The Doll Brokers (27 page)

Ann Lesage wasn't giving up. She was in Hong Kong, wheeling, dealing, trying. The stubborn, kiss-my-ass bitch refused to understand that she was up against a brick wall and could go no farther.

She had been on the hunt for Chow. Vincent knew that she hadn't found him. He'd gotten a call from the whimpering, whining fool whom Chow had put in the office there. Perhaps she had found Ling. Vincent was waiting for further word to ascertain if that had happened.

A call to the New York district attorney's office—he had posed as a reporter—had informed him that Patrick Morhardt was temporarily off his legal hook. He would be tucked away, drying out, for another five and a half weeks or so, thanks to Felicia. Vincent intended to wrap this up before Patrick got out of the clinic and could cause problems.

From all reports, Felicia would not survive much longer. But no matter. If she didn't go quietly, he would find a way to help her along.

Jonathan Morhardt might still only have a limited knowledge of Hart Toy, but he was proving to be the biggest nuisance of all. Vincent knew the time would come where he would have to be dealt with as well.

As for Ann, he would have his release. The years of waiting would soon pay off. But first there were other loose ends to attend to.

Verna's door opened a crack and she peered out at him.

“I have to see you,” he said. “Let me in.”

She went to close the door, but his foot was wedged behind it.

“I just came for the contract,” he explained quietly. “Were you able to get it for me?”

Despite the promise of safety the chain on the door provided, Verna began to break out in a sweat. “Not yet,” she said. “I'm sorry. I'll take care of it tomorrow.”

Without commenting, Vincent threw his weight against the door and crashed his way into her apartment. In a matter of seconds, he had her pinned against the wall.

He hit her before she could recover, hard, in the jaw, hearing the crack of bone. He pushed the apartment door closed behind him and locked it.

Verna lay spread-eagled on the floor. She was so dizzy she thought she would pass out. Her mouth was on fire.

“Verna?” he called her name.

She hoped if she ignored him he'd disappear, like a ghost.

He bent over her, reached down and forced her to her feet. She was wobbly and could not support herself. He guided her to the closest kitchen chair. “I will ask you one more time,” he said.

“Please…” she whimpered.

His fist came up and caught her on the other side of her jaw. Her bare toes caught in the chair support. It jerked her weight towards him and threw her off balance.

This time there was no crack of bone, but her eyes rolled back in her head and she started going down.

On the floor, she collapsed in the fetal position.

He saw an opening and kicked her in the ribs. Then he leaned over her. “For the last time, where did you put the contract?”

When his question was met with silence, his foot found the back of her neck, and he stomped down, putting his full weight behind it. She went flat suddenly and was still.

Vincent reached for a fistful of her hair and used his grip to roll her over. Then he cracked her head, again and again on the floor. He caught her arm and twisted it back, feeling bone give. He kicked her in the hip, got down on his knees and pummeled her with his fists. Now there was blood. Everywhere.

When he finally stood, his hands were stained. He went into the bathroom, washed up, and began his methodical search of the apartment. He had instructed the bitch to steal the contract, and he suspected it was here … somewhere.

He began with the hall closet, checking the few shelves, going through her sweater and coat pockets. From this closet to the one in the bedroom. Then drawers in the kitchen were opened, and the ones in the bureau in the bedroom.

Nothing. He couldn't find a thing.

Losing patience, he was just turning away when the bed caught his eye. He reached under the mattress. Nothing there. He strolled to the other side and raised the pillow … and there it was.

Satisfied, he pocketed the contract, and with a final glance at Verna's broken body, headed out the door.

T
his was bullshit.
Bullshit.
Four days now without a drink, Patrick thought. Four days.

He looked around at his prison-like room, breathing hard. White walls. A narrow single bed, with a mattress about as deep as a postage stamp. One pillow, hard as his mother's heart. With the intention of slamming it against the wall, he went to pick up the lamp from the bedside table but it was clamped down. Just as well. If he threw anything, nurses and various personnel would come running. They'd give him another needle. The last time he'd caused a fuss, he'd slept for thirteen straight hours.

It was almost suppertime and he'd just gotten a call from Frank Ketch. The lawyer had told him the Chinese were sending someone to the States to talk to him. Big deal. No hardship. He was going to lose his driver's license for a while. Nothing anyone could do about that. Ketch was working on convincing the D.A. that the cocaine was part and parcel of the attempt to frame him. In the end, in all likelihood, he'd get off with the DUI charge and its ramifications—the lost license, the auto insurance jab—and maybe probation on the cocaine. So he was stuck here for five and a half more weeks. For
nothing
.

He had to get out. There was no reason for him to be here anymore. He had signed himself in, but he wasn't permitted to sign himself out. This was insane.

Patrick went to the door and opened it. At least they didn't lock him in. The long hall outside his room was empty and led to a common area with an elevator. The elevator went down to the lobby, and there was always a security guard there. To get to the common area, he had to pass by the nurse's station. There were—to his knowledge, and Patrick had looked—no other exits off the floor. Fucking fire hazard, he thought. A death pit.

They fed him breakfast in the morning, then threw him outside for exercise, like a dog. When they brought him back in, he spent an hour with a shrink, then another hour in group therapy. Lunch, then the infirmary for a physical check-up, going over all his vital signs, drawing blood, probably to make sure he hadn't sneaked anything into his room. Finally, there was ‘common' time—he hated the expression—with a group of drooling low-life drunks and addicts in the big room down the hall, playing board games, watching the tube.

He wasn't an alcoholic. There had never been a time in Patrick's life when he had been unable to function just because he'd been drinking. He wouldn't even have run from that bloody cop if the guy had just talked to him. If he'd had the opportunity he might still have gotten the DUI, but his briefcase would not have been searched, and he would have charmed his way out of this whole ridiculous mistake.

Patrick stood in the doorway of his room and let out a loud groan. Then he saw the night nurse leave her station. She stepped down the hall, into the rest room, and his pulse raced.

He never gave any thought to what he would do if he actually managed to get out of this place. They had taken his wallet, all his money and his keys. Currently, Patrick had nothing to call his own except the trousers and T-shirt he wore—clinic-issue. But
he walked past the nurse's station anyway, right into the common area and into the elevator. It was then that he realized he was barefoot. Screw it. He'd never get past the guard in the lobby.

But a ray of hope lit his imagination, tantalizing him. Once he was back in his life, he would fight them—holier-than-thou Jonathan and vindictive Ann. And his mother, if he had to. He still couldn't believe that she had turned on him.

The elevator doors opened to the lobby. The guard at the desk was on the phone. Patrick punched the third floor button fast. The doors slid shut.

So he'd ride up and down all night, he thought. Until someone noticed the elevator's movement. What the hell. It beat watching TV.

Then Patrick paused to study the button panel. There were three patient floors, then L for lobby and B for basement. He hit B. It peaked on the third floor and started on its way.

This time when the doors opened, he looked out into a furnace room. Feeling another skitter of excitement, Patrick stepped off the car onto cold concrete. He headed past an incinerator, six separate hot water heaters and the furnace itself. On the far wall, behind all that, he found an exit. He had every expectation that if he opened that door, an alarm would sound. But they wouldn't have dogs out there, or armed guards. This was a rehab clinic, not a jail. What would they do if they caught him? Shoot him?

Patrick pushed on the door and stepped out into the night. Nothing happened. He waited, every muscle tensed, every nerve tingling, but there was nothing.

His legs started moving. The cold bit into his skin. Within five minutes, his feet went numb. He reached a parking lot, then a long driveway.

Patrick started running. Not down the drive, no, because he believed he'd be too exposed. Instead, he crashed into the woods that lined the asphalt. More than once he swore aloud when his
bare feet came down on something painful. He finally sat on a fallen log to pull his feet up and try to see the bottoms. The trees blotted out any moonlight, so he ran a hand over one sole. It came back wet. Probably blood, he figured.

But he was free.
He was actually out of that horrible place. He was his own man again. In fact, a highly intelligent man who could certainly think his way out of this dilemma. No vehicle, no keys to his own home, no money. Still…

He was pretty sure he was somewhere in Jersey. He seemed to remember crossing a bridge when Ketch's man had brought him here, and he thought they'd come west, not east.

He needed to find some kind of town. He'd have to bum change from someone—God, that rankled, to be reduced to such a thing—but then he could go to a pay phone and call Verna. She'd come get him.

She was the only person left on his side in the whole fucking world.

A
nn's fingers found the edge of the hot tub and she pulled herself up. A little. Halfway. Enough to lay her upper body on the cool tile. Then she collapsed there with a small groan.

Someone was knocking on the door.

“We need to open that,” she murmured.

Nothing. No answer.

“Jonathan?”

Ann pushed up off the tile. He was floating on his back. Incredibly, impossibly, at the sight of him, need speared through her. Just a moment ago she'd thought she'd never feel a hint of life in her limbs again.

The knocking was getting insistent.

“Jonathan. Someone is trying to get in here.” She splashed water at him.

“Yeah, yeah. Later. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“Even in Hong Kong?”

“I hope so.”

The rapping intensified. Ann thought she heard voices.

“How could I have known you for seventeen years and not have known this about you?” Jonathan asked suddenly.

Everything inside her stopped. “Known what?”

“That you could make me so crazy. And I still haven't shown you my really cool moves.”

A laugh scratched Ann's throat as her heart started again. “Pressure's on now. I won't believe it until I see them.”

Jonathan finally opened one eye. “All right. Get back in here and I'll see what I can do.”

“Later.” She pulled herself out of the tub.

“There
is
going to be a later, Ann. Another time. You know that, right?”

Did she? All she knew at that moment was that she had never given herself over to anyone like she had to him. And she realized with a start that she'd never let herself
feel
before. It had been more than good; it had somehow made her complete in its fierceness and devastating complexity.

Ann finally nodded because she didn't entirely trust her own voice to answer.

“Open up in there!” a man shouted. “Are you all right?”

“Are you all right, Jonathan?” Ann asked.

“I'm great. You?”

“Feeling good. Fish my bottoms out of there, will you?” She was feeling on top of the world, frisky even. He swiped his hands through the water, retrieving pieces of their clothing. He tossed her the bikini bottom and she had to wiggle it over her wet skin. Then she heard a key in the lock of the door.

“Oh, God, Jonathan, hurry.”

He splashed out and managed to dress with half the effort it had taken her. When the door opened and the lifeguard burst in, they were standing on the tile. A middle-aged Asian couple—the woman wore a flamboyant muumuu—stood just behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“Sorry, folks, you're not supposed to lock this,” the guard said.

Jonathan grabbed a towel and dried his face. “Then why's it there?”

“What?”

“The lock.” He lowered the towel and grinned.

“Ah, well.” The guard smiled back, looking between them. “Who knows?” He pointed at the champagne bottle. “No alcohol in here, either, sir.”

“We'll take it straight back to our room,” Jonathan promised.

Ann gathered their things along with an extra towel and they pushed past the muumuu lady and her skinny, mystified companion. Back in the pool area, she dropped everything on a chaise lounge and fished out her pants.

“You won't need them where we're going,” Jonathan said.

She tugged them on anyway. “Where are we going?”

“Your room, my room, take your pick. There's still the issue of my cool moves.”

“So you say.”

He caught her wet hair in his hand and pulled her back to him. He kissed her.

This time it was only a quick lick over her upper lip, followed by a solemn press of mouth to mouth.

“You're good,” she breathed. Then her cell phone rang.