Bloodlines (4 page)

Trey shrugged, then nodded. “I'm a little tense myself, so what do you say we start over?”

Marcus nodded. “Done.”

Trey heard Olivia exhale. He wanted to look at her but didn't dare. Instead, he referred to his notebook, then looked back at Marcus.

“You only had the one child, is that right?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes, my son, Michael.”

“And he and his wife, Kay, only had one child?”

Marcus looked at Olivia and smiled gently.

“Yes, my granddaughter, Olivia.”

Trey's gaze shifted to her. She was sitting on the edge of the chair with her hands folded in her lap and a strained expression on her face. She looked as if she wanted to slap him into the middle of next week. He glanced back at the notebook.

“What about anyone else? Maybe cousins…someone who would have had a child about the age of Liv…uh, your granddaughter?”

Marcus sighed, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he met Trey's gaze.

“Once, the Sealys were many, but three wars and a couple of natural disasters have thinned us down. I have a second cousin who is a nun, so naturally, there were no children from that branch. I had a brother who was gay. He took his own life at the age of twenty-nine, in some pitiful hotel room in Paris after his lover left him, which left only me and my baby sister to continue the family line. My wife and I had just the one son, and my sister never married, although I suspect she left a string of broken hearts during her younger days.”

“Where is she now?” Trey asked.

Marcus grinned. “Living in an old lighthouse off the coast of Maine with a dozen cats. She paints pictures of the lighthouse over and over and sells them to tourists. No husbands…no children.”

“What about Uncle Terrence and Aunt Carolyn?” Olivia asked.

Marcus shook his head. “They never had any children,” he said shortly.

Trey paused. The tension in Marcus's voice was there, even if the expression on his face said otherwise.

“Where do they live?” Trey asked.

“They're in Italy. Have been for years.”

“How many years?” Trey asked.

“I don't know…oh, at least twenty-five. Seems to me they were gone before Olivia was kidnapped. Terrence isn't my brother, he's a cousin.”

“Did he share the same genetic trait with the rest of the Sealys?”

“What…you mean the second thumb on the left hand?”

Trey nodded.

Marcus frowned. “Yes, I suppose he did.”

“Where did they live before they moved to Italy?” Trey asked.

“At his family's home north of Sherman.”

Trey wrote down the information while mentally mapping out the distance from Sherman to Lake Texoma. It was easily within an hour's drive, even less depending on which part of the lake one was aiming for.

“Do you have a number or address where they can be reached?” Trey asked.

Marcus's frown deepened.

“I have a number and address, but I don't know how current they are. We haven't communicated in ages.”

“And why would that be, sir?” Trey asked.

“We never did care much for each other,” Marcus said. “You know what they say, you can choose your friends but not your family. They left after some of Terrence's business deals went sour. Ruined his reputation.”

“Why Italy?” Trey asked.

“Carolyn's family had a summer home there. She inherited it when her father died. I suppose it was a good place for them to escape to.”

“I'll still need those numbers,” Trey said.

“Yes, of course,” Marcus said. He shuffled through a Rolodex, finally pulled out a card and handed it to Trey.

Trey made a note of the information, then continued to write as Marcus rambled about his dwindling family. When Marcus stopped, Trey looked up, glanced at Olivia, then back at Marcus, and braced himself for another angry reaction.

“Mr. Sealy, this is personal, but I have to ask. You've been a widower for many years, right?”

“Yes,” Marcus said. “But what does that have to do with—”

“During that time, it wouldn't have been out of the ordinary for you to have had an intimate relationship with another woman.”

Marcus's face flushed, but his voice never wavered.

“Be that as it may, I did not.”

“You're absolutely positive that you did not father another child?”

Marcus's fingers tightened around the arms of his chair.

“Yes, Detective. I'm certain.”

Trey glanced at Olivia. She appeared furious, and what he was going to say wasn't going to make her any happier. He turned back to Marcus.

“When your granddaughter was kidnapped…”

“Yes?” Marcus said.

“She was missing for seven days, right?”

Marcus nodded.

Trey made a note in his book, then looked up again.

“And you are one hundred percent certain that the child who was returned to you was the same child who was kidnapped?”

Olivia gasped, then stood abruptly.

Marcus grabbed her wrist and gently pulled her close until she was standing beside his chair. He looked up at her and smiled, then fixed Trey with a cold, angry look.

“I know my own flesh and blood, Detective, and I think we're done now.”

Trey flipped the notebook closed, then slipped it into his pocket. He'd pissed them off big-time, and he wasn't done yet.

“Nearly, Mr. Sealy. There's just one more thing I need.”

“What's that?” Marcus asked.

“We need DNA samples from both you and Olivia.”

Olivia turned until she was facing Trey.

For the first time since he'd walked in the door, they were looking—really looking—at each other, and the pain on her face made him sick.

“Now…see here,” Marcus sputtered.

Olivia looked at Trey without flinching as she lifted her chin and gave her grandfather's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“No, Grampy, it's all right. I don't mind. It's a small price to pay to get these people out of our lives.”

Trey flinched. He'd gotten the underlying meaning loud and clear.

“We'll see our family doctor tomorrow,” Marcus said.

Trey's expression darkened. “I'm sorry, sir, but due to the seriousness of the situation, we need to have the test done in our facilities.”

“So, Detective Bonney, where would you like us to go?” Olivia asked.

“I'll take you to the crime lab.”

“We can get ourselves there,” Marcus said.

“No, sir, if you don't mind, I need to be with you all the way.”

“And if we do mind?” Olivia snapped.

Her anger was so vivid he could almost feel the slap of her words. Through no fault of his own, he'd been put in the position of being the bearer of bad news. It was a case of shoot the messenger for the news that he'd brought.

“Look,” Trey said, trying to maintain a professional
attitude in the face of such personal animosity, “none of this is my idea, or, for that matter, my fault. I'm simply following orders, and that includes proving—or eliminating—any connections you might have to the deceased. I'll pick you up at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, take you to the lab, then bring you back. After that, if we're both lucky, it will mark the end of this brief, acrimonious relationship.”

At that moment Rose walked in with a tray of freshly brewed coffee and three cups. Trey turned, then nodded politely at her.

“Ma'am, I'm afraid I'm going to have to forgo the pleasure of your coffee, but thank you for the trouble.”

Unaware of the undercurrents in the room, she smiled.

“Maybe another time, sir,” she said.

Marcus was getting to his feet as Trey started toward the door.

“Don't bother,” Trey muttered. “I'll see myself out.”

Marcus frowned. Despite the uncomfortable situation, he wouldn't allow manners to fail him.

“Olivia, darling…would you please see Detective Bonney out?”

Olivia flinched, but arguing with her grandfather would set him to wondering about things she didn't want him to remember.

“Yes, of course,” she said, and strode past Trey, pausing once to see if he was going to follow.

She saw him bite his lip and knew he was just as uncomfortable around her as she was around him. The
silence between them lengthened and darkened until Olivia felt as threatened by his lack of acknowledgment as she'd felt by his presence. By the time they reached the front door, she was on the verge of tears.

And it was those tears blurring her vision that melted Trey's heart. He sighed in frustration, then shoved his hand through his hair, absently combing the dark strands out of order.

“Livvie…wait,” he said.

No one had ever called her that but Trey, and the sound of it on his lips brought back too many sad memories. She turned to him then, shaking and shamed.

“Trey…I had no idea that—”

He held up his hand. “It's okay. I understand.” Then he grimaced. “No. That's too easy. I don't understand. I can only imagine what you and your grandfather must be going through. I'm sorry this is dragging up old and painful memories for him, but if you'd seen that house…and the suitcase…and the contents…” He sighed. “You've got to know that you're not being targeted unfairly, but some bastard murdered a baby, Livvie, and I guess I'll do anything to bring him, or her, to justice.”

“I know,” Olivia said. “And truthfully, we understand. But this is frightening to me. Everything you ask threatens my existence…my identity. And…I didn't expect the detective to be someone I knew.” Then she took a deep breath and added, “I'm sorry.”

Trey shrugged. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Yes, I do. I wasn't strong enough to say it before, but I'm saying it now, even if it's years overdue.”

“Really, Livvie…that's all in the past. You don't need to—”

She lifted her chin. “I was a coward. I didn't know how to stand up to my grandfather. I've always felt guilty about being kidnapped.”

“Guilty? Why?”

“Because it cost Grampy his only son. I gave in to his demands about you even though I didn't want to, completely unaware of what I would be losing.” Then she sighed. “All I can say is…I'm sorry. I know that's all in the past, but I would like to think that you don't hold any hard feelings toward me.”

Trey wanted to hold her. He settled for a handshake.

“No hard feelings,” he said gently. “And I'll pick you up in the morning at ten.”

“We'll be ready,” she said, and opened the door to see him out.

Trey stepped across the threshold, then stopped and turned.

“You have no need to worry. I have no intention of reminding your grandfather who I am. What you and I were. What's past is past, right?”

Olivia nodded, but she was struggling with the need to argue. Her memories of him were filled with love and passion and the feeling of coming apart in his arms. That would never be wholly in the past for her.

She shrugged. “Part of it is, I suppose, but until we know the identity of the murdered child and find out who killed her, the past will never be laid to rest.”

There was little Trey could say to reassure her, so he erred on the side of caution and left her standing on the doorstep.

A few minutes later, as he was heading down the driveway, he glanced up into the rearview mirror. She was still on the doorstep, and he would have sworn that she was crying.

F
oster Lawrence had been out of prison for two weeks, but he still wasn't used to being free. No matter where he was, each time he reached for a doorknob, he experienced a brief moment of panic that the door would be locked. After twenty-five years of being incarcerated, he was no longer able to sleep with the lights out, and he ate too fast.

The world he'd known before was all but gone. Now everything was high-tech and computerized. There were cell phones that took pictures and pagers that played Bach. Teenage boys wore layers and layers of clothes that looked three sizes too big, while the girls' outfits were so brief and tight, he was amazed that their parents let them out of the house. Television screens were flatter and larger, and sex was used to sell everything from toothpaste to cake mixes. He felt like a foreigner in his own land. But, with what was waiting for him back in Dallas, he figured he could soon buy his way into comfort. He'd purposefully given himself the past two weeks to make sure he wasn't being followed—that the cops had forgotten about him and the money that had never been recovered.
He'd gotten a nondescript job washing dishes in a restaurant, and once he'd been certain he was on his own, he'd quit his job and bought a bus ticket to Dallas.

 

“Step aside, step aside,” the bus driver said as he moved toward the underbelly of the bus to unload the luggage.

Since Foster was carrying his worldly goods in a pack on his back, he was able to bypass this last step of the long, miserable ride. All he needed was to finish what he'd begun years ago in this city. Get the money, then get out.

As he walked out of the bus station, he glanced up at the sky. The sun had already set. Before long, it would be dark, and he had no intention of spending the night on the streets. However, he had almost five hundred dollars in his pocket, and his needs were simple. For the short time he would be here, any room would do.

“Cab, mister?”

Foster turned. A short man with a bald head and a slight paunch was standing beside a cab with the door ajar. Taking a cab would be a luxury, but his million was finally within his reach, and it was getting darker by the moment.

“Yeah, why not?” he said, took the backpack off his shoulder, tossed it onto the seat, then slid in beside it.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

“I need a room for a few days. Somewhere close to downtown. Somewhere cheap.”

“Yes, sir,” the cabbie said, and the taxi began to move.

As Foster leaned back, he began to relax. It was all going to be okay. He was in Dallas and only hours away from what he'd begun all those years ago. All he'd wanted then was a fresh start, and that still held true. The money he'd stashed was going to make it happen.

A few minutes later, the cabdriver pulled over to the curb. Foster glanced out the window. The hotel was obviously not four-star, but then, neither was he—or his bankroll. He paid the driver, grabbed his backpack and got out.

When he walked in, he saw that the bald man behind the desk was sporting tattoos on both his forearms and a handlebar mustache. He gave Foster a less than cursory glance, then took another toke on the joint he was smoking.

“I need a room,” Foster said.

“Twenty-five dollars a night—up front,” the clerk said.

“How much for a week?” Foster asked.

The clerk didn't bother to look up. “Hundred dollars…in advance.”

“I'll take it a night at a time,” Foster said, and counted out the money. He started to put the bills back in his pocket, then hesitated and peeled off another five from his roll and slapped it down in front of the clerk.

“What about women?” Foster asked.

The clerk looked up, squinting through the smoke encircling his head, eyed the five, then, for the first time, actually paid attention to what Foster was asking.

“What about 'em?” he asked.

“Any available?”

“What's your top dollar?” the clerk asked.

“This ain't the Taj Mahal,” Foster growled. “Just send me a female. As long as she's not sporting a mustache and a dick, I'll be satisfied.”

The clerk took Foster's money and handed him a key.

“Room 322, third floor. Elevator's out of order.”

Foster took the key without comment. Elevators were a luxury he hadn't had in years. Another night or so of hoofing up the stairs was nothing to complain about. All he wanted was the room and a woman.

The clerk took another drag on his joint, then held in the smoke for a few seconds before exhaling through his nose. Foster's eyes narrowed.

“Don't forget about the woman,” he growled.

The clerk nodded. He was reaching for the phone as Foster started up the stairs. A few minutes later, Foster unlocked the door and walked in.

The door locked automatically, but he still turned the dead bolt, then tossed his bag on the bed and dropped the room key in his pocket. He thought about unpacking, but there wasn't enough in his backpack to worry about, so he poked about in the bathroom instead.

The towels were somewhat gray and threadbare, and the bars of soap were the size of credit cards and nearly as thin. Several of the black-and-white tiles on the floor were cracked or chipped. There was a large red rust stain in the bottom of the tub around the drain,
but the room was three times the size of the cell that he'd had to share and seemed luxurious.

Immediately, he stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower, peeling the thin paper wrapper from the soap as he went. A few minutes later he had soaped from head to toe, shampooed his long hair, and was in the act of rinsing off when he heard a knock at the door. Confident that it would be the whore he'd ordered, he turned off the water and grabbed two towels, wrapping one around his waist and using the other to dry his hair as he strode out of the bathroom, past the bed, and to the door.

“Who is it?” he growled.

“Anyone you want it to be, doll,” a female voice answered.

His pulse kicked with anticipation, although he opened the door just a fraction before satisfying himself that she was alone. Then he swung the door completely inward, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her inside.

For a moment the only sounds were the locks turning. Then the woman smiled.

“Hey, hon…how you doin'?” she asked, and ran her finger lightly between his belly and the thin wet towel he'd wrapped around his waist.

Foster flinched. Inside, he'd broken a man's nose for a lesser familiarity. He had to remind himself that he was no longer in prison, while wondering if he could get still get it up for a woman. It had been a long time since he'd had the chance to find out.

“Good,” he said shortly as he gave her a hard look.

She would not have been his first pick out of a
crowd, but she wasn't all that bad. Like him, she was just a little past her prime. He barely had time to notice the dark roots against her scalp, or the brushy fall of dishwater-blond hair, before she tossed her handbag aside and put her hands on her hips.

“So, hon…you want a blow job or what?”

Her voice was part whine, with an indistinct southern drawl that could have put her from Alabama, but more likely Arkansas.

He reached for her breasts, feeling the firm but yielding texture of flesh, then squeezed. As he did, he felt the first stirrings of an erection and knew a great sense of relief.

“What else will twenty-five get me?” he asked.

“A hand job. Another twenty will get you an ass or pussy fuck, but if you want anything kinky, it'll cost you a flat hundred…and I don't kiss no one on the lips.”

Foster thought about how long it had been since he'd even had the opportunity to sink his prick into the tight heat of a woman, but the way he was feeling, he wouldn't last long enough to make it worth the price.

“Blow job,” he said shortly, then dropped both towels, sat down on the side of the bed and spread his legs.

“Money first,” she said as she held out her hand.

He reached behind him, took his money from the pocket of his pants and counted out two tens and a five into her palm.

Water droplets still clung to his body as she folded the money and put it in her fanny pack. After that, she stepped between his outspread legs, then went to her knees.

Foster watched long enough to see her red-painted lips sliding up and down his erection before the dampness of her tongue and the intensity with which she was sucking shifted his focus. Warmth became heat and pressure became pain, but a very pleasurable pain. The woman knew her business. She brought him to a climax so hard and so fast that his semen shot into her hands before he could elicit a groan. Moments later, he fell backward onto the bed, still rocked by the intensity of the spasms.

“Oh damn, that was too fast,” he groaned.

The woman got to her feet and headed for the bathroom, carrying her fanny pack as she went. He heard her brushing her teeth but was too spent to move, and he was still on the bed when she came out, drying her hands.

“How long was you in, hon?”

He answered before he thought. “Twenty-five.”

She grinned. “It's no wonder you got off so fast. Sometimes the men like you come just lookin' at me.” Then her eyes narrowed as she stepped back into her shoes. “If you're interested in an encore, you just let Marvin know.”

“Who's Marvin?” he asked.

“The desk clerk who called me,” she said.

“Oh yeah…him,” Foster said.

She hesitated a moment, then grabbed the doorknob.

“So, you take care, hon, and thanks for the business.”

Oblivious to his nudity, Foster followed her to the
door, let her out, then once again locked himself inside.

With the edge gone from his hard-on, he moved back to the bed, picked up the remote from the top of the television, then hit the power button. His belly growled as he thought about ordering up a pizza, but he let the thought ride as he played with the remote. He knew what the phrase “channel surfing” meant, although the room he'd had in California had been minus a TV and he hadn't had the pleasure. He kept his finger on the up arrow and ran through the brief choices the hotel menu offered, then had started through it again when, to his shock, he saw his own face on the screen and heard a newscaster saying his name.

“…looking for Foster Lawrence, who was recently released from prison after serving twenty-five years for his involvement in the kidnapping of the granddaughter of Dallas mogul Marcus Sealy. At this time authorities want Lawrence only for questioning regarding the recent discovery of the skeletal remains of a child's body out at Lake Texoma. The Sealy family is also being questioned regarding the similarities between the baby's remains and Olivia Sealy, who, as a child, was kidnapped and then returned to Marcus Sealy after an extended length of time.”

Foster's heart skipped a beat as his lips went slack. The knot of hunger in his belly turned into a full-blown ache as the remote slipped from his shaking fingers. It hit the floor with a thump and, as it did, changed the channel.

He found himself tuned to the Discovery Channel, watching a male elephant intently copulating with a female elephant who was in heat. Any other time, watching any kind of sexual act would have turned him on, but the only thing hard now was the bed on which he was sitting.

“Son of a bitch,” Foster muttered.

The thought of reliving the hell of a federal prison was impossible. He knew for damn sure that the baby he'd seen had been returned unharmed, because he was the one who'd taken her to the shopping mall and let her go. There were things about his accomplice's past he hadn't liked, but he'd kept his silence, thinking that the million dollars would be worth the wait. However, he hadn't planned on having to deal with murder all over again. He hadn't known about Michael's and Kay Sealy's murders until it had been too late, and he didn't know a damn thing about this one, either.

Suddenly the sanctuary of his room began to seem more like a cell. He thought of the clerk who'd seen his face and the whore who'd just sucked his dick, and figured his days were numbered. He jumped up from the bed and started yanking on his clothes. Panic was pushing him into running until he suddenly stopped. He couldn't go out—not like this. That photo had been a recent one, and he would certainly be spotted immediately. He had learned one thing doing time: patience. He had too much at stake to make a mistake, so instead of running away, he began to run through his options.

It didn't seem possible that this was happening, and, by God, it wasn't fair. He'd paid his debt to society, so what the hell was going on? It seemed as if the state of Texas was out to get him, one way or another. He couldn't let that happen, but he couldn't leave. Not yet. Not until he had what he'd come for. But how? Thanks to the news, he was bound to be seen. He thought for a few minutes, then started with the obvious. The authorities were looking for a gray-haired man with a ponytail and facial hair. It was time to make that man disappear. He grabbed his backpack and headed for the bathroom.

With the aid of a switchblade, a can of shaving cream and a disposable razor, he shaved off his beard and used his knife to cut off his ponytail. His face was pale where the beard had been, and his hair looked as if he'd gotten caught in a lawn mower, but it was enough to assure him a safe trip outside to get another room and the goods he needed to finish his new look. He stared at himself for a few moments, then dressed quickly, stuffed his belongings into the backpack and left, leaving the key to the room on the bed as he went.

As he started down the three flights of stairs, it occurred to him that he might have to change more than his look to get past the desk clerk without notice, but he wasn't sure how. It wasn't until he started down the second flight of stairs and saw an empty pizza box in the stairwell that he knew what to do. He picked it up, holding it as if the food was still inside, and walked the rest of the way down the stairs.