Charming Lily (14 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Charming Lily
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Dennis fiddled with the remote until he had the channel he wanted. He waited patiently for the weather report to finish. The top-of-the-hour news would be on in seconds. Lily gasped when she saw her picture spread across the screen. Sadie dropped the red pepper she'd been slicing as all three of them peered at the screen.
“Goddammit! I knew he was going to do something like this. I would strangle the son of a bitch if he walked through the door right now. Now there's going to be a feeding frenzy. We need to talk fast and come up with a plan. The newshounds will be on your trail any minute now. Matt has always been news, but the wedding and all will make this a major event. I think, and this is just my opinion, you should make a statement the instant they track you down. Say you both agreed to call off the wedding. As to Matt's whereabouts, you know nothing. You both agreed to some time apart. It was an eleventh-hour decision on both your parts. Too much is hanging on the company. This is Marcus's way of pushing for the announcement and the huge bonus that follows it. The bastard isn't answering the page because he knows we're an hour behind New York. He's like Gary Cooper, he likes to do things like this at high noon to get everyone's attention. Too many people are asleep or getting ready for work for an early-morning news flash. Six o'clock is when people are going home. Noon is when you get the biggest audience. He actually paid for someone to do a survey on that. I'll fix his ass. Watch this.”
Lily blinked.
Sadie picked up the red pepper and washed it off.
Both girls listened intently as Dennis worked his cell phone. “Personnel,” he barked. He identified himself, rattled off his I.D. number, and said, “Terminate the trash collector and reinstate the old company if they still want the job. If they don't want it, take bids and find a new company. Do it now. Call their office and do not allow them in the building today. The workers all have pagers and cell phones. No, I'm not just talking about the New York office, they have cousins or uncles or someone who collects trash in Oregon, too. Get rid of all of them. Call me back and fax me their response at this number.
“It's a small, nit-picking issue, but it will make Marcus get off his duff. He'll call me just to tell me what he thinks about it. At least it's one way of getting his attention, short of going to New York. Would you like me to make some coffee?”
“Yes, by all means. I think I was supposed to do that, but Sadie and I got to talking. You seem at home in the kitchen, Dennis. How'd that happen?”
“My sister. When we were younger and our parents were working, it was her job to start dinner. On her busy days the job fell to me. It was either learn or starve. You should taste my Chicken Kiev. I love the smell of perking coffee.”
Sadie beamed.
Lily smiled. She continued to smile as Dennis managed to rub shoulders with Sadie standing at the counter near the sink. He snitched a slice of cucumber. Sadie swatted him playfully. The smile on Lily's face dissolved. Matt always used to snitch pieces of vegetables from the salad bowl. She'd swat him just the way Sadie did.
Oh
,
Matt, where are you? Am I ever going to see you again?
She fought the urge to touch the pendant hanging around her neck.
Chapter Seven
Matt was jerked to wakefulness with a hard jab to his shoulder. It took him a minute to realize someone had covered him with a blanket at some point during the night. How considerate of them. What the hell kind of crooks were these guys? He rolled over onto his back but said nothing. He knew they were untying his leg. That had to mean they were on the move again. Then again, maybe not. It was light outside, he could see thin slivers of light creeping under the door. So far everything had been done under the cloak of darkness. Why, he didn't know, since he'd seen their faces clearly at the ATM machine.
“Up and at 'em, big guy. Let's go. You get three minutes to take a leak, then you trot right back inside. Any funny business and you'll regret it. Take his shirt and shoes. That'll get him back inside in a hurry.”
The light hurt his eyes. Shit, now he was going to get a headache. He could feel it hammering away at the base of his head. He did his best to check out his surroundings as he unzipped his pants. Lily always said stay alert, pay attention to details. Trees, pine mostly. Ground almost frozen. Damn, it was hard to pee and jiggle from one foot to the other. “If I ever get out of this, you guys are going to pay for this,” he muttered.
“Let's go, Mr. Starr. We don't have all day.”
Any other time, he would have given the voice an argument. Not now, though. He was freezing. He jogged forward and into the brick building. Deserted. Inches of dust and cobwebs. No furniture. The three men were sitting on thick stumps of wood they must have carried in from a woodpile. A laptop was set up on a fourth stump. Obviously the fifth stump was for him. He walked over and sat down. Someone tossed him his shirt and shoes. He put them on gratefully and hugged his arms to his chest. He looked across at the man opposite him, who was flexing his fingers over a computer keyboard. He knew what was coming.
“Let's have it, Mr. Starr.”
There was no point in pretending he didn't know what they were talking about. He rattled off an account number.”
“To the best of your knowledge, how much is in this account?”
“Around $67,000.”
“Close enough. It's gone. Next.”
Matt mumbled a second account number.
“How much?”
“I think it's $121,000.”
“Close enough. Next.”
“There's only one more—$4,500. I don't know what you expected, but in my opinion this is not worth a kidnapping.”
“Let's do the million-dollar one. Spit it out, Mr. Starr.”
Matt sucked in his breath. He repeated the number of Lily's account she'd made him memorize.
“Were you joshing us about that million dollars, Mr. Starr? There's only $501 in the account.”
Matt's eyes popped open. “You must have entered the wrong number. Do it again.”
“Oh, it was in there, but it's gone now. It was wired out early this morning to another account. I can't access it. This isn't going to get you any brownie points, Mr. Starr.”
“You can't hold me responsible for what she does. She's probably pissed to the teeth that I left her standing at the altar, and she's probably in the south of France lying on some beach with some tanned hunk. And it's all your fault, you son of a bitch!”
“I don't much care for profanity, Mr. Starr. You could be right. So, let's move along here and hit your brokerage account.”
Matt licked at his dry lips. He longed for a cup of strong black coffee. Good-bye twenty-two million dollars. He realized in that one moment he would give up everything he owned to be free of these men. He said the number slowly and distinctly.
Please
, he prayed,
don't let them figure out there is more than one brokerage account.
“That's a nice round sum, Mr. Starr. Next.”
“There is no next. Everything else is tied up through the company. You need a six-man approval to hit any of those accounts. If you don't believe me, I'll give you Dennis Wagner's number, and he'll verify it. Don't be greedy, gentlemen.”
“If you're lying to us, we'll just pay Miss Harper a visit and take it out in trade. Now, is there anything you forgot to tell us?”
“No, there isn't,” Matt said.
“How is it that Mr. Bill Gates made billions and you have a measly few million? Tell me that.”
“Bill Gates is number one. I'm only number five. Big difference. Now that you transferred all my money, how about giving me a few bucks for some coffee and let me go.”
One of the men dug around in his pocket and withdrew a five-dollar bill. He wadded it up and tossed it to Matt. “Okay, boys, strip him down and we're outta here.”
“What do you mean, strip me down. If you take my clothes, I'll freeze to death. If you leave me here to die, that will make all of you murderes. You son of a bitch! Take your fucking hands off me!”
“We're leaving you food and coffee. You can build a fire in the fireplace. Be sure to open the draft. This place has been abandoned for a long time. You won't freeze if you stay put. When we get to where we're going, we'll call the authorities and have them pick you up. It might take a day or so. If you choose to ignore my advice, then you will be killing yourself. To show you how considerate we are of your welfare, we carried in enough wood to last you two full days. Nice doing business with you.”
And then he was alone, stark naked, with only a pile of wood and no matches.
He jumped up and down, waving his arms to try and stay warm. What would Lily do? She would say, use your brain, move, don't stand still. He had no clue what he should do next. Would he freeze to death in two days? Probably. If he could find some stones, he might be able to rub them together to form a spark. If he didn't rub his fingers to the bone trying. The Burger King paper bag would catch fire quickly. But would the wood be dry enough to catch fire? Son of a bitch! He was free, but he wasn't free. “If I ever find you bastards, I'll fucking kill you,” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Overhead he heard a flurry of sound.
Bats!
And he was buck-ass naked.
Marcus Collins leaned back in his leather chair and looked at the New York skyline. He was on a short leash, and he knew it. If he didn't do something quickly, it would be all over. It was all going to come down on him and then where would he be? CYA and look out for Number One. Was there a way to bluff his way through it? Was there a way to get out clean and not look back? Just how smart was Dennis Wagner? Pretty goddamn smart according to Matt Starr. He didn't need to be a rocket scientist to know Dennis was onto him. The proof was in the paper he was holding in his hand. Dennis had just canceled the trash pickup firm and reinstated the old company. How the hell was he going to explain that to Betsy? Let's see, what had he gotten for that little favor. Ah yes, stand-up sex in the bathroom for all of thirty seconds. He could picture the exact time, the place, the color of the towels, and the color of the bath mat he had been standing on. He could visualize what he was wearing, at the time and what Betsy was wearing, which was almost nothing. She'd smiled that time. Maybe it wasn't a smile at all but a grimace. He'd given her best friend's husband a million-dollar contract for trash disposal, and he'd gotten a small kickback and a quickie that left much to be desired.
He felt ashamed, and he felt guilty. A time or two he actually felt hatred for himself. All he felt now was stark fear. Because of that fear, he'd gone down to the parking garage yesterday and called the Network News Office and the
Wall Street Journal,
disguising his voice and informing them of Matt's no-show at the wedding and his subsequent disappearance. At best it was a temporary diversion. What he had to do now was find the last sequence to the XML and turn it over to his competitor, collect his thirty million, and split. All he would be doing was taking a page out of Matt Starr's book and disappear. If Matt could do it and get away with it, so could he. He wondered if he would miss Betsy and the girls. He shrugged. The girls were miniature versions of Betsy. No, he wouldn't miss them much. He'd bet his Presidential Rolex she would have some rich guy on the string within a week. The thought bothered him. He knew in his gut his little family wouldn't miss him at all.
Once, when he was young, he'd had ideals. He wondered exactly when they disappeared. Was it when he married Betsy or was it when he realized Dennis Wagner would always be second-in-command? Or was it when his brother approached him to ask for help in paying their father's bills at the nursing home? His chest heaved in anguish when he remembered what he'd said to Owen that awful day. “Let the state take care of him. He's got Alzheimer's and doesn't know if he's in a ten-thousand-dollar-a-month nursing home or one that costs two thousand. He gets his medicine, he has nurses, and they take him for walks. That won't change at a pricey home. The answer's no, Owen.”
The shame running through his body was so thick he gagged. Owen had never spoken to him again. Owen was a vice cop in Ridgewood, New Jersey. His wife Margie was a fifth-grade schoolteacher. They had five kids and lived in a split level on a shady cul-de-sac. His kids were active in sports, and Owen umpired Little League. Margie was a Brownie leader and baked and cooked wonderful meals. They were a real family. Owen told him once he and Margie had sex four times a week. Owen had taken a second mortgage on his house in Ridgewood to pay for their father's nursing care. As a family they went to see him every Sunday afternoon.
Marcus wished he could cry. There was no way he could ever make that right.
He looked at the house on the screen of his computer, then clicked the mouse and it disappeared. With things in such turmoil there was no point in searching for a house. He wasn't going to Oregon in April. If his luck didn't change soon, his ass might be languishing in a federal pen in April. The thought was so horrendous, he jumped up, removed his jacket, and jerked at his tie. He rolled up his sleeves, narrowed his eyes, and sat down at the computer. All he needed was Matt's or Dennis's password and he was home free. He pressed the buzzer on his desk. “Meredith, hold all my calls. That means all, no matter who it is. Say I left the building. I have my pager. Order me a corned beef sandwich and don't forget the pickles. I'd appreciate some fresh coffee.”
He'd tried this all before and gotten nowhere. He'd never been this desperate before, though. Maybe this time, if he didn't give up, he'd crack the password. He heaved a mighty sigh and brought up the program he'd helped design. He stared at it for a long time. Instead of typing, he picked up the phone and called the Bellflower Nursing Home. When the operator's cheerful voice came on, he said, “This is Marcus Collins, could you tell me how my father is today?”
“He's having a good day today, Mr. Collins. He ate all his breakfast and went for a walk with one of the volunteers. He's scheduled for a haircut later this afternoon. Then around four-thirty he gets to drive the golf cart if he's up to it. He likes that a lot.”
“Is there anything he needs or wants?”
“No, I don't believe so. I'm looking at his chart. Mr. Owen Collins was here on the weekend. Mrs. Collins brought a tin of cookies, and the children played cards with him. He's doing as well as can be expected.”
“Thank you. That's good to know.”
Marcus knuckled his eyes when he hung up the phone.
Now it was time to figure out how he was going to handle his new life. All he needed was one little word that had no more than eight letters.

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