Found Wanting (7 page)

Alaina sensed that remaining calm was imperative, even as her muscles twitched to bolt. She would have tried already if not for the manacle encircling her wrist.

"Who are you?" she asked, conversational, even a little casual.

"Mitch Kane." His voice was deep and rough, his tone matching hers.

 The name meant nothing, but he didn't offer anymore information, as she'd hoped. She raised her handcuffed wrist. "What's this for?"

"I didn't want you bailing on me."

She might have assumed he was a stupid henchman hired to do a job, but his eyes were sharp, his stance tense, ready to react if she made an unexpected move. "It's a strange way of asking me to stick around," she said, still casual.

"From what I've heard, you're slippery."

Her pulse started to sprint. "Who would you have heard that from?"

"Your son's father."

Nausea began to churn. "You know Layton?"

He gave a curt nod. "I work for him, yes."

Jesus, oh, Jesus. "Where's Jonah?"

His gaze flickered ever so slightly. "I don't know."

So he had escaped. She could have wept in relief. "What did you do? I saw the blood."

Surprise arched his dark eyebrows. "I didn't have anything to do with that."

"But you were there."

"I was looking for your son."

"How did you know where to go?"

"I'm a detective. I've been following you for three weeks. I know your routine."

For a long moment, she couldn't think. Then it began to sink in: A stranger had been watching their every move. He had watched her drop Jonah off at school, pick him up, take him to the dentist, to soccer practice, to the movies to meet his friends. This man had witnessed the heated discussion they'd had in the parking lot of their apartment complex after she refused to let her son buy a dirt bike with the money he'd been saving. This man knew when Jonah was home alone. He probably even knew that after Jonah turned off his bedroom light at night, he usually huddled under the covers with his Game Boy, determined to win one more level of the latest James Bond video game before calling it a night.

She imagined all the snippets of their life that this man had watched, uninvited, plotting whatever Layton had in mind. The sense of violation and dread rolled over her in a hot wave. "I'm going to be sick."

Mitch moved fast, whipping the key to the cuffs out of his pocket and springing the lock without hesitation. She stumbled getting off the bed, and he caught her around the middle and helped her to the bathroom.

She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and lost the contents of her stomach.

* * *

Mitch stood in the bathroom doorway as she sat back on her heels, a hand pressed to her right side. Her breathing was ragged, her face pale. The scrubs were too big for her, the material slipping off one smooth shoulder. Myriad bruises marred that shoulder, spreading across her collarbone. His stomach clenched.

Slipping the handcuffs into his back pocket, he reminded himself that she had stolen a man's son, had robbed that man of fourteen years of knowing his child. She had killed a fellow detective. Feeling sorry for her wasn't allowed. People who shattered lives and broke hearts like she had deserved whatever they got. And if he got to be on the giving end of that, well, then, he was more than happy to take care of business.

His main concern at the moment was for Jonah. Wherever he was, he was no doubt frightened and confused. His mother had done that to him, and that angered Mitch.

"Do you have a plan?" he asked.

She pushed damp hair back from her face. "What do you mean?"

"In case you get separated."

She closed her eyes, swallowed hard. "No."

Kneeling beside her, he waited until she turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were rimmed in red, making them look more green than gray. She had started to shiver. "If you lie to me, I can't help you," he said.

"Help me do what?" Her voice was low, hoarse.

"Find your son."

"So you can take him away from me."

"That's not my job. My job is to find him."

She tightened her lips as if fighting off another surge of sickness. "I won't take you to him."

He straightened, and tired of seeing her shiver, reached down to help her up. She recoiled as if he were a striking snake, scrabbling back until her back hit the wall. The impact made her gasp, but her gaze, wide and fearful, never left his face.

Startled by her reaction, Mitch backed off. Panic poured off of her in waves that seemed to shimmer like heat. Don't let her get to you. He hardened his jaw. "This is how it's going to be. You're going to get dressed, and we're going to go meet Jonah at your rendezvous point."

She glared up at him, some of the panic shifting into defiance. "You can't force me."

"No, but the longer you leave him out there by himself, the harder it's going to be to find him. Don't you think?"

"He knows how to take care of himself. He's a survivor."

He stared her down for several moments, but her gaze stayed level on his, and he couldn't help but admire her resolve. He also couldn't help but notice that the wet scrubs clung to her body, and that she wore nothing beneath them.

Turning on his heel, he left the bathroom to retrieve the sports bag he'd bought while she'd been out of it. Dropping it at her feet, he said, "I picked up some clothes and other necessities for you. Get dressed, and we'll talk some more."

Chapter 7

While Mitch waited for Alaina to change, he thought about Layton Keller. He couldn't imagine him and Alaina together. The man was a corporate maverick, an icon in his field, known as a ruthless perfectionist who didn't hesitate to fire an underperformer. His peers respected him, his managers worshiped him and his underlings feared him. In essence, Mitch surmised, Keller was a mirror image of the late Paul Chancellor.

Keller also loved money. Loved making it and loved showing off how much he had with fancy parties, fast cars and a rich social life filled with theater, five-star restaurants, bottles of expensive wine and luxury boxes at major sports arenas.

From what Mitch had observed of Alaina and Jonah, and what his partner, Julia Rafferty, had turned up on them, they lived simple lives. Their apartment was small -- barely large enough for two. Alaina took brown-bag lunches to work and drove a late-model Honda that had seen better days. The wardrobes of both mother and son didn't appear shabby, but they weren't new or sporting designer tags, either. The kid, he noticed, needed new athletic shoes, though Mitch figured the holes in his jeans made them fashionable rather than worn.

Mitch wondered what Alaina had gained by keeping Jonah from his father. Considering the child was conceived out of wedlock, he was sure Keller, who obviously prized his pristine public image as much as his late father-in-law had, would have shelled out handsomely to keep it that way. She could have reaped thousands a month in support payments simply to keep quiet, and it would have been chump change compared with Keller's fortune. It certainly would have topped the piddly salary she pulled down as a journalist.

Instead, mother and son survived paycheck to paycheck, eschewing full-price movies and fancy restaurants for macaroni and cheese, matinees and videos, hiking and biking, usually just the two of them. Jonah didn't seem to mind hanging out so much with his mother. She was certainly able to keep up with him athletically. Last week, when the weather had been unseasonably warm, Mitch had watched Alaina and Jonah engage in a competitive one-on-one basketball game at a local park. It had been evident from the game that Jonah adored his mother. When she scored, he high-fived her like a good buddy.

Mitch wondered what Alaina had told Jonah about his father. He wondered how she justified keeping the boy from the man who so badly wanted to know him. He wondered how she slept at night knowing what she had denied Jonah by taking him from his father, where he would have had anything he wanted, the best of everything, not to mention a good male role model.

The bathroom door opened, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Alaina walked out in the jeans and T-shirt he'd picked up for her. The jeans hugged her slim curves a little too well, and the white T-shirt, with its short sleeves, showed off the toned muscles in her arms. She looked too young to be the mother of a teenager, too vulnerable to be a scheming bitch.

Who was he kidding? Looks had nothing to do with a person's capacity for deception. He gestured toward the chair that went with the desk. "Sit."

She didn't move. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest, a renewed determination in her eyes. "Let's cut the civilized bullshit. You look like the kind of man who has a hard time with it. What did Layton hire you to do?"

Mitch wanted to tell her that it'd take more than a tough attitude to convince him that she wasn't quaking on the inside. Her eyes were far too readable. "I think you've forgotten who's in charge here," he said.

"You got a gun in your pocket you're going to aim at my head until I beg for mercy?"

Deliberately, he slid his hand back to his hip, shifting his jacket enough for her to see the holster under his arm. Her gaze settled on the gun. Then, as those haunting eyes slowly lifted to meet his, he realized that she'd played him. She hadn't known whether he was armed, and now she did. Annoyed that she had manipulated him so easily, he snapped, "Don't worry, I don't point guns at unarmed women."

She smirked. "I bet you don't kick puppies either."