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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Breaking News
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Chapter 13
A
fugitive known to Venezuelan authorities as Richard Allen Goodwin, known in Los Angeles as Rodwell Archibald Godfrey, former owner of
The Informer,
hid in the crowd of fans as he watched Abby Simpson and her date race back to the limousine.
Sure that she'd recognized him, but just in case, he'd called
The Informer
's office beforehand in hopes of luring that idiot who manned the computers out to the premiere to warn Abby. He'd made it perfectly clear to the stupid kid just exactly who he was. He laughed when he recalled the conversation.
“Tell me where Abby Simpson is tonight, or she dies.”
“Who is this?” Josh asked.
“Your old boss, the rightful owner of
The Informer.
Do as I say, and Abby won't get hurt.”
“Rag!” Josh exclaimed. “What . . . Where are you?”
“It doesn't matter where I am. Give me her location.”
Then he'd hung up, knowing that the kid would rush out to wherever Abby was. From there, all he had to do was follow the geek. He'd stationed himself among the crowd of fans in front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre. Lady Luck was in his pocket that night. He'd seen Abby almost immediately. And the geek had led him right to her, just as he'd known he would. He'd even gone to the trouble to disguise himself with that fake beard.
Phase one. Complete.
After two years spent on the run in the Dominican Republic and Venezuela, his luck had run out when the husband of his last lover discovered he'd swindled her out of his entire fortune.
He'd gradually changed his appearance throughout the years. First, he'd gone to a well-known plastic surgeon, where he'd used part of the fifty grand he'd ripped off Micky Constantine to pay for the hair plugs he'd wanted for the past twenty years. Then he'd lost forty pounds and spent weeks working out, trying to rid himself of his pudgy gut. When working out no longer seemed to be doing the job, he'd taken the last of his ill-gotten funds and had liposuction. As dark as the natives from the sun, he no longer looked like the man who'd left LA two years ago.
But some things never changed. Abby Simpson still had her reporter's instinct, just as he knew she would, and she'd recognized his voice and his face in spite of the changes he'd made. And that was what he'd hoped for. This time around, he had a surefire plan, and part of that plan was that he would not get caught. This time, he would walk away with the ten million dollars that in his mind rightfully belonged to him.
He was sure Abby would show up at
The Informer
after she'd had a chance to change into her street clothes. He'd give her an hour, which would give him just enough time to hide out in a place where he knew he'd have instant access to Abby.
A secret place that he, and he alone, knew about.
 
On the drive back to Brentwood, Abby and Chris barely spoke a word to one another for fear the damned limo was bugged. Once the driver dropped them off, and they were safely ensconced inside Abby's house, she let loose.
“That son of a bitch! I can't believe after all this time he's back! I can't wait to get my hands around his neck!”
Chester ran around in circles, trying to get her attention. She leaned down for a doggy kiss, then headed for her bedroom. “I'm going to change. Then I'm going to the office.”
She made fast work of slipping off the designer dress that only hours ago had excited her. She threw on a pair of jeans with a black T-shirt and a pair of sneakers. Something told her she might need them tonight, just in case she had to run after that sneaky piece of garbage.
Back in the living room, Abby filled Chester's food bowl and refreshed his water. Chris sat on the sofa, unusually quiet.
“Abby, you need to calm down. Let's call the police. Remember, he's wanted by the Feds. Let them do their job. You're not equipped for this kind of stuff. And I don't want you to, either,” Chris said, his tone serious.
“I remember after the fire, I took all of Rag's old files to the basement. Maybe I can find old addresses, contacts, or maybe some old IRS tax files. Maybe I can find an old contact, something that will give me an idea of where he's hanging out. He's on the run, but knowing him, there's probably a woman involved, even if it's unknowingly. I might find an address for one of his old girlfriends.”
Chris had seen that look in Abby's eyes before and knew there was nothing he could say that would stop her.
“I'll stay here with Chester. Call me when you get there and before you leave, okay?” Chris said.
“Sure,” Abby replied as she grabbed her keys and headed out.
The best he could hope for was that she would somehow stay out of trouble. He'd do whatever he could, but without her knowledge.
Maybe it was time to place a call to Toots.
Chapter 14
I
t was 11:30 by the time Abby arrived at the office. As promised, she called Chris to let him know that she was there.
The Informer
was quiet at that time of night as most of the reporters were out searching for the next big story.
The stairs leading down to the basement were dark and dirty, as they were seldom ever used anymore. The old printing press was still there. It reminded her of the days after the fire, when they'd had to use it as backup until the new operating system was installed and they were back online.
She was on a mission that night and was going to find where that son of a bitch was staying. With luck, she would manage to find him. After she had him cornered, she would let the authorities take over. She just wanted five minutes alone with him. With all the grief he'd caused, the suffering the staff had gone through, he owed her that much.
Yes, she wanted her five minutes alone with the worthless piece of garbage. Images of him locked in a five-by-seven cell made her smile.
The air in the basement was musty, and she detected a slight scent of mold. As she felt around, searching for the old-fashioned chain to switch the overhead light on, she paused, swearing that she detected a movement out of the corner of her eye. She hoped like hell there weren't rats in the basement. Knowing her mother was the face of LAT Enterprise, she knew the place had been treated for any infestation. She raised her hand above her head, feeling for the chain again. Finding it, she breathed a sigh of relief. She yanked on the chain as hard as she could.
Nothing.
She tried it again, expecting a dim ray of light, and again there was nothing.
She knew where the file cabinets were located. She was down in the basement and was not going upstairs empty-handed.
After her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Abby spied the filing cabinets, which had been shoved against the old wooden door that had remained closed for as long as she'd worked for
The Informer.
Probably just an unused storage room.
The streetlight outside that shone in through the single basement window afforded her just enough light to guide her to the filing cabinets.
As she felt her way toward the set of file cabinets, she stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed they had been pushed away from their original position. Abby found it beyond strange that the old door, normally locked, was ajar.
Wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, and now motivated by fear, Abby yanked the top drawer open. Using both hands, she reached inside, grabbing a stack of manila folders. Once she was back upstairs, she'd look through them, and if she didn't find anything, she'd come back downstairs with a flashlight.
But before she knew what was happening, a cloth with a chemical odor was shoved over her mouth and nose.
“I told you I would get you, bitch.”
Abby's world went black.
Chris was startled awake when Chester barked in his ear. He bolted off the sofa, stunned that he'd actually fallen asleep. He'd tossed his tuxedo jacket over the sofa and kicked off his shoes, relaxing while he waited for Abby's second phone call. He looked at his watch. She'd had more than enough time at
The Informer
to do what she needed and head back home. It'd been almost two hours since she called to tell him she'd arrived at the paper. He'd give her five more minutes, and if she hadn't called by then, he would try to call her. He didn't want to appear as though he was checking up on her.
“Come on, Chester, I bet you need to go outside.” Chris walked through the kitchen, opened the back door, and the big shepherd ran outside. Chris waited at the back door while Chester marked every shrub in the backyard. He looked at his watch again. It had only been two minutes.
The hell with calling Abby. He was going down there.
“Come on, Chester, we are going for a ride.”
Hearing the word
ride,
Chester raced back inside the kitchen. Chris located his shoes in the living room and quickly stepped into them. He found the keys to his Toyota Camry in his pocket. Glancing around the house, he locked the back door and left through the front, with Chester at his side. Abby had given him a set of keys to her house a few weeks ago. That night was the first time he'd needed to use them. As he locked the door behind him, suddenly a feeling of doom, like a heavy shroud, embraced him.
Maybe Sophie's psychic powers were beginning to rub off on him.
He sensed Abby was in trouble.
Chapter 15
T
oots couldn't recall when she'd had a more pleasant evening. Phil was charming, intelligent, had a wonderful sense of humor, not to mention that he was kind to animals. She'd never felt as blissfully happy on a first date, and she'd had more than her share.
The shrill ringing of a cell phone ended her euphoric reminiscing about the evening.
Phil answered on the second ring. “Dr. Becker,” he replied in what Toots now thought of as his doctor voice.
“Yes, Michelle. Wonderful. I can't thank you enough. I'll see you first thing in the morning.” He hit the
END
button and tossed the phone on the seat.
“Frankie made it through the surgery just fine. Michelle seems to think he'll be okay.”
“Super! We did the right thing, then. I'll have to call the girls and tell them,” Toots said, then paused. What would she tell them if they asked where she planned to spend the night? Should she even mention it? No, she wouldn't have to, because Sophie would ask. And what would she say when she did?
“Frankie will be in recovery for another four or five hours. Given how late it is, why don't I give Mary Ann a call at DiamondHead and see if my time-share is available?”
“What? You have a time-share here?” Toots asked, wondering how many girls he had brought here in the past.
“It's just an investment thing Mary Ann conned me into several years ago, along with several of my colleagues. We all thought we'd hit pay dirt, and for a few years we successfully rented them out at a decent profit. Then the real-estate bubble collapsed, and now I'm stuck. Actually, this will be the first time I've stayed here since I bought the place.”
Toots gave a mental sigh of relief. At least he hadn't used the place as a social screwing joint. Sophie would want to know that, too. She was sure of it.
Phil hung up the phone. “We're in luck. The place is empty, as is quite common this time of the year, you know, the off-season in Florida. Mary Ann said she would have the night staff prepare the condo.”
Ten minutes later, they pulled into a huge parking garage. It was nearly empty. The entrance to the lobby was well lit and clearly well maintained, flanked by giant urns of bright blooming hibiscus.
A gush of icy cold air greeted them as soon as Phil opened the door. One more point in his favor. He opened doors for women. She added this to his growing list of quality characteristics.
The night staff greeted them as though they were welcoming home a family member. The bellman brought a brass rolling cart to retrieve their luggage.
For a moment, Toots was embarrassed. She didn't want the staff to think she was a one-night stand, but then who cared? She was sixty-six years old. She could do as she damn well pleased.
Sensing the awkwardness of the moment, Phil spoke up. “I'm Dr. Becker. We came here to secure emergency medical treatment for a patient, and neither of us had time to pack a bag. I hope there's some of those fluffy terry-cloth robes in the condo. I don't know about you, Toots, but I could use a warm shower.”
The night clerk immediately called housekeeping to ensure they wouldn't lack any of the amenities they provided to all their guests. After giving him a key card, she directed them to a bank of elevators. Once inside, neither Toots nor Phil spoke. As soon as the doors swished open, they revealed a walkway made of solid concrete that traversed the entire tenth floor.
Toots walked alongside Phil, remarking, “This is very . . . sturdy-looking.”
“Yes, they haven't done much with exterior decorating since hurricanes Charlie, Francis, Ivan, and Jean.” He laughed.
“Sounds like the name of a hit song,” Toots replied, “ ‘hit' being the key word. This place can withstand category five hurricanes, and that's why there aren't a lot of extras. The foundation and building are as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. Most of my rentals are locals here, to ride out the storms. Even though their homes might not survive hurricane-force winds, at least while they're here, they know that they're safe. Many people who had to evacuate weren't allowed back on Estero Island after the last hurricane came through a few years ago.”
Toots hadn't expected an entire history of the island and its past, but she realized that Phil was as nervous as she was. It'd been a long time since either had spent the night with someone of the opposite sex. Phil told her it'd been years since he'd been on a date.
When they reached the condo, Phil slipped the key card into the lock and pushed the heavy steel door open, allowing Toots to enter first. She mentally chalked up another point in his favor.
Upon entering the room, Toots saw floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors facing the Gulf of Mexico. She hurried through the small living and kitchen area to admire the view.
At high tide, the rush of the gulf water caressed the shoreline, leaving behind clumps of seaweed. Toots peered over the edge of the railing, spying the scattering of white dots sprinkled along the beach. Seashells. Hundreds of them, just waiting to be collected and given a place of importance on some vacationer's coffee table. Could the evening be more perfect? Minus Frankie's misfortune, tonight was turning out to include some of the most memorable moments from the hundreds of trips she'd taken. Or was it just the company?
She sensed Phil's presence as he stood behind her. She drew in a deep breath when he gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “Thanks for going with me tonight. It means more than you know. I've never taken a woman to a veterinarian's office on a first date, or any other time, for that matter.”
“It's a first for me, too,” she whispered, thinking that at her age she shouldn't be having any more
first
anything.
Continuing to gently massage her shoulders, their bodies touching, he brushed a light kiss in the sensitive hollow area between her neck and shoulder. A jolt of raw desire rushed through her, and she knew this was
not
a hot flash. He pulled her closer, and she felt what she knew was not a set of keys in his pocket.
Suddenly, Phil stepped back and said, “Why don't we get a shower?” At that point he was thinking of a cold one. “You take the master bath, and I'll use the guest bath. Then let's meet here”—he nodded at the chairs on the balcony—“for a second date, and while we're sitting out here and admiring the view, we can talk about what we're going to do on our third date.”

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