Trolls in the Hamptons (21 page)

“A development?” I echoed. “And when were you going to tell me about it?”

“When I uncovered more information.”

Lust died aborning. “You see? You don't trust me, either.”

“Bloody hell, Willy. A woman's been killed a block away from your apartment. I don't want to frighten you until we know who she was.”

“But you think she might be connected to Nicky?”

“We know she was an undocumented immigrant, nanny to a handicapped child, a boy no one ever saw or heard.”

“So now you know where Nicky is? If that boy is Nicky, of course.”

“We know where a handicapped child was. He and his supposed uncle are gone. The only thing they left was the dead nanny for the cleaning lady to find.”

“So you can trace phone calls, credit cards, Interpol IDs, that kind of cloak and dagger stuff.”

“We could, if all the information we had wasn't false: the uncle's name, his bank accounts, his social security number. That person does not exist. Which leads us to believe someone has something big to hide, and money and connections to get it done. Even if Nicky is not the boy, your FBI wants to find out what secrets were worth killing a Polish nanny to keep. She did not speak English, according to the neighbors, which means nothing in the city. She would have drawn a great deal of curious attention, though, in a small village like Paumanok Harbor.”

“She would have received three job offers and a marriage proposal. Or she could have gone to Riverhead, where there are still people who speak Polish. They even hold a Polish Festival every summer. She could have fit in there, but I see what you mean.”

“We have no proof. It might have been a domestic quarrel, a crime of passion, or the uncle caught her mistreating the child, then fled before he could be charged with the murder. Or the nephew could have been a psychotic killer who already did in his own parents.”

“Have you ever thought about writing detective stories? You'd be good at it.”

“I'll leave that to you creative types. Meanwhile, I have psychic locators going to the apartment tomorrow. One of those last-thought espers is going to the morgue. And we are contacting all the Polish employment agencies, social networks, and churches to see if anyone recognizes her picture. Maybe a friend heard about a change of address, or knows something about the boy.”

“And you need to be there to coordinate the investigation?”

“To get my people into the apartment and the coroner's office, yes. To get the local police to cough up the info we need, yes. It's my case, and I have the authority to pursue any leads.”

“But you think it sounds like Nicky? Like he and his captor are headed here?”

“That's what we thought they would do all along. So you see how important your involvement is, and why I need to be close?”

I saw how dangerous this situation was becoming. I could see the headlines now, one dead au pair, one dead pet sitter. “You're right. I wish you hadn't told me.”

“Do you want me to send my agents up to the big house tonight? Or you could call them if you get frightened. Just speed-dial ICE on Parker's phone line.”

“Ice?”

“In Case of Emergency. Don't you have that on your cell phone?”

“No. Whose number would I ring?”

“Program mine in tomorrow. I'll try to get there as soon as I can. The suspect will have to find lodgings, get the child settled, and reconnoiter your position, so I do not expect any trouble soon. Or maybe the uncle is just a killer and he's fleeing the country altogether.”

Just a killer? Instead of a maniac trying to take over the world, after he ran my brain through a cosmic Cuisinart. I very carefully did not inquire exactly how the nanny died.

“Hurry,” was all I said. In a panic, I herded the dogs inside, through the house. Sorry, Mr. Parker. I locked every door and window and found a fireplace poker, like a heroine from a historical romance, to keep under my pillow. I didn't bother with a shower. Psycho, anyone? But I washed, threw my damp clothes on the bathroom floor—sorry, Aunt Lily—and huddled in bed with the phone and two wet poodles. Sorry, Mom. But instead of having nightmares, or staying awake all night in a raging anxiety attack, I fell asleep dreaming of having my body's every wish granted. Sorry, scruples.

I
WAS GOING TO HAVE AN AFFAIR. A mind-numbing, soul-shattering affair. I was most likely going to be killed, too, but, hey, I might as well enjoy great sex first, right? I knew, without the slightest dash of extrasensory anything, that sex with Grant would be like nothing I'd ever experienced. The anticipation alone was enough to dampen my drawers and make me forget, for a while, at least, that death, doubt, and doom loomed. Like the old song said, anticipation was making me crazy. Okay, I didn't have far to go, but this was a good crazy, not the “I'm alone in the world and everyone hates me” kind of crazy. This was “the hottest man on two continents wants me, and my skin is too tight” kind of crazy.

I took the dogs for a run around the property, with Baggies but no leashes. When I waved to the guys at the guesthouse, one of them started jogging behind us, keeping pace with us. Sometimes he got ahead, because Ben and Jerry stopped at every interesting bush and tree trunk and I stayed with them. I still wasn't sure they'd come when called, to say nothing of needing to catch my breath now and again. They were nice dogs, well trained. My mother had been working on their high-strung nerves, but she couldn't run some of their excess energy out of them. I could, so we did another lap of the estate.

Then I went in, made sure the dogs had their morning kibble rations and pills, and took a shower. I reveled in the strong water pressure and the constant temperature—so unlike the finicky pipes in the old brownstone where I live. Maybe, when Grant got here, we'd try out Mr. Parker's sauna. And the hot tub. Or the pool, if it's not wrecked. Hell, maybe the pool table.

I was going to have an affair, a torrid, tongue-hanging-out-like-the-dogs' affair, right here in Paumanok Harbor. I didn't care who knew.

Except for Grandma Eve. Damn, I could hear her saying Grant wasn't the man for me; he wasn't in my tea leaves; he wasn't the steady sort; I should consult with the Institute for the proper bloodlines. She always swore that my future lay with a man who could do magic so our children were exceptional. Not a super-cop.

I bet there was magic in Grant's touch. Besides, this was a love affair, not a lifetime. I knew it, no matter what Grant said. He was so out of my league, so alien to the world I knew, so far from my comfort zone. Half the time with him I felt like Alice at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. The other half I felt like a schoolgirl with a crush on the captain of the football team. So nothing could come from this except glorious sex, and I was okay with that. I resolved to keep my expectations low and avoid disappointment later. Why start a relationship waiting for the dream to die?

Nope, I'd think positively. He'd give me great protection, and greater pleasure. I would not think about him giving me beautiful blue-eyed babies and a lifetime of excitement. Not when there was no chance in hell. Who needed excitement anyway? I had enough in the plots of my books.

The morning was too gorgeous to worry about having my heart broken or my head being messed with. Kidnapped? Here, in this sleepy little town, with the sun out? By daylight, everything looked better. My father would be fine, my mother would take care of him, Susan's parents would be home tomorrow at the latest, and Lou was looking after Grandma Eve. I had days of luxury ahead, Rosehill and the beach, waiting for Grant.

The way I rationalized myself into a sunny mood was that the scum who threatened me and the world couldn't call up the troll. I could. So I wouldn't. Simple. Then the bad guy couldn't use Fafhrd, or me, or Nicky. And Grant would find the bastard before he hurt anyone else.

Meantime, I'd avoid children. And work. Don would be upset, but less than he would be if the new cleaning people found me on Mr. Parker's white carpet, as stiff as the poor Polish nanny.

I had plenty of other stuff to do to fill up my time. Like calling the pool people about the diving board, brushing twigs and leaves out of the poodles, and unpacking my suitcases. I also had to see what the refrigerator held, so I could make a list for the grocery store when I went out to feed the Pomeranian.

The poodles were being so well behaved—and were so tired from our morning run—that I didn't have the heart to lock them in their crates. Instead, I left the doors open in case they wanted to go into the cages, but gave them the freedom of the housekeeper's apartment and the kitchen and pantry rooms. I gave them each a biscuit, rubbed their ears, and promised to be back soon.

The Escalade was twice the size of any car I'd ever driven. It seemed to take up way more than its half of the roadway, but I didn't hit anything or scrape its sides on the gateposts going out, so I considered that another success. I passed Colin on his bike—those guys must do nothing but keep fit all day—and noticed the Bluetooth in his ear. They were looking out for me, most likely calling ahead to unseen watchers to take up the vigil. Good.

Ippy the three-legged Pomeranian? Not so good. I called out before I unlocked the door of my mother's house, so he would know I was a friend. Despite my advance warning, the wretched red-coated runt launched himself off the bottom step and snapped at my leg. He got the hem of my capris in his mouth, thank goodness, not my calf muscle, but he wouldn't let go. I raised my leg and the Pom did an imitation of a furry pit bull, hanging on with all three legs off the ground, growling.

“You are being ridiculous, and I don't have time for this,” I told him, trying to shake all six pounds of him loose. “I have to go save the world.” And buy frozen waffles for company breakfast.

He held on. Finally I bent down, grabbed him around his middle, tight enough that he opened his jaw to bite, or breathe. Free, I lifted him to my eye level—but far enough away from my nose. “Listen, half-pint, you are the dog. I am the master. You
will
behave.” I didn't shake him, but the dog was terrified enough that he was quaking. “I know people hurt you. Then, when you finally got rescued, the first thing they did was cut off your mangled leg and your balls. I'm sorry for the past, but I didn't do it! I am not one of the bad guys.”

At least he'd stopped growling and scrabbling his legs in the air. The quivering was pitiful enough. I lowered my voice and told him, “If you don't like the power structure, you should talk to the troll about setting up your own society, but be careful. The King Charles spaniels might want to rule all of dogdom, or the big herders might round all you little dudes up. Ever hear of a dog-eat-dog world? Till then, you live in my world. You need me to open your cans and shovel out the Kibbles 'n Bits. I'm willing to do it, yeah, and change your piddle papers, too, but I will not take any more shit from you. Do you understand?”

He went limp in my arms and for a second I thought I'd given him heart failure. But no, he was just relaxed finally, happy enough in my arms that I brought him closer, against my body so I could pet him. “See? We can be friends.”

He ate, he did his business, and he hopped right along with me on the way to Grandma's house. I decided to change his name to Little Red. No one knew what he'd been called before, so what I called him didn't matter. He seemed to follow the sound of my voice anyway, and a “Come on, good boy,” worked as well as “Napoleon, avaunt.”

I picked him up before he could raise a leg—how the hell he managed that when he walked on three was another mystery—against the impatiens lining Grandma Eve's front walk. I'd been warned he tried to kick up dirt behind him like the stud he wasn't anymore, so I wasn't taking any chances with Grandma's precious flowers. The dog didn't protest, just hung out in my arms. “Don't get too comfortable, Red,” I warned him. “No dogs are allowed in my apartment.”

Grandma and Lou were having tea in the kitchen, making lists. I learned years ago not to drink tea at my grandmother's, but I poured myself a glass of orange juice, put a muffin on a napkin, and sat with them. I pretended not to see Grandma's glare or Lou's knowing grin while I tried to put the Pomeranian down. He growled and tried to grab my wrist, but his silly mouth wasn't wide enough. I got the idea anyway. So now I had a Velcro dog. At least he ate the crumbs that fell in my lap.

I smiled at the two tacticians. “What can I do to help today?”

Grandma looked at Lou and he looked at her. Uh-oh. I wondered what they were plotting, and just how friendly they'd become overnight. Then they both nodded and held out a stack of posters with Nicky's pictures.