I'll Find You (10 page)

“She took the most important one with her. Stephen Tucker Laughlin. He’s worth more than all of them put together.”

West had been resistant to helping her, but with an insight into Teresa’s grasping nature, he’d told her he would see what he could do. He took the computer to a hacker buddy who broke into Stephen’s e-mail accounts and learned someone, after his death, was corresponding with someone else in Martinique.

An e-mail that originated from a Fort-de-France Internet café had started him thinking he should help find Tucker, if for no other reason than to assure himself that Stephen’s son was all right. But it was Teresa’s response that sent West to Martinique:

im on my way. take care of t and the b.

West had read that as “take care of Tucker and the bracelet.” It boiled his blood to think Teresa was bartering it for Tucker’s care. Seeing it on Callie Cantrell’s arm had made him see red, and it had been all he could do to keep from shaking her senseless and demanding she turn over Tucker. But she wasn’t Teresa, unless Teresa led two lives. She’d said a friend named Aimee had given it to her, but he was almost certain she was lying.

He’d left for Martinique with only half-formed plans in mind: hanging out at the Internet café in question, if it still existed; asking questions of the patrons and personnel; showing Teresa’s picture around; checking with the local police. He’d called upon Pete Dorcas to help pave the way for him with the local police, but so far that plan hadn’t panned out. Dorcas was only willing to stick out his neck so far for West and a call to the gendarmerie was asking too much.

But then he’d gotten lucky, catching sight of Teresa, or the woman he’d assumed was Teresa, in his binoculars on his second day. If Callie wasn’t Teresa, she had to know something about where Teresa was. The bracelet, and Callie’s unwillingness to tell him the truth about it, was evidence of that. No other answer made sense.

He ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a bottle of water at an outdoor café, wolfed down the sandwich, and drank half the bottle in one gulp. He finished the last swallow of water standing over a recycle bin and then tossed the plastic bottle inside.

Then he retraced his steps to Callie’s apartment, checking his phone on the way. It was eight
P.M.
, the dusky, gold evening light a memory. It was still hot, however, and he wondered how long it would be before he got a shower.

He realized her lights were out. Was she still there? Probably. He decided to wait around a while and be certain. A light came on around ten and he saw her silhouette walk through the room, but then she doused it again, most likely returning to bed. Around midnight, West gave up and caught a cab to his hotel. If something nefarious happened in the wee hours of the morning, so be it. But he doubted there was much chance of that happening and now that he knew where she lived, he could start again tomorrow.

Andre received the call from Daniella around nine, listened for a few moments, then said, “Okay,” and hung up, his gaze flicking to Teresa. “Lumpkin’s headed north. Daniella will follow him until you take over. Call when he lands somewhere.”

Teresa knew enough about Robert Lumpkin’s habits to figure his final destination would be a bar in Venice or Santa Monica. She gathered up her purse and got to her feet. “Should I take the Xterra?” she asked, as Daniella had the Chevy.

“Yeah.”

Teresa’s pulse was starting to jack up. The thrill of the hunt. Andre was looking at her in that intense way he had. Once upon a time that expression had gotten her juices flowing; all she could think about was Andre and sex . . . sex and Andre. And then they would work their magic together. A long time ago . . .

Reading her mind, Andre came over to her and stood in front of her, running his hands down her arms, fitting her up against him. She had been slipping her right foot into one of her heels, but she stopped, waiting, anxious to go.

“You smell good enough to eat,” he said, inhaling deeply the citrus flavor of her perfume.

She quivered when his hand slid from her arm to her hip. Behind him, she sensed Naomi and Clarice move into the room. Good God, if Andre tried to claim her before she went out on her mission she might start screaming and never stop. He’d done it before. He had amazing radar when it came to sensing what she was feeling and he was feeding off her own adrenaline rush.

But she couldn’t stomach the thought of making love to him now. Her feelings for him had been eroding over time, like water eating away at rock. He’d grown obsessive and full of strange beliefs. It was just . . . over.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she kept her face expressionless, fighting her claustrophobic anxiety. It was the thought of Tucker, safe, sound, and waiting for her, that kept her from losing it.

Then Andre’s cell phone rang and he made a sound of impatience, taking a step away to answer it. At his curt “Yeah?” Teresa exhaled. So did Naomi and Clarice, though they probably didn’t realize it.

Teresa could hear the tinny sound of Daniella’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. Andre grunted an “Okay” then snapped at Teresa, “You’ve got a phone?”

They shared cell phones except for Andre. “Yes,” she said, recognizing his growing anger. He’d wanted to screw her, claim her right then and there, but he wanted to get Robert Lumpkin more. He didn’t know about the other cell phone that she had in her own name or the studio apartment she’d been renting for two months now.

“He’s in Venice at a place called Ray’s,” Andre said.

“I know it,” Teresa said. Andre’s eyes narrowed at her incautious answer. He clearly wanted to ask her how. Teresa preempted him. “I met Jonathan there a time or two.”

It was a lie. Jonathan Cantrell would no more have gone to a dive like Ray’s than fly to the moon. He liked the Peninsula Hotel, swank nightclubs on the Sunset Strip, expensive rooms with cabanas, pools, and girls in bikinis carrying trays of drinks, and humidors of cigars. Oh, yeah. Jonathan had liked the high life. He’d wanted to marry her and how Andre had laughed when she’d told him. “Well, he can’t have you,” he’d said, and Teresa, in those heady days before the handmaidens, had thrilled to his possessiveness. Jonathan had been the big mark before Stephen Laughlin, though there was something special about Stephen, from Andre’s point of view, that she still didn’t quite understand. She’d thought about it a time or two, but then had decided she didn’t really care. Stephen had been a sweet guy, truly in love with her, or at least the Teresa he believed her to be. Whatever Andre’s reasons for targeting Stephen were, they were his own.

Now she headed for the door, wondering if this was the last time she would cross this threshold. Hoping it was the last time.

She’d wanted to be that Teresa, the one that Stephen Laughlin had fallen in love with. She’d even thought she could be, for a while. That was when her love for Andre died, those few years she’d played at being Stephen’s wife. Swept into the part of Teresa Laughlin, she’d repressed thoughts of her old life so deeply that she’d almost forgotten them herself. She’d even gotten pregnant, and had managed to keep it a secret from Andre. She’d lived in fear that he would drive to Bakersfield or Fresno, or somewhere in the Valley, and then decide to cruise on up to Laughlin Ranch, but he never had. But then he’d been too busy amassing the handmaidens; she just hadn’t known it.

Then one day it was over. “Get the money and get back here.”

She’d heard the underlying warning in his tone, knew her time was over. She’d already drained her account with Stephen and had Tucker’s and her passports ready when Edmund told her he’d set up the hunting date. She’d been teasing him in heated meetings with a lot of sexual petting, telling Edmund she couldn’t truly be with him while Stephen was her husband. She’d put the idea in Edmund’s head without him knowing it that if Stephen were gone, say, then they could be together. But she hadn’t realized how primed he was, how ready to jump to have her. She’d been home at the ranch, actually having dinner with Victoria in the dining room, a chilly affair that nevertheless alibied her completely, when they heard the news. Stephen had given her the bracelet just two days earlier.

Victoria was beside herself, and Teresa was shattered as well. She hadn’t realized until the deed was done how much she’d fallen for Tucker’s father. Stephen’s death appeased Andre for a while, giving her enough time to fly Tucker to Martinique, and then return to Los Angeles. Andre had been disgusted with the paltry amount she’d come away with from the Laughlin affair after such a long time—she’d purposely left the bracelet with Aimee—but he hadn’t been as upset as she’d expected.

Strangely, it was more like he’d pretended to be upset, and she realized there was something else going on he wasn’t copping to. Some long-range plan that she wasn’t privy to, apparently. Or maybe he was tired of the Laughlin plan. Andre’s interest in anything was notoriously short.

Whatever the case, Stephen was gone, and she was sorry that she’d been a part of it. She’d thought that was the worst of it, but that was before Jonathan resurfaced and followed her to their house. Teresa had been so rattled to see him loping up the stairs to the front door after her, calling her name, she’d practically slammed the door in his face. He’d yelled through the panels at her that he wasn’t leaving and had made such a nuisance of himself that she’d had to step outside and confront him.

She’d tried to convince him that she didn’t live at the house, that she was just visiting a friend. He almost believed her. He wanted to punish her for leaving him, but even more than that, he wanted to pick up where they’d left off.

She couldn’t do either.

After she’d finally agreed to meet with him the next day, she’d gone back inside and encountered Andre, who was cool, cagey, and surprisingly encouraging. She hadn’t known then what his plans were for Jonathan Cantrell. She hadn’t known then she would be the one to execute those plans. A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of the little boy who’d died because of her. Because of
Andre.

“What’s your plan?” Andre asked suddenly from behind her, yanking her from her reverie.

“I’ll—show up at Ray’s and see what happens.”

He turned her around abruptly just as her hand was reaching for the front doorknob. His lips were pinched. “This isn’t a long-term one, Teresa.”

“I know what it is.”

His eyes narrowed at her neutral tone, as if he were trying to fathom her thoughts. He was so good at reading her that Teresa blanked her mind to anything but the moment at hand. “Do you have the drugs?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Good. See you later tonight . . .”

“Uh-huh.”

No. Not tonight. Not ever again. A few more hours, she told herself, thinking of the money in the Bank of America account. She had a debit card tucked away deep inside the seam of the stuffed bear that Stephen had won for her at a fair. She’d told Andre she’d won it herself so that he wouldn’t take it from her. He hated any of them having personal possessions. Two days ago she’d swept up the bear and taken it to the apartment, pulling out the debit card and hiding it under a rock beside the garage.

As Naomi handed her the keys to the Xterra, the best car of their small fleet, she thought of the plane ticket she’d purchased with that debit card. A ticket that was placed on the kitchen counter of her studio right next to the rolling suitcase, which was packed and ready.

If all went according to plans, she could be in Martinique tomorrow.

Her heart was thumping as she collected her debit card then drove north to Ray’s, a ramshackle cabana bar near the beach. It was frequented by the college crowd and in the summer it was full of bikini tops and short shorts. If Robert Lumpkin was headed that way, it was guaranteed that he was looking for tits and ass, and the short white dress she was wearing showed lots of both.

She was going to make a statement when she walked in. People were going to remember her. Her hair was always a giveaway unless she dyed it a mousier color, which she had once or twice. Her jaw set as she thought about how many times she’d gone after a mark for Andre.

Well, this was the last. And she was going to do it her way.

She knew what Robert Lumpkin looked like per Daniella’s description: late forties, balding, sporting a few extra pounds but prone to sucking in his gut as he was feasting his eyes on whatever hot young thing caught his eye. He drove a ten-year-old, green Ford Explorer, which she spotted immediately in the full lot. She had to circle around and find a space on the street, a fifteen-minute enterprise that had her champing at the bit.

The men in the young crowd looked at her with initial interest but when she didn’t catch their gazes their eyes drifted back to their dates. Lumpkin was easy to find; the only man fitting his description was sitting at the bar. He picked up on her as soon as she walked in and it was simple to stop near him and feign looking toward the back of the bar as if searching for someone.

“Who you waitin’ for?” he asked.

She slid him a sideways glance. “Some friends,” she said in a cool tone. Didn’t want to seem too eager.

“You see ’em?”

“Not yet.”

He pointed to the empty bar stool next to him and said, “You can wait here. The place is gettin’ pretty full.”

She pretended to mull that over, then, as if considering it to be her only option, slipped onto the stool. The hem of her dress hiked all the way up her thigh and she made a halfhearted attempt to bring it down a bit. She was curious if he would offer to buy her a drink. From what Daniella had said, he was tight as a frog’s ass.

The bartender cruised up and Teresa tapped her lips with one richly painted red fingernail, pretending to decide. Maybe if she gave him enough time he might say something, but Lumpkin, though maybe fighting with himself, lost the battle with near chivalry and kept his money in his wallet.

“White wine,” she said.

“Chardonnay okay?” the bartender asked.

“Do you have a decent sauvignon blanc?”

“Not really,” he admitted, flashing her a smile.

Teresa smiled back despite her electric nerves. “Chardonnay’ll be fine.”

Not to be outdone, Lumpkin said proprietarily, “The reds are pretty good here.”

Teresa half-turned his way. “Not with this white dress. I’d have to be stripping it off and washing it immediately.” She’d drawn out the word “stripping” and Lumpkin looked like he was going to slobber all over himself.

Her happy juice was in her purse: a sprinkle of Rohypnol in water, more commonly known as
roofies
. She thought of how many times she’d played out this scene, how many men she’d knocked out and robbed. Normally Andre would want to play the mark for all he was worth, keep him on a string until she could squeeze every last dime out of him, but this was Robert Lumpkin and from Andre’s perspective, he was better off dead. He was basically their landlord. And after the way Jonathan had found them out, well, Andre wasn’t taking any more chances.

Something shifted,
she brooded. Ever since Stephen’s death, Andre’s directives had changed. No longer was it just about the money. Now it was all about taking the money
and
killing the mark. There was some new kind of enjoyment on Andre’s part that hadn’t been there before. His appetites were changing as was the frequency of the headaches that plagued him.

Something’s very wrong with him,
she thought, sipping her chardonnay. It was time to leave. Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t roll this loser first . . . and take the money for herself. Her debit card was in her tiny black purse, along with several twenties that Andre had given her for this job. She’d laid her purse on the bar, and now she pulled it toward her and pulled out the stick of red lipstick, adding another glossy layer as Lumpkin nearly pissed himself watching her. He probably didn’t have a ton of money on him, but she’d take what she could get.

She was getting the hell out of Dodge tonight.

“So, how is it?” Lumpkin asked, meaning her drink.

“Passable,” Teresa said.

He leered at her. “You’re a connoisseur, huh.”

“I like the good stuff,” she admitted with a smile. “But I definitely drink too much of it.”

“Yeah?”

“I get a little crazy sometimes. My ex loved it, but man, I don’t remember some really important parts, you know?” She leaned a little closer to him, a confidante, then pulled away again. She wasn’t wearing underwear beneath the dress and she wondered if she should thrill him with a Sharon Stone move à la
Basic Instinct.

Lumpkin chugged down the rest of his beer and ordered another. Teresa figured it was just a matter of time before he had to empty his bladder and hoped he would do it before he drained the next one. No way she was going to put her happy juice into a glass he was finished with.

Sure enough, he swallowed about half of the new beer, fought back a belch with limited success, then said he’d be right back, looking back at her a couple of times as he hurried to the men’s room, worried that she would leave. It was the perfect moment to Sharon Stone him and she did, turning on her bar stool just so . . . spreading her legs for a straight view to her hoohaw before she recrossed them.