat's eyes gloss over. “I don't doubt he loves Emma, Jules. But how can we trust him? Not after he kept Eleanor a secret. What else is he hiding?”

“We need to get our hands on a Shelby,” Nick says. “And if we can't get into the Trophy Case, then we need to find Eleanor.”

“I don't even know where to start,” Chelsea says. “The information about that car could be anywhere.”

“There has to be a reason the garage is off-limits,” I say. “Maybe among those props and other memorabilia, we'll find a clue?”

“Good thinking,” Chelsea says.

I sure hope so. Because it's not my life that depends on it–it may be our only shot at saving Emma.

  •  •  •  

“It's daylight,” Chelsea whispers. “Shouldn't we wait until night?”

No time. So far we've managed to hide Emma's disappearance with a tall tale about her sleeping over at Melissa's house for a couple of days. Roger made it clear it's an unsanctioned move, but when we reminded him that it gives us the freedom to boost the last cars on his list, he let it drop and retreated to his sitting room with a tumbler of whiskey and a new hot rod magazine. Now I just pray he won't call Melissa's mom. Somehow he doesn't strike me as the type.

“Maybe we should just tell Roger,” Chelsea says.

“Nick's right. I can't trust him anymore.”

She puts her hand on my arm. “My dad . . . he's connected. I could call him.”

Fresh tears spring to my eyes. The significance of the offer carves into my heart, the lengths she'd go to for me–for my sister. I pull her into a hug and squeeze so hard I'm afraid she might snap in half. “That means . . . everything.”

“This whole thing has made me realize . . .” She blinks away a tear. “I really took my parents for granted.”

“You should call them. Their life's probably been boring since you left.”

Chelsea laughs. “Dad's a politician, what could possibly be more boring than that?” She exhales and I'm shocked by the sense of peace that falls across her face. “I'm not really a foster kid, you know.”

My lip curls into a half smile. “I'm shocked.”

She ducks her head a little. “Roger didn't press charges when I broke into his warehouse because of who my dad is. When I screwed up, Roger offered to take me in, some hush-hush deal between high-powered aquaintances.”

The idea makes my stomach roil, the thought that Chelsea's dad would so easily give her up.

“Senator Lynch is one of Roger's charities,” Chelsea says. “Political stuff. You know?”

I don't, but I understand that's not the real issue here. Chelsea misses her family, even if she's not ready to admit it.

“When this is over . . . ,” she says.

I squeeze her arm. “They'll be thrilled to have you home.”

“Aw.” Mat's voice
pings
through my earpiece. “You two need more time, or are we doing this?”

I clear my throat. “Stop eavesdropping, you creeper.”

He can't risk cutting the security cameras, so he's shifted the lens enough so we can access the garage door. But if things go as planned, Roger won't even know we've been here.

Chelsea glances over her shoulder. “What if one of the staff sees us?”

Definite possibility. “That's why we need to be quick.”

Seconds later, we're in.

I head straight to the boxes of memorabilia and start rooting through them. Nothing. Chelsea takes the posters off the wall and checks behind the frames. She comes up blank.

My shoulders sag. “Fuck, Chelsea, I thought for sure we'd find something here.”

“He's too smart to be that obvious.”

I look around the garage. “There's nothing else in here, right?”

Chelsea reassembles the pictures and starts to hang them on the wall, concentrating hard to keep the order the same. “His file cabinet. But I already went through that.”

I switch two of the posters back to their original placement. “No raised flags?”

She shakes her head. “Info on each of us, some property deeds, blah blah.” Her eyes widen. “Wait. I did see a set of blueprints for the Trophy Case before I knew what they were.”

I think of the secret room he built for my small ballet studio. Could he have done the same for Eleanor? “Do your thing.”

Chelsea crosses to the other side of the garage. “Damn, he's good.” She digs around in her pockets for the right tool and unlocks the file cabinet. After a quick flip through the files, she pulls out a rolled-up piece of paper.