Taken (10 page)

“Why can’t we start right now?” I want to know.

“I’m afraid it can’t be ‘we,’ Mrs. Bickford. I’ll handle this on my own, in my own way.”

“You said you don’t drive.”

He shrugs. “True. I’ll hire a driver.”

“I’d be paying for the driver, correct?”

Another shrug. “I suppose so. Eventually you’d recompense Maria’s office and she’d recompense me.”

“Then I’m hiring a driver. Me.”

He studies me, sees that I’m serious. “We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

“Why wait until morning? Why not start right now?”

“Because we start with a lawyer, and his office won’t be open at this hour.”

“The guy in Queens?”

“The guy in Queens, exactly right.” Randall Shane stands up and stretches his long, lanky frame.

I really like the fact that his knuckles brush the ceiling.

T
he rental car arrives at 9:30 a.m., delivered by a neatly dressed young man with raven-black hair and soulful, chocolate-brown eyes who introduces himself as Mohammed. He cheerfully presents me with the key and a business card, should there be any problems with the car.

“Ford Taurus very reliable,” he assures me. Then quickly slips into an almost identical sedan that followed him to the motel, driven by another dark young man who could be Mohammed’s brother. A moment later they leave the parking lot without a backward glance. Mission accomplished.

Elapsed time, less than one minute. I’m thinking there are certain things we still do pretty well here in the good old U.S.A., and no-muss-no-fuss car rentals is one of them.

Wheels. I’m feeling a little more in control of myself and my fractured world, and that’s good. Actually got about nine hours’ sleep, which is amazing, considering. The same can’t be said for Mr. Shane, who shared my funky room for the night, having volunteered as bodyguard to alleviate any anxiety I might have about the man in the mask returning. Excuse me—Bruce.

“He won’t be back,” Shane had assured me. “But just in case, I’ll be here.”

With that, he borrowed a pillow, laid his long frame out on the ancient carpeting and proceeded to stare at the ceiling.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, sensing my concern. “Good floor.”

It seems that Randall Shane doesn’t sleep, at least not in a normal way. He confided that he hasn’t slept normally for many years. Some sort of sleep disorder, although he’s been somewhat vague about the specifics.

“Best I can do is achieve a kind of meditative state,” he said, as if describing an affliction as ordinary as tennis elbow or a bad back. “I kind of zone out, but my eyes are usually open.”

“Are you serious? That sounds horrible!”

“It is,” he admitted. “I’ve been hospitalized for it twice. Went through the whole course at a sleep disorder clinic. Flunked it, too. Only way I can achieve a full unconscious state is by taking powerful drugs. Not sleeping pills, the stuff they use on horses. Can’t tolerate the side effects, so I don’t use it. And in any case, the drugged state isn’t refreshing. Because it isn’t a normal sleep.”

“My God.”

“Praying doesn’t work, not for a sleep disorder. Tried it.”

“It must drive you crazy.”

“It does,” he said from the floor. “Humans need to dream—most animals do, apparently—and I can’t, so my brain sometimes produces hallucinations. That’s why I can’t drive. Might see something that isn’t there. Or not see something that is.”

He’s still examining the ceiling, so he can’t be aware that my jaw has dropped. It seems that Ms. Savalo’s description of him as “eccentric” is no exaggeration. If eccentric covers those who suffer from waking hallucinations.

“Don’t worry,” he assured me. “I’m perfectly sane. I don’t see people who aren’t there, or hear voices. Just images. They tell me it’s retinal firing, whatever that is. My brain attempting to sleep when the rest of me is wide-awake. That’s the theory, anyhow. Nobody really knows.”

“But you can work?”

I must have sounded concerned, because something in my tone made him sit up and meet my eyes.

“I can work just fine,” he said. “Just can’t drive. So normally I hire a car service.”

“Not this time. I’m driving.”

“No way to dissuade you?”

“No.”

“Could be dangerous if I stumble on to something,” he points out.

“That’s why I want to be there. In case you do.”

“How about this?” he says. “How about we take it one day at a time.”

“If you find my son, I have to be there. However many days it takes.”

Shane sighs. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll find your son, Mrs. Bickford. Go on, get some
z’s.
”

“Can’t.”

“Sure you can. Sleep for both of us.”

I remember undressing under the covers, and then nothing until seven in the morning, when a ray of sunshine came through a broken slat of the venetian blinds. With waking came a brief spasm of total panic. Where am I? Where’s Tommy? After sorting that out—yes, it all happened, it wasn’t a bad dream—I notice that Shane is gone.

“Randall?”

Instantly the door opens. Shane tilts his head into the room, a cell phone up to his ear—he’s stepped outside to make or take a call, that’s all—and whatever relief I feel is deflated by the reminder that I find myself in need of a bodyguard-slash-investigator. Not to mention a lawyer.

After a quick shower, I put on the new underwear, jeans and T-shirt. Shane is waiting for me outside, hair still damp from his own shower, and as we walk down to breakfast he explains that he’s just completed a lengthy phone consultation with Maria Savalo. Discussing legal and investigative strategy. A petulant twinge makes me wonder if I’m paying for both ends of the conversation. Of course I am, but what does it matter?

“Maria says she’ll speak to you later today,” Shane tells me, as we walk into the shabby little motel restaurant. “I told her our plan for the day—or at least, my plan—and that we’d keep in touch. I didn’t mention you’d be driving me. She wouldn’t approve, to put it mildly.”

“He’s my son. I’m going to be there.”

Shane nods.

After breakfast—not bad, really, considering what the place looks like—we go back to the room and wait for the rental-car delivery. Making polite conversation but not discussing the situation, as if by unspoken assent agreeing to let our food digest before returning to the grim reality.

Now, finally, we’re on the road.

“I need to stop at work first,” I tell him, accelerating into a gap in the traffic circle.

“Work?”

“My catering business,” I remind him.

“Oh. Right. I thought you ran that out of your house.”

“I take calls there, and have a home office, but the actual food is prepared elsewhere. I’ve got to speak to Connie, my floor manager.”

The warehouse is only a few miles from the motel, and traffic is light, so we’re there in less than ten minutes. Shane suggests I cruise past the place, make sure no media hounds are baying for my blood.

I recognize most of the cars in the lot, in particular Connie’s new lime-green Beetle, with the small bouquet of real cut flowers she always keeps in the vase bolted to the dash. She loves that little car, and it makes me ache with wanting to explain what has happened. God knows what she’s heard on the news, or via local gossip.

“You want me inside?” Shane asks.

I kill the ignition and take a deep breath, heart pounding. “Better do this myself,” I tell him. Not at all sure that I’m capable of explaining Randall Shane to anyone, let alone a group of anxious employees.

Inside the warehouse, I hear a buzz of voices coming from the industrial kitchen down the hall. First person I see upon opening the door is Sherona, our pastry chef, and when she spots me her chubby brown face actually pales. “Oh!” she squeaks. “Oh!”

“Hi, Sherona. Hi, Connie. Hi, everybody.”

“Oh, my God!” says Connie, hands to her mouth. “We heard you were in jail!”

I plop down onto a stool, next to the rack of ovens. Which are not being utilized, I can’t help noticing. The day’s work has not yet commenced. Perfectly understandable, considering that the boss has just been unveiled as a killer mom, or at the very least a suspect in a murder.

“Okay, people, if you’ll listen up, please. I only want to say this once, and hope you’ll understand if I’m not my usual charming self.” That produces a guffaw from Sherona, and suddenly there are a few tentative grins showing on the concerned faces. “I was in jail, but no charges have been filed.”

“What happened, Kate?” Connie wants to know.

Connie Pendergast, six feet tall in her flats, is lean and angular, with great cheekbones and what my mother used to call a “strong” nose. Profile a bit like Virginia Woolf, come to think, or maybe Nicole Kidman playing Woolf. Someone trying to be unkind might describe Connie as “horsey,” but I’d argue that she’s handsome. Beautiful gray eyes that glow with intelligence, and a clear, tightly pored complexion make her look at least a decade shy of her forty years. Connie is twice divorced, currently paired with Mr. Yap, her pathologically spoiled Pekingese, and is one of the few women I know who play chess seriously.

As a manager, she happens to be so utterly competent I’ve been toying with the idea of making her partner. Or at least giving her an interest in the business. Haven’t mentioned it to her yet, and this isn’t the time. No guarantee the business will even survive, given the current state of affairs.

“I can’t go into all the details right now,” I continue, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “So here’s the short version. My son, Tommy, was kidnapped three days ago. I paid the ransom but he has not been returned. The kidnappers, or someone in league with them, killed Fred Corso and left his body in my house. Evidence implicating me was placed on his body. The police consider me a prime suspect but have not yet indicted me. I’ve no idea what they’re going to do.”

“What are
you
going to do?” Connie wants to know.

“I’m going to find my son. I’ve hired an expert on recovering abducted children. He thinks we’ve got a good shot at finding Tommy alive. Obviously, I won’t have time to be here, looking after the business, so I’m going to rely on all of you to get the job done.”

They all looked stunned, maybe even a little frightened. Most of the employees I know very well, having worked with them every day. A few are recent hires, less familiar to me, and my next statement is really for them.

“Here’s the deal—stick by me and I’ll stick by you. Or stick by the business, if you want to think of it that way. For now, everyone gets paid. If the catering dries up because my reputation is ruined, I’ll sell off the assets and divide them among the employees. That’s my promise. In return, I ask that you not discuss me or my son or this business with anyone from the media. Will you all agree to that?”

Twelve somber faces nod agreement.

“We need to talk privately,” I say to Connie, and she follows me into the small, stacked-with-can-goods room we share as an office.

When the door is eased shut I hand her a box of tissues and say, “First thing, I want you to stop crying.”

She weeps, blows her formidable nose, keeps on weeping. “Poor Tomas,” she manages to say between blows. “I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s such a sweet kid. He must be so scared.”

I take back the box of tissues and blot away my own tears. “Great,” I say. “Now we’re both weeping.”

“It’s just so horrible.”

“I really need you, Con. The kidnappers got all my cash. The lawyer is taking a lien on the house. God knows what the investigator is charging, I haven’t had the courage to ask him yet. So the business needs to make money for as long as we can, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, making one last honk into a wad of tissues. “Phone has been ringing off the hook. I switched it to voice mail.”

I nod. “When I leave, switch it back. What are they saying?”

“They’re worried we won’t show up. For most of them it’s too late to find another caterer.”

“Anybody cancel?”

“No,” says Connie, looking shocked. “Why would they do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe they don’t want their wedding catered by a kidnapping killer mom?”

“Nobody thinks that!” Connie says vehemently.

“What did you hear on the news?”

Connie gives me an odd look. “You don’t know? You didn’t watch?”

“Didn’t have the guts.”

Connie sighs and shrugs. “Lots of alleged this and sources said that. Something about a custody fight for Tomas and poor Fred got in the way. Nothing very specific.”

For the last year or so I’ve been leaving the planning and preparation to Connie and the crew, and concentrating my own efforts on corporate sales. Obviously, that’s not possible right now. We’ll go with what we’ve got and worry about the future when it gets here. If it gets here.

“We’re booked solid for two months, right?”

“You know we are,” Connie says with a small, satisfied smile. “We’re the best, my dear. Clients check with us before they set wedding dates.”

“They do, don’t they?”

“Darn right they do. And a lot of the invitations I see include the phrase ‘refreshments provided by Kate Bickford.’ Not even Katherine Bickford Catering. Just your name. That’s how well known you are.”

“How well known ‘we’ are,” I correct her. “I haven’t baked a pie or a cookie in two years.”

“Doesn’t matter. People trust us to bring them great food. And that won’t change.”

“Thanks, Coach. This is exactly what I needed to hear.”

Connie responds by giving me a hug. Making me feel small and safe because she’s so much taller than I am, and because I can sense the strength radiating from her angular frame.

“You are not to worry about the business,” she tells me. “Worry about Tomas, or the cops, or the lawyers, or whatever else you have on your mind, but do not worry about the business.”

I pull away, wiping my eyes. “You’re the best, Con.”

Connie smiles. “I really am. Now beat it. Go find Tomas.”

I’m out of the warehouse and on my way to the parking lot when a hand touches my shoulder. Hits me like an electrical zap, but when I turn it’s only Sherona, looking appalled to have frightened me.

“Sorry,” she says meekly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What can I do for you?” I respond, dreading that she’s about to give notice. We’ve been through four pastry chefs in five years and Sherona is by far the best, and the most reliable. A bit rocky for the first few months, but since she settled in and developed the necessary confidence her work has been superb.

“Just wanted to say, ma’am, doesn’t matter if you did it, not to me.”

I’m so stunned I can’t think of how to respond.

Sherona, aware of my discomfort, begins to speak faster and faster. “I mean, it’s like what I’m trying to say is, I’m sure you didn’t do it and you’re innocent and everything, but even if you did do it you must have had a reason. Maybe that cop got physical on you or something, you had to defend yourself.”

The look of intense concentration on her normally angelic face reminds me of something I’d put out of my mind, since Sherona herself never brought it up after she started work. According to her résumé, and several letters of recommendation, her training as a pastry chef had taken place at the Bridgeport Sanctuary, a shelter for abused women. So she undoubtedly knows a thing or two about threatening males, and the fear they instill in otherwise strong and self-reliant females. And she’s assuming I may have had a similar experience.