Tourist Trapped (33 page)

“West of Chicago, in Galena, being wined and dined by Marty Jackson.”

“Where’s the associate attorney?”

“Portland.”

“Tell Jackson to bring the secretary to Chicago immediately. I’ll need him to take care of both women. You handle the other lawyer or don’t come back.”

FORTY

Saturday December 19, Afternoon

Home at last.
Amanda dropped her bags in the living room and draped her damp Burberry coat over the back of the sofa. She headed straight for the kitchen, pulled a chilled bottle of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc out of the wine refrigerator, and uncorked it. She poured herself a healthy glass and wandered back into the living room, staring out at Chicago from her floor-to-ceiling windows on the forty-fourth floor. The city sprawled before her, sprinkled in a thin covering of snow. In a few hours it would turn to a grimy slush.

She took a gulp of wine. What was the point? Work like a fool until dead and buried, and then what? Sure, she liberated a mob of women legally and financially from their husbands, but did her life have to be so empty in the process? Did she have to be one of the casualties of her own crusade?

She had her precious godson, Zach, and some dear friends, but as she aged, her circle constricted. Each year she attended one or two fewer charity events, and she dreaded the prospect of an evening at a play or the symphony, always exhausted after a long day at work.

Matt had rousted Amanda out of her shrinking sphere of activity, but that had been more flash than substance. She loved the time spent with him, but not in a permanent-life kind of way.

She couldn’t reach him. Amanda had left him a message before she boarded the plane in Portland, alerting him of her return, and left another with his campaign manager when she landed in O’Hare. Matt and Amanda needed to talk—especially after his bizarre visit in Cancun—but the idea of any future romantic interludes with him no longer held any appeal.

Amanda hated to admit it, but not only had she grown accustomed to having Cooper in her life, she needed him. Somehow that legal neophyte had wormed his way into her world—and with the control that Amanda kept on her emotions, his was an admirable feat.

She wheeled her suitcases into the bedroom, pulled out the electronics and deposited them on the desk in her office. Most of the disposable phones had run out of minutes, and her old standby needed a recharge. She plugged it in and stared at the pile of technology she had hauled back with her from Cancun. Would it always remind her of Cooper?

She shut the door to the office, returning with her glass of wine to the living room. The condo echoed with emptiness. For the first time in the ten years she had lived there, she felt lonely.

The financial documents. She hoisted her briefcase onto the dining table and sorted through folders, envelopes and loose sheets, organizing the mess into piles: receipts from the trip, financial paperwork, Harding divorce, Gordon and Command Commodities.

The printout of the Gabriel Carter painting caught her eye. To think that something as benign as a portrait hanging in a Miami condo would lead Amanda and Cooper to an offshore company specializing in bribery, prostitution and drug smuggling. Not to mention the murders of a hooker and her boyfriend. Gordo made Trent and Rodriguez look like amateurs.

Amanda tossed the printout onto the table, grabbed her wine and settled onto the sofa. She could barely keep her eyes open. She hadn’t slept for a second night. The evening’s events had played over and over in her mind. Grabbing Cooper’s daughter and hanging on for dear life. The poor little thing, trembling and crying. Amanda tried to imagine what it had been like to share a motel room for years with an emotionally disintegrating mother—and how Jason carried the burden of caring for everyone.

The rants of Cooper’s wife ricocheted around Amanda’s skull; she couldn’t quell them. The woman had sounded so desperate, so out of control.

How did it happen? Was she bipolar? Schizophrenic? Cooper would have high standards for a wife, so Amanda wondered how the woman who wed Cooper could have devolved into such a mass of angst. And yet, once again in her husband’s arms, she calmed down. It was evident how much he loved her and had missed her.

Amanda couldn’t wrap her head around the fact Cooper had traipsed down to Cancun to help search for Rebecca and Trent, when he had a family of his own to find—which made her love him more, damn it. When Cooper held his wife, Amanda couldn’t stand to watch. She handed Fiona’s leash to Sally, grabbed her bags from the hotel room and hailed a cab back to the airport, spending the night waiting for the next available flight to Chicago.

She scanned her pristine condo. Thanks to Natalia’s clean-up efforts after her dad’s home invasion, not a paper out of place. Organized. No, sterile. The glass and chrome, it no longer fit her. Amanda’s eyes settled onto her latest knitting project, the yarn, needles and half-knit sweater sitting in a heap on the end of her couch. The single warm item in her entire condo.

She picked up the phone. Time to change her life.

* * *

Chad opened the
front door and Jason and Skye meandered in, as if they had never seen the place. He gave them a few minutes to adjust.

If he expected a jubilant homecoming, he was sorely disappointed. The kids had been quiet on the flights and he didn’t detect any excitement when their house came into view. They acted like foster kids being moved to another family.

Kate and Peter sat in the driveway in a rental car, with Danielle. They planned to enter the house once Jason and Skye settled in. Chad’s parents would arrive at any moment, eager to see their grandchildren again after so many years. Danny’s parents were driving in later in the day to pick up their daughter. They had agreed to keep watch over her until arrangements could be finalized for her psychiatric assessment.

He walked the teens through the main parts of the house, as if they were guests. Chad wondered how the kids would react to their rooms—snapshots of another time in their lives. He wished he’d packed up their stuff and changed the bedding to something other than Spiderman and Cinderella.

Eventually they ran out of house and he led them to their respective rooms. “Jason and Skye, all your old stuff is how you left it. We can throw it out if you prefer.” Chad didn’t want to change anything when they had disappeared, expecting they’d return in a few days. But then the days turned into weeks and then months, and finally years. He couldn’t bring himself to touch anything.

He tried to monitor both kids as they entered their personal spaces. Jason ran his hand along a shelf with his little league and Pinewood Derby trophies, then checked under his bed. “It’s still here,” he said, pulling out a skateboard.

Skye caressed every one of the stuffed animals on her bed, and then pulled a Barbie doll out of the toy chest. “I forgot about these.”

Chad’s eyelids slammed shut, holding back the tears. Had they possessed a single toy since the day Danielle yanked the kids out of their own lives? How about any chances to make friends? Could he help them find the joy in life again?

“We’ll go out tomorrow and buy some clothes and…stuff.”

“Can we get a dog?” Skye asked.

“It wouldn’t hurt to stop at the animal shelter once we settle into a routine.”

“Where are my precious grandchildren?” Chad’s mother’s voice carried from the foyer. Jason and Skye tore through the house and exchanged hugs and tears with their grandparents.

In the midst of the reunion, Art called. “I came across something that I’ve got a feeling is important. I found some emails from Brady Gray to a Marty Jackson. When I scanned this Jackson’s email account, I came across some correspondence with a Trent Adams. I haven’t been able to pull all of the pieces together, but, Chad, I think Gordon Harding masterminded the kidnapping of Amanda Sloane’s sister and brother-in-law.”

* * *

“Dad’s doctor said
he should be able to make it back home in time for Christmas,” Rebecca said over the phone.

Christmas.
Amanda set her refilled wine goblet on the glass coffee table and plopped onto the couch. Images of Cooper and his family trimming a tree together for the first time in five years swam through her thoughts. Would they cut one down themselves? Decorate it while sipping mugs of hot chocolate with marshmallows, Johnny Mathis crooning in the background?

“I’ll make arrangements to fly down to Orlando on the twenty-third,” Amanda said. She wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear, and picked up her knitting. “I have a favor to ask. Would you bring a dog back with you? One caught a stray bullet when Chad was shot. I checked with a vet at the clinic and she said the dog is doing well and could be transported. Jaz will handle the paperwork and inspection process.”

“Another creature harmed in the search for Trent and me? Of course I’ll bring the dog.”

“Thanks.” Bright, expectant eyes and a wagging tail wouldn’t make up for a Cooper-less life, but at least there would be some semblance of love in her aseptic quarters. Through her years helping at the local animal shelters, Amanda knew no adoration on earth could compete with that of an appreciative mutt.

She finished another row of the sweater. Her mother had taught her to knit when she turned seven, when Amanda’s dexterity had been limited by short, chubby fingers. For many winters, her father proudly wore the lopsided, uneven neck scarf she had knitted for him as her first project. At times, sitting in the quiet, looping the yarn around the needles, Amanda could almost hear her mother’s voice and feel her presence. She would be pleased to know Amanda planned to give this sweater to her little sister.

Call waiting beeped. Matt.
Finally
. She’d phone him as soon as she hung up with Rebecca.

“Has Lucia dug up any leads on who shot the kidnappers?” Amanda asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“I suppose Rodriguez could have done it, expecting to keep most of the ransom himself.”

“Maybe…Amanda, something strange happened while I hid beneath the deadwood. The kidnappers murdered the girl and shot up the jungle, thinking I’d get taken out by the barrage of bullets. Once they cleared out and returned to camp, I heard another round of gunfire, and then somebody chased a man back into the jungle and shot him.”

“Somebody killed the kidnappers while you hid in the undergrowth?”

“Yeah, and when the guy chased the kidnapper through the woods, he screamed that I wasn’t supposed to be killed.”

Amanda dropped the sweater into her lap and sat up. “The shooter knew you?”

“That’s what it seemed.”

“Trent? But based on what he said, I didn’t think he was at the camp when you escaped. I guess he could have assumed you were killed.”

“Not Trent. I’ve been racking my brain. The voice sounded familiar and he called me by my high school nickname, ‘Becca.’”

“An old classmate followed you to Cancun and shot up your enemies?”

“Odd as it sounds, I swear it was the guy who took me to my junior prom, Johnny Wallace.”

Amanda’s heart tried to jackhammer its way through her ribcage. “Jonathan Wallace?”

FORTY-ONE

Saturday December 19, Late Afternoon

“C’mon, c’mon, pick
up.” Chad tried Amanda’s cell phone as he barreled down the Kennedy Expressway, but once again it went to voice mail.

Why would Harding engineer the kidnapping? To distract Amanda from Celeste’s divorce? Did Harding know they discovered the connection between him and Command Commodities? If he orchestrated the kidnapping, he must have been behind the surveillance as well, which meant he knew much of what Amanda and Chad found.

He spun through the list of casualties: Rebecca and Trent kidnapped, Chad shot, a bartender murdered—how about the attacks on Amanda’s housekeeper and the Miami-based PI? If these were all his doing, he’d stop at nothing to terminate Amanda’s association with Celeste.

How did they miss this critical link? First they overlooked Rodriguez’s involvement, and now Harding’s. This oversight could cost Amanda her life.

Chad had reached Miriam, who told him Amanda made it back to Chicago. Maybe Jaz could contact Amanda. He dialed her number, but it also went to voice mail.

In an attempt to pass a sedan in “Sunday drive” mode, he cut off a pick-up truck. The perturbed driver laid on the horn and flipped him the bird. Chad continued to work his way through traffic, taking on each vehicle—a life-sized version of the old “Frogger” video game.

If he had stayed in Cancun, would they have figured out Harding’s involvement? Maybe Amanda wouldn’t be in danger—or if he’d talked to her in Portland, could he have stumbled onto the connection? Did Amanda figure it out and that’s why he couldn’t reach her—maybe she was safe, at the police station.

The idea of a life without Amanda didn’t exist in the realm of comprehension. Just when he got his kids back and he’d seek help for Danny, he couldn’t lose Amanda. Married to Matt and ensconced in the political circles of D.C. didn’t matter.

As long as she lived.

* * *

Amanda’s gut twisted,
as if wringing out every drop of fear. The situation surrounding her family and friends made “sitting ducks” look like an effective evasive maneuver. She stuffed the knitting project in the corner of the sofa and gripped the phone. “Rebecca, call Lucia and tell her a prominent business man, Gordon Harding, is behind the kidnapping. You’re in danger. Give her a description of Jonathan Wallace and ask her to keep an eye on all of you until we can put Wallace and Harding behind bars.”

“Be careful, Amanda.”

“Stay below the radar until I call.”

Amanda dialed Jaz, leaving her a voice mail instructing her to hightail it to the safe house. While she contacted the Frog and Fox’s owner, Stavros, to notify him that some of them may show up for shelter, she grabbed her cell phone out of the study, and then dumped her Cancun clothes out of her suitcase and replaced them with jeans and sweaters.

“Planning another trip?” Gordon Harding stood in the doorway to her bedroom, a .38 pointed at her. No silencer, a point in her favor. “My, my, aren’t you a busy girl.”

“I don’t recall inviting you in, Gordon.”

“And I don’t recall asking you to pry into my business dealings.”

A pair of fuchsia bikini panties dangled from her fingers. Unless she used them as a slingshot, she couldn’t reach anything sufficient as weaponry. Her cell rang. Cooper. Were they back in town already?
Please be in Portland.

“Don’t even think of picking up that call,” Harding said.

“Well, Gordon, where do we go from here? Do you think you can eradicate everyone who knows anything about your dalliance with the unsavory side of the tracks? Hookers, drugs and bribes…my, my, aren’t you a busy boy.”

His gloved finger started to squeeze the trigger and she held her breath. After the slug in her leg, she had some idea of what to expect, but if he aimed for her chest or abdomen, hitting an organ she needed for survival, could she will herself to stay alive?

“Although I’d like to finish you here and now, I detest blood spatter. Too messy.” Gordo grabbed her by the hair. “Let’s go.” He jammed the gun in her side and forced her toward the living room.

Jaz sat on the sofa, her normally mocha-colored skin a chalk-white. She huddled at the end of the couch, beneath the barrel of a pistol held by a thug. Not Jonathan.

Harding flung Amanda onto the other end of the sofa. She shifted her hips before falling into the seat to avoid impalement by the knitting needles. Harding waved the other man into the kitchen while Gordo stood over both women, his gun at his side. Sounds of doors and drawers opening and closing made their way into the living room. Jaz sat motionless, hugging her arms and staring at her lap.

“You won’t get away with this,” Amanda said.

“Are you kidding? If somebody finds out I’m involved, they’ll pin a medal on my chest. The man who took out Amanda Sloane, Chicago’s most vindictive bitch.”

The man from the kitchen sauntered in with two wine glasses and an uncorked bottle of Duckhorn Merlot. He stood on the far side of the coffee table, poured the wine into the goblets and placed them on the glass surface. He pulled out a vial and sprinkled a white powder into each glass.

“Thank you, Martin,” Gordo said.

Marty Jackson?

“Since this will be the last wine to pass your lips, ladies, we’ll wait a few minutes. Not allowing a superb Merlot to breathe would be a travesty.”

“Poison, Gordon? Isn’t this a little cliché?” Amanda said.

“Normally I avoid personal involvement with these types of ‘public relations activities.’ Call me old-fashioned.”

“They’ll determine the cause of our death.”

Harding eased himself into an armchair across from the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. “I would presume so, but keep in mind, every man who’s dealt with you in court has fantasized about doing this very thing: slaying Amanda Sloane—although I believe many of them would prefer inflicting a slower, more painful death.” He gestured with the gun. “I can assure you, the list of suspects will be in the hundreds.”

His cell phone rang. Gordon put the phone to his ear and walked into the dining area. Amanda couldn’t hear the conversation, but an occasional laugh erupted out of him.

After he completed his call, Gordo did a double-take, focusing on a spot on the table. He laid down his gun and snatched up a sheet of paper. “Ahh, so that’s how you made the connection. The Gabriel Carter.”

“That’ll teach you to hang one of your favorite paintings in your whorehouse.”

“I prefer to call it our customer care center.”

“I think the pimping penthouse is more apt.”

“Regardless, mystery solved.” Gordon released the page and it fluttered to the floor. He leaned against the table and checked his watch. “Martin, please proceed. I’m certain the Merlot has opened beautifully by now. Besides, I have dinner plans, so let’s get this over with. Ladies, cooperating will ensure the inevitable with the least suffering. If you decide not to imbibe, Martin will shoot you, beginning with your limbs and working inward. I suggest you take the less painful route.”

Marty picked up a glass and swirled the wine. He walked around the coffee table and offered the goblet to Amanda. She turned her upper body to ease up her left hand to accept the glass, while grabbing for the knitting needles with her right hand. As she clasped the goblet, she jabbed the needles into his groin. When he bent over in pain, she smashed the glass of wine into his face.

She tried to wrench away the gun, but Jackson wouldn’t release it. Gordo charged. Amanda grabbed the wine bottle and slugged him in the head. She grasped Jaz’s hand and dragged her into the study, locking the door behind them.

It wouldn’t take long for Harding and his thug to break in. Amanda pulled her Taser out of the desk drawer and stood at the ready. “Jaz, hide in the corner and call nine-one-one.” Her friend reached dispatch as a shower of bullets chipped away at the door, one of them hitting Amanda in the calf. Pain exploded through her limb.

The door collapsed in pieces, a blood-covered Marty Jackson flying in with it. Amanda let loose the Taser and the man fell to the ground, convulsing. She picked up his gun and heard a shot, the bullet lodging in her left arm. Another burst of pain.

“You sonofabitch.” Amanda caught a movement in the living room; Matt charged at Gordo, swinging a baseball bat. Harding dodged the attack and fired at close range, dropping Matt to the ground.

Amanda took advantage of the distraction and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Gordo smiled and started toward her. She needed to exit the study to keep Jaz safe. Amanda limped into a spare bedroom, another bullet penetrating her left buttock on the way. She locked the door and hunted for a weapon, pulling a Prince graphite tennis racquet and a can of Dunlop balls out of the closet. Her body throbbed.

The doorknob rattled. “There’s no place to run, Amanda. Don’t make me come after you.”

She kicked off her shoes and tiptoed through the shared bathroom, adjoining bedroom, and back into the living room, hoping Gordo wouldn’t break down the bedroom door and follow her bloody trail.

She hugged the wall, racquet raised, and tossed the can of balls toward the kitchen. She heard Gordo’s footsteps and then saw the gun. Amanda hammered the edge of the racquet down on his wrist and grabbed the pistol with both hands, wrestling it away while stomping on his instep, pain ripping through her. Gun in hand, she backed up, her aim steady on him.

“Jaz, can you check on Matt?” Amanda yelled. She wanted to take care of her fiancé, but knew she had to contend with Harding.

“Where’s Wallace, pendejo.” Amanda said.

“Who?”

“You’re not getting out of here alive unless I have assurances that Jonathan Wallace isn’t a threat to my family.”

“Or to another attorney?”

Acid bubbled up in her stomach. Was Wallace tailing Cooper? Ready to run his family off the road? Kill the pilot light on the furnace while they slept? Gun them down in the middle of the night?

No way.
She pointed at Harding’s shin, just above his ankle, and pulled the trigger.

Gordo crashed to the floor. “You crazy cunt!”

“Why is it every sociopathic, homicidal male troglodyte reverts to either ‘bitch’ or ‘cunt’ when a woman bests him? Now dial up Jonathan Wallace and put him on speakerphone. Tell him to stand down.”

A sneer crept over Gordo’s face. “No.”

“Do you want to get out of here alive?”

“You won’t kill me.”

“Why not? I took out Rodriguez.”

His expression froze. “You?”

“Yes, me. I killed Rodriguez and maimed Trent. Rodriguez was far less of a threat to my family than you are, so don’t think for a moment I won’t shoot you dead here and now before the police arrive if you don’t call off Wallace. Do you need me to take out another part of your anatomy to show you how serious I am?” She pointed at his groin. “I’m guessing Celeste would be rooting for the eradication of your testicles.”

Harding pulled out his phone and dialed. “Jonathan, your task is canceled.”

“Put him on speakerphone, Gordon.”

He grimaced and pressed a button. “Sir, are you sure?” Wallace said. “I’m on my way to the airport; they’ve spotted Mr. Cooper back in Chicago. I could have him handled by noon tomorrow.”

Amanda wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the worm. “Wallace, this is Amanda Sloane. I have your boss on the floor, with one bullet in him already. If you don’t stand down, I’m aiming at his puny dick as we speak.”

“If you harm Mr. Harding, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“Like you did the kidnappers who held Rebecca—or should I say Becca?”

“What—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Harding sat up.

“Sure you do. When you thought Rebecca’s—I mean Becca’s captors killed her, you gunned them down. You even chased one into the jungle, to make sure you executed all of them. In one fell swoop you took out pretty much everyone except Trent and Rodriguez, whom I took care of later in the day when you were nowhere to be found. It looks to me like the only two you let live went rogue on you. I’d say you get an ‘F’ for effective supervision.”

“You fucking bitch.”

“Again the ‘bitch’ word. See what I mean, Gordon? Now Wallace, listen to me carefully. I know you took your neighbor, Becca, to the junior prom, which means I know the names of your family members and have an address for them. If you harm any of my family or friends, I’ll hunt down yours. My network may not be as extensive, but, as you’ve seen over the last couple of weeks, it’s damned effective.”

* * *

“Jaz, call Cooper,
let him know what’s happening. Find a photo of Jonathan Wallace and ask Cooper to send it to Officer Vargas and the Cancun police department.” Amanda kept a tight hold on Matt’s limp, clammy hand as they wheeled his gurney out of her condo and into the elevator. The bullet in her ass ached with every movement, but she wouldn’t leave her fiancé’s side until he was under the care of a capable physician.

Once the police had arrived and subdued Harding, she focused her attention on Matt. The rug beneath him had absorbed so much blood a crimson pool had coagulated on the top of it. When the paramedics hustled in, they went to work on Matt, hooking him up to bags of fluids and a tank of oxygen, and attempting to stem the river of red seeping out of his abdomen.

The elevator crawled, as if a sloth descending a tree. Matt’s chest barely moved and his face reminded her of a cadaver: colorless and lacking muscle tone. She tore her gaze away for a moment to evaluate the expressions of the paramedics. Their furrowed brows and pursed lips confirmed her worst fears.

Amanda had planned to end the relationship with Matt, but not this way. A life without him suddenly felt untenable. In the early days, before the campaign gathered momentum, the two of them went on wonderful adventures: hiking, skiing—even bowling. So much laughter and life.

Did she love him after all? Had the campaign obscured her true feelings, or did she sabotage herself, rejecting the love of a man who could freely love her back? Someone with no strings—such as a wife and kids—attached?