I'll Find You (7 page)

“Who’s the friend who gave it to you?” he asked.

“I just said—”

“I’ll believe the first story.”

“Well, I can’t help that.”

They were at an impasse. “All right. I’ll take you back and we can figure the rest out.”

“What do you mean?”

He made an impatient sound. “What do you think I mean? I mean, you’re my connection to Tucker and Teresa. You need to get back and take care of yourself, and I need to repay you for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

“I’m fine. Truly.”

“You took a hit and you’re scraped up—”

“A misunderstanding.”

“You said I attacked you,” he reminded her.

“Well, I didn’t mean that, I was just trying to . . . goad you. But you’re absolutely right. I did this to myself.”

“What the hell’s going on?” he asked. “You’re being awfully agreeable.” He was looking at her with the same narrow-eyed suspicion he had earlier.

And suddenly she was done. Reaction, or the realization that anything she said to this man was dangerous until she had more information—both, probably—caused her to just shut down. Whatever interest she’d had in talking to him, and there had been some, she could admit that, she now felt none. She needed to leave. Get away from him. Pull herself together and keep Tucker safe.

“I’ll just use the bathroom to clean up.” She got to her feet and dusted herself off.

He rose to his feet to help her up the stairs but she waved him away as she picked up her carryall. In truth, her head had been filled with a dull ache for a while now.

“I’ll be a while,” she said.

“All right. I’ll wait at the bar.”

“No, I’ll come back.” She moved lithely away from him, pretending she wasn’t starting to feel the mass of bruises that were settling in from her earlier fall.

She wished she had a way to call Tucker on the phone, or at least Aimee, but she didn’t know their number, whether they had a phone, or a cell, or anything. She knew next to nothing about them other than Tucker was a sweet little boy she would lay down her life to protect, if necessary.

West stared after the woman who looked so much like Teresa. She’d lied to him, was still lying to him. The needle on his bullshit meter was flickering in the red, and he trusted his instincts completely. He’d been a cop for too many years to be bamboozled by an amateurish liar.

And Callie Cantrell, if that was truly who she was, was most definitely lying. About the bracelet for certain. There was no goddamned pawnshop in Barbados or anywhere else that had this piece, unless Teresa had pawned it herself, and that chance was slim to none. The bracelet was part of the Laughlin family collection that was catalogued, insured, and kept in a safe-deposit box. He might not be a true member of the family, at least in his grandmother’s eyes, but he sure as hell had been tutored in what they possessed, by his mother, his father, and Victoria, too.

It was probably closer to the truth that she’d gotten the bracelet from her friend, Aimee, if she was truly Callie Cantrell.

Well, fine. He’d figure it out one way or another. And he’d lied to her, as well. His cell phone worked internationally. He wouldn’t have come all this way without making certain he could communicate at will. He just hadn’t wanted to stop and call anyone on her behalf until he was completely certain she wasn’t Teresa.

And she wasn’t Teresa. That didn’t track. But how could this doppelgänger with the Laughlin bracelet not be involved ? That really didn’t track. So, how did she fit into this puzzle? His gut told him she was involved in Stephen Tucker’s abduction somehow.

Reaching into his pocket, he fingered his phone. He could call the number of the attorney she’d given him. Or he could call Dorcas at the department and get the details about the fatal accident on Mulholland that had killed a father and son. See if their name was Cantrell. See if a woman named Callie Cantrell had survived.

Pulling out his phone, he glanced at the time. Two thirty, and the day felt like it was getting hotter. Thank God for the breeze off the bay.

How much time did she have? Ten minutes? Five? Callie sluiced water on her face, thought about cleaning herself up more, then glanced at her image in the mirror. Lines of strain had formed around her mouth. Her eyes were wide and slightly anxious. Well, no shit. She’d done okay with him, but now that she was free she wanted to run screaming out of here.

Quickly, she tucked the carryall over her shoulder and left the ladies’ room, turning toward the front of the hotel and the outdoor portico where taxis and rental vehicles vied to drop off or pick up hotel patrons. The doorman saw her and interpreted that she wanted a taxi without her even saying so, opening the door of one that had just pulled in with a flourish.

“Fort-de-France,” she told the driver, searching in her purse for a tip. She thanked the doorman, shoving several bills into his hand before sliding into the backseat. “Please, hurry.
S’il vous plaît.
”

The cabbie nodded and they were on their way. As they sped off, her eye fell to Fort-de-France Bay and the ferry churning its way toward Pointe du Bout.

“Wait . . .” she said.

Just after noon in Los Angeles the clouds opened up and poured rain down in torrents. It never rained in LA except when it did and then it blasted down in sheets. Andre walked out into the October downpour utterly naked and turned his face to the heavens. It was cold, hard, and nothing like Papeete weather, or anywhere else on Tahiti, but it was sharper and more cleansing.

He was, after all, The Messiah. Meant for greatness, and if those conniving bitches, the handmaidens, could ever put together an original thought among them they would see him for what he was. Oh, he sensed their playacting. They thought themselves so cagey and clever, but they were empty-headed vessels just made for filling up, then winding up, then setting on their way to do his bidding.

Rain ran over his upturned face and down his chest and the dark, thick strands of his shoulder-length hair. He could smell the sea from where he stood, a briny, frigid scent unlike the musty, luscious heat that came off the South Pacific. He’d been in the States for almost ten years and he was closer to fulfilling his mission than he’d ever been, but there were still hurdles to be leaped, misfortunes to be avenged, people to kill.

There was also a long list of those who’d dismissed him, and he would not be dismissed. They didn’t know him as The Messiah, but they would soon. And then he could dispense with the handmaidens. Clarice, that mealy-mouthed piece of meat, had once had the nerve to question his title.

“There’s only one true messiah,” she’d said, her expression troubled, her body tight with fear and rebellion. “And that’s God.”

He’d punished her for that. It had to be done. And though she’d cried and curled up in a ball from the rough sex and solitary confinement, she’d never questioned him again. Neither had any of the others, who’d kept their eyes downcast and swore how much they loved him.
Lies!
But he’d pretended to believe them all. When he’d released Clarice from her confinement and then used some of the money to shower her with clothes, jewelry, and gifts, she’d glowed under all the deliberate one-on-one he’d shown her. The other handmaidens had been bright green with jealousy. And everything had gone back to the way it should be.

At least that’s what they would have him believe, though he sensed, very clearly, that there was a change afoot. Clarice had openly defied him, although Teresa had been pulling back for a long time.

He shook his head, water spraying in all directions. There were houses on all sides of their rental, but they were bungalows whose windows could not see over the tall fence. No one could see him standing naked in the rain. It was too bad they needed privacy because the thought of prying eyes brought his penis erect. He smiled as he thought of how much he would like to have them watch.

But he couldn’t bring attention to their way of life. He needed obscurity as he moved forward in his plan. The handmaidens didn’t know it, but the endgame was nigh. The pyramid was being dismantled; the lower levels had been taken out first, peripheral players who’d nevertheless been in his way as he ascended to the top level.

And once he was there—once he was standing on the pinnacle—then he truly would be The Messiah and he would have no more need for the handmaidens. He would also be wealthy, respected, and in his rightful place. They thought they could take it from him, but they were wrong.

“Andre?”

Daniella’s voice scraped along his nerves. He fought back a surge of anger as the sliding door slid open and she stepped cautiously outside, hovering under the eave to keep from being drenched by rain. She was the smallest and plainest of the handmaidens. He would never have accepted her if he hadn’t needed someone with her attributes. Someone nonthreatening, non-memorable, almost nonexistent. Someone incredibly malleable who would scarcely cause a ripple of interest once she was gone for good.

“Irene called about the rent,” she said, clicking her teeth in that annoying way she had when she was nervous. “I think maybe Robert put her up to it.”

“You think?” he questioned.

Flustered, she said, “No . . . I mean . . . you said her son was a growing problem.”

“I did say that,” he agreed, and she bobbed her head eagerly, afraid. His good mood vanished as he considered the addled old woman who was their landlord and whose son was trying to take over her finances. He wished Irene Lumpkin would just die and be done with it . . . except that he liked the house, and if she died, Robert would take over and sell the place as fast as he could. And they didn’t have enough money to buy it . . . not yet, anyway . . . though soon . . . soon . . . damn southern California real estate prices. It was robbery, plain and simple.

“She said she wanted the rent by four o’clock today,” Daniella added diffidently. “Can . . . can I get it to her?”

Daniella was the face of their home. Irene thought she lived in the house with her sisters. No one knew about Andre. Daniella kept the fact that a man lived in the house secret, which was one of the reasons Robert Lumpkin felt he could maneuver things his way.

Andre hadn’t planned another killing for the immediate future. He didn’t want anything to disrupt the momentum of his plan. But then again, he couldn’t have a piece of excrement like Robert Lumpkin mucking things up.

There was cash in the safe. More than enough for the rent, but the supply was dwindling. Shooing Daniella back inside, Andre then stalked to his bedroom where Teresa was still lying in his bed. What was wrong with that woman? One moment she was sneaking in and doing his bidding with energy to burn, the next she was a lump of meat.

“Get up,” he snarled. She roused herself with an effort and staggered out of the room.

He then went to the safe and twirled the combination after a quick look over his shoulder to see if any of the handmaidens were there. He loved them dearly, in his way, but they couldn’t know how to get to the money. He couldn’t trust them. They were children, really.

Pulling out one of the stacks of cash, he gloomily considered the safe-deposit box at the bank where most of the rest of the cash was hidden. He had a bank account under his real name; one of the only good things his father had done was get him a Social Security Number. He’d opened the account years earlier on one of the few trips he’d taken to the States about ten years before his final return.

Selecting several thick rolls, he tucked most of the money in the zippered pockets of one of his jackets, then gave Daniella enough for the rent and told her to drop it at the Lumpkin house. “Take the Chevy,” he said, the least auspicious of the three cars they were currently using. Its plates were good for another three months. “Don’t give the money to Robert. Only Irene.”

“But Robert always answers the door,” she whined.

Andre ground his teeth together and nodded once, allowing her to give the cash to Irene’s son, and Daniella scooted for the door.

He watched her leave and his thoughts turned to the rest of the handmaidens, wondering which one would be best to strike up an acquaintance with the fat and greedy Robert Lumpkin. He’d only seen Daniella up close and personal, so it could be any one of them: Clarice, Teresa, Jerrilyn, or Naomi. Tall, statuesque, and stern Naomi might be too much for him, and Teresa was off her game. Clarice, maybe, although she had that streak of religion that made him want to strangle her. Jerrilyn. She was on another job, but she could probably fit Robert Lumpkin in too. But she wasn’t perfect either. Too unpredictable and self-indulgent. Still, she’d been the one with the best results, if you discounted Teresa.

Fleetingly he thought of women he’d had before Teresa. To a one they’d been possessive, would never have understood about the handmaidens. They thought it was cheating, when he was with another woman, and he’d parted with each of them quickly. Like so many things, they were from another time, another place, another life. Before Teresa and Martinique, before California, before his plan had crystallized. The dark days before he’d truly understood his calling.

Andre’s thoughts touched briefly on his father and he scowled, feeling a renewed spurt of fury lick through him. The man had dragged his wife and young son all over the South Pacific, beating both of them when he was drunk and stupid, which was more times than he was sober. Andre had been forced to kill him to save his mother and himself. By then they’d been in Tahiti, and though there had been an investigation into the drowning victim’s death, no one suspected the nine-year-old boy who’d lured his drunken father to the sea, smacked him with a rock, and held his unconscious body underwater.

It had been necessary, and though Andre’s mother suspected, she never said anything. After her death, which he’d never quite understood—she’d just given up the will to live—he’d found the documents that explained who he was and he’d realized that he was meant for greatness. It was his heritage, his destiny. He stayed with a series of foster families until he was sixteen, then started grifting.

He ran through a slew of women until he found Teresa. He remembered being bowled over the first time he’d seen her, even though she tried to pull a con on him. But he was ahead of her at that game, and as soon as she realized that fact, they became compatriots and lovers. Both hungry for money and each other. Perfect partners. Together they worked wealthy patrons at a number of the finer hotels and then, when they’d picked the area clean, so to speak, they moved on to California. Teresa didn’t know his ultimate plans, but she’d left Martinique before she was caught or snitched on by people who swore to be their friends, but who would sell you out in a heartbeat.

No one could be trusted. Not even Teresa any longer . . . especially not Teresa.

Now, seating himself cross-legged on his bedroom floor, he closed his eyes and pressed his palms together, imagining the doughy, mean-spirited face of Robert Lumpkin. For long moments he drove killing thoughts into the man’s dark heart.

You are targeted for death, Robert Lumpkin.

He stayed in the same position until he felt the beginnings of a blinding headache. They were happening more frequently and though he’d shoved off Clarice’s concern—she’d caught him damn near unconscious one day—he knew he had to get to his endgame soon. He needed a medical doctor but didn’t trust anyone, didn’t want to give away where he lived.

A long time later he got to his feet and headed for a shower, his headache breaking up.

He would call Jerrilyn.

West kicked himself all the way back to Fort-de-France. He’d waited far too long for Callie to reappear, trusting that she was who she’d said she was, never dreaming she would slip out the front of the hotel and disappear. God. If he’d thought about throttling her before, now he really wanted to. Except it was his fault.

Realizing she wasn’t coming back, he’d tried to talk to the doorman who’d clammed up quick when he’d witnessed West’s temper. But she had to have taken a cab, and so he was doing the same, hoping he was close enough behind to catch up to her before she disappeared into one of the many apartment buildings around the alley where he’d first accosted her. Yeah, he felt a little bad about the way he’d treated her, purposely trying to scare her, but so what. Now she was in the wind. And he’d let her go. It was his fault, no one else’s. If she decided to hole up inside her apartment, it could be a while before he found her again, but he would find her. Damn. He shouldn’t have trusted her an inch. What the hell was wrong with him?

You liked her.

He swore under his breath. Yeah, he’d liked her. Just like his brother had.

She’s not Teresa. But she’s . . . someone who could be equally as deceptive.

His ego had taken a direct hit. After Roxanne and their messy on-again, off-again relationship, he’d believed himself wise to the lures of the female sex, but hell . . . he was just as stupid and clueless as he’d been before. Grabbing up his cell phone, he put a call in to Pete Dorcas’s mobile. When he got his old partner’s voice mail, he debated on even leaving a message, then said tersely, “Hey, I need your help. You remember that crash off Mulholland last year, the father and son were killed, mother survived. Get me as much information on that as you can. Thanks. I owe you.”

He gazed out the window at the passing landscape. “God. Damn,” he said through gritted teeth.

Callie’s heart was beating unevenly as she walked along the dock, and she had to repress the urge to look over her shoulder. She was not a superstitious person but she couldn’t control the feeling of urgency that assailed her. She had to get back to Tucker. Immediately. Without West Laughlin.

Aimee Thomas wasn’t Tucker’s mother. Teresa was. Had to be. And it explained why Tucker spoke such excellent English while Aimee spoke only a few words, or at least that was what she would have Callie believe. Though Callie had only met her once, Aimee had seemed overly wary of her. Callie had found that odd since Aimee let Tucker wander the streets with his friends as if he were years older, a freedom that drove Callie half crazy.

Had Teresa stowed Tucker with Aimee? Were they friends? Had they known each other for years? West said there were e-mails from Teresa to someone who had picked them up at an Internet café several years earlier. Was it Aimee? Who maybe now possessed a smartphone and picked up her e-mail that way . . . or who texted?

Why had Teresa left Tucker with Aimee? Was she maybe on the run? Because she had something to do with her husband’s death? Was West’s grandmother right, or was she elderly and paranoid?

Or maybe Teresa just stashed Tucker with Aimee because he was an encumbrance?
Where was she?

Now she did glance over her shoulder. The taxi driver had left her at the hub of the tourist shops scattered along the periphery of the Pointe du Bout marina’s docks. There were people behind her but none that she recognized. She glanced both left and right but saw no sight of an angry West Laughlin chasing her. In front of her were the narrow white spires and rigging of the sailboats that created a mesh against the cloudless blue sky.