The Doll Brokers (38 page)

The detective hesitated, then agreed to call in the New Jersey police and meet him at the warehouse in Newark at 11:00 o'clock.

Jonathan couldn't remember how he got to his mother's condo, or parking in the underground garage. When he told Felicia that
he wanted his father's old gun, she looked at him as if he might have two heads, warning him that he wouldn't be much help to Ann dead or incarcerated.

It took him less than five minutes to locate the ammunition and the gun, in a strongbox on the top shelf of his mother's bedroom closet. He could only guess at how old it was. His father had died twenty-some-odd years ago.

Jonathan loaded the .38 revolver, recalling enough of his father's instructions to make sure the safety was on. He shoved it into his jacket pocket and left to meet Rondgrun at the warehouse.

When he arrived, the detective was already there, along with five policemen from the New Jersey force. Rondgrun quietly informed him that their custom's broker, Michael Scott, was also missing. Coincidence or an omen? No one knew.

The cops were getting into position. There was nothing special about the building, each warehouse in this neighborhood looking like all the others: one storey, red-bricked, stretching for twenty-five or thirty thousand square feet.

Detective Rondgrun warned Jonathan to stay in his car, to let the men do their job. “You don't make a move until I come and get you,” the Detective said. “Understood?”

Jonathan nodded his head.

Half the team had circled around to the back of the building. Detective Rondgrun and two of the other men entered by the only door at the front.

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty.

Jonathan felt he'd waited long enough. He got out of his car, approached the door, opened it and stepped inside.

The police had rounded up the employees, three women and six men. Everyone was wearing a perplexed expression.

“I thought I told you to wait,” Detective Rondgrun barked at him.

“Is Ann—”

“We found nothing,” the detective told him angrily, escorting him back out the way he came. “No one knows a thing.”

A feeling of dread crept up on Jonathan. He had been convinced he would find her, that she would be here, that this nightmare would be over. But he was no further ahead now than he was before.

S
weat was pouring off Ann as she worked at the screen in the bathroom, trying to pry it loose from the window with her fingernails. She paused every minute or so to wipe her brow.

She was astonished to find her strength so depleted. She hurt in places she didn't know could hurt. Her right arm felt broken as did one of her ribs. The burn marks and bruises on her stomach and back ached. Her face throbbed, especially the swelling around her nose and mouth where she had been punched. She had trouble breathing.

The dampness in the warehouse didn't help. At least twenty thousand square feet, she guessed, with row upon row of pallets. It wasn't overtly dirty, but a fine layer of dust permeated the air and stuck in her nostrils.

In her weakened state, Ann found little relief in having learned the truth. That the attack on her in Hong Kong was meant to scare her off her search for the inventor of Baby Talk N Glow, Charles Ling. That Sidney Greenspan's involvement was as she suspected: the rights to the doll were to be his if he cooperated. Now he was being held against his will, able to move about the warehouse as he pleased, but not permitted to leave. Sidney found a way to get a message to her saying he would try to help, but she couldn't see
how this would be possible. The last time she'd seen him—she didn't remember if it was yesterday or the day before—the man's blood pressure appeared out of control and near the danger zone.

Ann went back at the window, trying to speed up her progress. It was not easy. Her nails had splintered and her fingertips were rubbed raw. She was so weak she could not fully concentrate.

Soon, she heard Mad Dog approach. When he asked what was taking so long, she told him she wasn't feeling well, that this could take a while.

“Well, hurry it up,” he said.

Just the sound of his voice made her cringe and filled her with revulsion.

It took a few more minutes before she finally pulled a portion of the screen apart. With another tug, mercifully, it came free.

She tried to push the window open.

It wouldn't budge.

She pounded with the palm of her hand, fearful of the noise she was making, but feeling powerless to prevent it.

Again, with what little strength she possessed, she banged the window frame.

Finally, it gave. She raised the window and felt the outside air brush against her face. She stood for a moment, breathing it in.

Slowly, carefully, she propped herself on top of the closed toilet seat, prepared to maneuver herself through the window. It appeared to be a daunting task. Her loss of stamina was causing her to sway from side to side.

Suddenly, the bathroom door caved in and Mad Dog confronted her.

She told herself to reach up, to make at least one effort to escape. But before she could act, he was upon her, his hands taking hold of her waist. Pulling hard.

“No!” she hollered. Tears of frustration burst from her eyes as she began to lose her balance.

Mad Dog yanked, knocking her off the toilet. She hit the tiled floor with a thud and blacked out.

When she regained her senses she was back in the warehouse, chained and immobile. She was hot, almost feverish. She looked up, noticed Mad Dog hovering above her. Her heart started to hammer in her chest.

He took a cell phone out of his pocket and tried handing it to her. “I want you to call Jonathan and instruct him to meet you here. He is to bring Verna Sallinger with him.”

Just the mention of Jonathan's name filled her with regret. She doubted whether she'd see him again. Or Felicia.

“Call him,” Mad Dog said, pushing the phone towards her.

Ann refused to take the phone in hand.

He came at her, aiming a punch at her mouth. She turned at the last possible moment and it caught her cheek, opening a cut. Blood trickled down her chin.

Ann remembered the advice she had given to that girl they had hired to do their television commercial—Lisette Smile. To go inside herself, where no one could do her harm. And she tried following her own advice now, forcing her thoughts inward, as she squeezed her eyes shut.

O
nce he returned to Manhattan, Jonathan didn't know what he should do. He wanted to keep active, to continue to look for Ann. But where?

Finally, he ended up back in Ann's office. Taking a seat at her desk, he started to rummage through the drawers.

The photo caught his eye and stopped him cold. In it, he was posed in front of his easel. Ann must have taken it when he was unaware, engrossed as he was in his work. He looked content, serene.

Jonathan went to lift the photo when it dawned on him that it was a typical Ann move, to want to preserve an image of him but not display her affection publicly.

Goddamnit, Ann, where are you? Give me a clue. Any clue. Please…

In the file cabinet next to her desk, he came across a report on the trip they had both taken to introduce Baby Talk N Glow to the major retailers across the United States. Did the answer lie there, he wondered. With one of the retailers?

He didn't know what to think. He had to go with what was familiar, he guessed. Removing files from the cabinet was like following a paper trail of everything he and Ann had been involved with, from the time she had first committed to Baby Talk N Glow.

Jonathan's search took him to the proposed shipping schedule of the doll out of China, showing how the million pieces would be broken down month by month, and how the inventory would be split between the company's warehouse and an outside facility to handle the excess quantity.

Everything seemed straight forward. Jonathan was about to go on, when something stirred in his subconscious, bringing him up short.

Excess quantity. Outside facility …

Wait a minute!

His move for the door was so abrupt, vertigo took over and he almost lost his balance. Slowing down, he made his way out of Ann's office, through the reception area and out into the corridor.

The office for SG Dolls was located a short distance away and Jonathan made a beeline for it. Breathlessly he asked for Sidney's secretary, then started to pace the entranceway until the girl showed up.

“Andrea,” he began without wasting time on preamble, “did you hear from Sidney?”

“No. I spoke to his wife. She's thinking of calling the police.”

“Then tell me this, do you ever use an outside warehouse when your own warehouse is full?”

The girl looked at him strangely, as if his question was odd. “No,” she said, sending disappointment shooting through his veins.

“Huh?”

“We have no need to. We have our own storage facility that we use for slower moving goods. It's located a few blocks from our warehouse. There are no employees. Whenever product is required we send our warehouse people over to get it.

An imaginary light bulb went off in Jonathan's head. “No employees,” he said as if talking to himself. “Your warehouse staff just get what they need, when they need it?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“How often would that be?”

“Maybe once a month. If that.”

“Once a month …” Jonathan's mind was churning. “Andrea,” he said, “do you happen to have a key I could borrow? I'll bring it back to you before the day is out.”

“A key? I don't know, Mr. Morhardt.”

“I'll take full responsibility.”

“I'm not sure I have the authority.”

“Sidney's been a friend of our family for years,” Jonathan argued. “You know that, don't you? And I wouldn't ask if this wasn't important. It could be tied in to his disappearance.”

To Jonathan's relief, the girl's hesitation dissolved. When she returned with the key, he took it in hand but couldn't remember thanking her. Out of the building on the run, he hurried towards the parking lot.

He did not relish what he had to do next, so he started to drive, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. When he finally got Detective Rondgrun on the line, the pause was prolonged.

Jonathan explained how much more sense this made—a seldom used storage facility versus Sidney's active warehouse.

Still, the detective held his silence.

“I'm not wrong,” Jonathan persisted. “I need you to trust me this one last time.”

No reply.

“Look—I'm going there anyway. With or without you.”

“That wouldn't be wise.”

Relief at finally hearing Detective Rondgrun's voice spurred him on. “Then, will you meet me there?” he asked.

Another pause.

“Detective?”

“Five o'clock. But I'm agreeing to this against my better judgment.”

“Five o'clock? Fine. You won't regret it.”

“I better not. And do not do anything until I arrive. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear,” Jonathan said. He shut his cell phone and looked down for an instant. The horn of a nearby car brought him up short. He had pulled into the passing lane without looking.

Get a grip
, he told himself.

He drove mechanically, trying not to think. But his hands were sweating and his face felt flushed.

It was a little after three o'clock when he arrived at a low, flat building in New Jersey. The building looked deserted. Detective Rondgrun said he couldn't make it until five. A wait of practically two hours loomed ahead. Jonathan began weighing the consequences of going in on his own. His gut told him he hadn't a choice. What if Ann was incapacitated? What if she was being assaulted this very minute? He had promised the detective he would wait, but it was not a promise he could keep. He got out of his car.

Pins and needles was no longer a corny euphemism. Every nerve fiber in his body had come alive.

He approached the main door, put the key in the lock.

The minute he had the door open he made a beeline for the light switch. His hand was about to turn it on when a little voice inside his head warned him to stop. It would not be wise to announce his arrival. Instead, he opened the inner door and entered an area that was pitch dark. He palmed his father's revolver. Then he stepped a little further inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, he began to make his way around the room's periphery, clinging to the wall.

He turned the first corner and thought he spotted someone lying on the cement floor. He crept a little closer, then jolted, involuntarily letting out a cry.

Ann's face was so battered, he barely recognized her. There was blood everywhere; too much blood.

Jonathan pocketed the gun and bent over her, letting himself down on his haunches. Gently, he cradled her in his arms, whispering to her, talking to her as if she could hear his every word, begging her to fight, to please not give up.

“I love you,” he said. And he began to prattle on, telling Ann that she had changed his life, that he didn't want to—that he
could not
—live without her.

Jesus, he was babbling. But he couldn't help himself.

“Ann?” he said.

Her eyes were still closed.

Just as he went to wipe away the caked blood on her face, a sudden movement caught his eye. As he turned, something hard collided with the back of his head.

A
t first there was darkness, then a fuzzy pounding in his brain. He tried to open his eyes; they began to water. He wiped them with the back of his hand. When he tried to look again, all he could see were vague shadows.

This was all his fault. He had blown everything. Instead of waiting for Detective Rongrun, he had taken action on his own.