Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (25 page)

And he couldn’t argue with them. The things she did were wrong. So he’d tried to get her to change. Tried to make her see that her life could be different. Pleaded with her. Begged. All to no avail—until finally he’d accepted the truth.

It was too late for Lil.

There was only one way to remove her from the sinful life she’d chosen.

Mark moved beside the bed, braced himself on one knee on the mattress, and pressed the pillow over his mother’s face. Hard.

He’d done his research. It would take about five minutes, but he planned on eight, just to be certain.

Keeping his gaze on the bedside clock, he counted off the minutes. His arms began to ache, but he didn’t lessen the pressure. Three more to go. Two. One.

Done.

Slowly he eased back on the pressure and lifted the pillow. Her chest wasn’t moving anymore, and when he averted his face and leaned down, he felt no warmth on his cheek from her breath.

It was over.

And it had been far easier than he’d expected.

His arms were shaking as he turned her onto her stomach, face pressed into the pillow, then set more pillows around her head. He lifted one of her arms and tucked a pillow in, as if she’d been clutching it to her head. Blocking off her air. It was too bad it had come to this, that she hadn’t seen the light and changed her ways. But it was better this way—for everyone.

“I did it for you, Mom.” He whispered the words as he touched her hair. “To keep you from making any more mistakes. You understand, don’t you?”

All at once, she flipped back over and glared at him, anger glinting in her eyes.

His lungs stopped working as he gaped at her.

No! She was dead!

“I’m not dead.” She spoke as if she’d read his mind. “I’ll never be dead. You may be a murderer, but you can never kill me.” She lunged at him then, her hands finding his neck, filth spewing from her mouth as she squeezed. He tugged at her fingers, but her grip was too tight. He couldn’t dislodge them. Nor could he manage to draw in even one gasp of air.

She was sucking the life out of him.

He was going to die.

“No!”

As the cry ripped past his lips, Mark shot bolt upright in bed, chest heaving, forehead clammy, T-shirt damp with sweat, legs tangled in the covers. Bunching the sheet in his fists, he gave the dimly lit room a frantic sweep, half expecting to see Lil emerge from the shadows.

But no. She’d died seventeen years ago.

It was a dream.

Nothing more.

The same dream he had every time he was preparing to keep another young woman from making more mistakes.

This one, however, had been more vivid than usual. And his mother had never spoken to him in past dreams. Her vitriolic words continued to burn in his ear no matter how hard he tried to block them out.

His hands started to itch.

Then his whole body began to itch.

He needed a shower. Now. Even if it was two in the morning.

Mark threw the covers back, swung his feet to the floor, and jogged toward the bathroom, shivering in the sweat-drenched clothing plastered to his body. He’d feel better after a shower. He always did.

No matter what his mother had said in that dream, he wasn’t a murderer. She and the others had died as a result of their bad choices. They should be grateful he’d stopped them from sinking further into the abyss of debauchery.

He leaned into the shower and turned on the water, letting his hand linger under the cleansing spray.

One day soon, though, he’d save a girl on the brink, rescue her before she ruined her life and the lives of those around her. Then he’d be vindicated—and redeemed. He didn’t remember much from his few long-ago forays to Sunday school, but the Bible story about God rejoicing more over one sinner who repented than ninety-nine righteous people had stuck with him. If that was true, God would approve of his noble quest to save a lost sheep.

As for those with whom he’d failed . . . he’d done all he could.

Now they were in God’s hands.

Just as Darcy—and perhaps her sister—soon would be too.

W
as he planning to starve her to death?

Is that how he’d killed the other girls?

As her stomach growled again, Darcy curled into a fetal position and wrapped herself tighter in the blanket she’d managed to snag off the bed. She hadn’t eaten since . . . when? Friday breakfast. Two and a half days ago.

She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the thin carpet that covered the concrete floor. A few days without food—even a week or two—wouldn’t kill her . . . but eventually she’d die. Was he going to watch the show through the peephole in the door as some kind of sick entertainment?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew in a shuddering breath. Whatever he had in mind, her fate was sealed. She had no chance of escaping the shackle—or this room. But she’d brought it on herself by running away and taking foolish chances.

Laura, however, didn’t deserve whatever Mark had in store for her.

A tear trickled out of the corner of her eye, down her aching cheek, and she sniffled. There was only one person who could save her sister now. One power mighty enough to foil her captor. So she turned to him, placing her anguish and despair and need in his hands.

Lord, I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. Please . . . please keep Laura safe. Protect her. Send someone to help her if danger gets too close. And if you could somehow let her know how much
I appreciate all she tried to do for me—and how much I love her—I’d be forever grateful.

Mark consulted the piece of paper with Laura’s cell number on it and punched the seven digits into the throwaway, pay-as-you-go phone he’d registered months ago under a false name—just in case he ever needed an untraceable number.

Meticulous planning always paid off.

As the call went through, he checked on the bread baking in the oven. Almost done. It would go well with the roast chicken breast and green beans he was having for dinner. A healthy, balanced diet was as important for adults as it was for children.

The phone began to ring, and he dropped onto a stool at the counter. How many hospitals had he called before trying her direct lines? Ten? Twelve? He scanned the list in front of him. All the major ones, that was for sure. But she wasn’t a patient at any of them, according to the operators who’d searched their rosters when he’d asked them to ring her room. That could mean she hadn’t been badly hurt.

On the other hand, she hadn’t answered his last call, to her landline. If she didn’t pick up on the cell number he’d found in Darcy’s backpack, either, it could mean the failed brakes had proven fatal.

Having an accident remove her from the picture would be so much easier.

On the third ring, just as he expected the answering machine to kick in as it had on her landline, a breathless female voice answered.

“Hello?”

She was home—and well enough to answer the phone.

He stifled a curse.

“Hello?” Her inflection was hesitant now.

“Sorry.” He mumbled the apology, finger poised over the end button. “Wrong number.” Mashing it down, he cut off the call and tossed the phone on the counter.

The brake job might have been a piece of cake, but it hadn’t produced an optimal result.

Had it injured or distracted her sufficiently to relegate the search for Darcy to the back burner, though?

He crossed to the built-in desk in the kitchen and extracted his regular cell from his briefcase, along with James Devlin’s card. Might as well go right to the source and find out the status of the investigation. He’d play it empathetic and helpful, giving the PI no reason to suspect there was anything more to the call than genuine concern.

But he wasn’t hanging up until he had the answer he needed.

Dev pulled into the empty spot behind the white utility van, today posing as Walden Electronics, and punched in Connor’s number. “Your replacement is here.”

“I noticed. All quiet on the western front. No sign of life, and Hamilton’s car never left the alley. The dark-haired girl never came out, either.”

“That’s what I assumed, since I didn’t hear from you all day.”

The van pulled out as Dev cut the SUV’s engine and did a sweep of the neighborhood. “This spot gives us great lines of sight to the alley and Hamilton’s front door, but we’re going to have to find a different location if we’re still on surveillance in a few days. Someone’s going to notice the same cars rotating through here 24/7.” He picked up the Starbucks cup next to his seat and took a swig. He was going to need plenty of caffeine to make it through the cold, dark hours ahead.

“Let’s hope this wraps up before we have to worry about that. With the corporate fraud case heating up, we might need to hop a plane to Costa Rica later in the week. I’ve whiled away the hours here talking with my contacts and dealing with on-the-ground logistics and possible itineraries.” The van disappeared around the corner.

Dev sighed. The Costa Rica gig would be another killer case requiring long hours.

Maybe one of these days he’d catch up on his sleep.

“The sooner we put this one to bed, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I’m sure . . . considering you have a vested interested in tying up all the loose ends.”

He heard the grin in his partner’s voice. Ignored it. “Did you manage to get a sub lined up to watch the house while Hamilton’s at work, in case the dark-haired girl leaves?”

“Yeah. I followed your advice and tapped Dale to double up on the day shift, since he helped out with the bus station surveillance. But the meter is beginning to rack up some serious numbers. You certain your client is okay with another body on this?”

“For a few days at least. Enjoy your Sunday night.”

“What’s left of it.”

“You’ll be more comfortable than me.”

“No argument there. Have fun.” The line went dead.

Dev started to put the phone back in its holster, only to have it vibrate as it slid into place. He pulled it out again, eyebrows rising at the name in the display.

Mark Hamilton?

A caution sign began to flash in his mind as he answered. “Devlin.”

“Mr. Devlin, Mark Hamilton. You stopped in to see me at Davis Daycare on Friday, hoping I might remember something about the missing teen you’re trying to track down. You had the impression my path had crossed with hers at the homeless shelter.”

“That’s right.” Dev stared at the light seeping around the edges of the blinds in Hamilton’s front window. What was the guy up to?

“The thing is, I haven’t been able to get your visit off my mind. A teenage girl on the streets in today’s world—that’s a recipe for disaster. So I’ve been racking my brain, trying to recall her. As I told you the other day, I did remember talking to a girl who bore a faint resemblance to your runaway. But last night, I was thinking about one of the other girls at the shelter during the storm. I noticed her because she had a guitar case she never let out of her sight,
and I wondered if she might be a struggling musician. The thing is, there was a blonde girl hanging around with her who stayed in the background and didn’t do much talking. We exchanged a few words, and I think she might have been a match for those photos you showed me. I don’t know how much that helps, but I thought I’d pass it on, for what it’s worth. Unless you’ve already found her?”

“Not yet.” Could this be on the level?

“Her family must be very worried.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Dev waited him out.

“Well . . . if I think of anything else that might be useful, would you be the person to call? Or is someone else handling the case now?”

“I’m still the main contact.”

“Okay. I’ll keep your number handy.”

“Thanks for calling.”

Dev slipped his phone back onto his belt and tapped his finger against the steering wheel.

That was bizarre.

There could be only two reasons for a call from Hamilton. Either he was sincerely concerned and was telling the truth about suddenly remembering Darcy—or he’d been fishing for information, trying to determine if the case was still active.

If it was the former, they were wasting their time—and Laura’s money—on this surveillance gig.

If it was the latter, Hamilton was in this thing up to his neck.

And the red alert pinging in his head told him it was the latter.

So far, however, they had zero proof he’d had any contact with Darcy beyond the homeless shelter. But the connection was there somewhere, and if they hung in long enough, they’d find it.

He hoped before it was too late.

What was up with Faith?

Mark watched her from the doorway as she helped pass snacks out in the two-year-old room. She’d barely said hello to him when they passed in the hall earlier, had given him a clipped answer as he stopped by the front desk and asked how her weekend had been, and now she was refusing to look at him.

Was she mad because he’d been less than gracious about the gift she’d given him? No. That didn’t ring true. She’d been fine on Friday.

Then again, she’d had a whole weekend to brood about his tepid response. That could have put her in a snit.

He sighed.

Why did women have to be such complicated creatures?

Whatever the problem, however, he had to fix it. His plan depended on her unwitting cooperation.

“Faith?” When she looked his way—with obvious reluctance—he summoned up a smile. “After you finish in here, would you stop by my office?”

She shrugged. “Sure.” She turned her back and continued to help with the children.

Talk about being out of sorts.

This was going to be a challenge.

But it had to be done. Getting back in her good graces for the next thirty-six hours was essential. He’d just have to suck it in and pull out the charm—distasteful as that prospect was.

By the time she knocked on his open door a few minutes later, he was psyched up for the encounter.

He swiveled around in his chair to find her hovering on the threshold, her expression wary. Stretching his lips into a smile, he motioned her toward the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

After a momentary hesitation, she entered and perched on the edge of the cushion.

“Last week was very busy, and it occurred to me over the weekend that I hadn’t thanked you properly for your gift on Thursday. I’ve
been using it, and it’s great stuff. I want you to know how much I appreciate it. I haven’t had anyone do anything that thoughtful for me in a long time.”

Her taut posture relaxed a fraction, and some of the tension ebbed from her features.

Better.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

He opened his desk drawer and withdrew the eight-piece box of Godiva chocolate one of the parents had given him last Christmas. It had been sitting there for almost two months, and it wasn’t getting better with age. Might as well put it to productive use.

Her eyes widened as he held it out to her. “A small token of my thanks.”

“For me?” Her voice actually came out in a squeak.

How pathetic.

“Who else? I hope you enjoy it.”