Authors: Cait Jarrod
Kidnapped Hearts (14 page)
“But give her a chance, Sweetheart.”
Pamela longed to curl up in Marge’s arms
now and hear her say everything would be okay, just as she had done every day
for a month after her mother had left. Her eyes flicked on her bandage. “Does
your neck hurt?”
“It’s a little sore. I’ll have a scar.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Jake shuffled, and Pamela watched him
walk to the window. Something was eating at him. Maybe he felt bad for what he
said to her. She smiled.
Let him wallow
in regret.
“At least you have a window. I’m in a
dungeon,” Pamela said.
“Speaking of which, time to leave.” Jake
spun around and grabbed the wheelchair. His actions were what she perceived as
the typical FBI agent, no chitchat, a just business persona.
“Your dad will be back shortly. I should
get some sleep before he returns.”
After giving Marge a quick kiss on her
check, Pamela climbed back into her wheelchair. Next, they learned from the
information desk that Vivian would remain in the recovery room for another
couple of hours. They walked into the waiting room looking for her father, but
found Nicholas. He paced the length of the room.
“Nicholas,” Jake said. “How’s Vivian?”
Nicholas’ faced turned pale. Sweat beaded
on his forehead.
Pamela stood and touched his arm. “Are
you okay?”
His eyes shifted from Jake, and he looked
at Pamela as he rubbed his hands together. “I’m just worried about your
mother.”
“She’s going to be alright, isn’t she? I
mean that’s what Dad told Jake.” Pamela situated the vase of flowers on the
nearby table.
Nicholas nodded. “So they say.”
Nicholas rubbed his hands on his pants
then he wiped his forehead. When he lifted his arm, a big wet spot appeared
under his armpit. He’d sweated through his shirt and suit jacket. “Nicholas,
you look flushed. You probably need to shed your jacket.”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
She didn’t care much for Nicholas Wine.
The main reason, she had blamed him for years for taking her mother away from
them. Though Vivian didn’t marry him for a few years after her parents’
divorce, he still moved her to the other side of the country, which made their
strained relationship even harder to mend.
Jake patted the wheelchair. “Let’s go.”
Pamela glared at him, then plopped down
on the seat. Her headache was almost nonexistent now. She wished her heartache
would go away as well.
When they approached the door, Jake
turned and looked at Nicholas. “Got any more of those
Now and Then
books?”
Puzzled, Pamela looked over her shoulder
at Jake, and then saw Nicholas. His hands flitted nervously over his body while
remaining silent.
“That’s what I thought. We’ll be talking,
Nicholas.”
Chapter
Ten
“Jake, do you really think my stepfather
has anything to do with the threats I’ve been getting?”
Jake opened his Chevelle’s car door for
Pamela. “Everyone is a suspect.” Jake nodded his thanks to the nurse that
accompanied them out of the hospital as he gave her the wheelchair.
Pamela buckled her seatbelt, and Jake
settled into the seat beside her. Over her shoulder, she spotted agents piling
into two other vehicles. Pamela was overwhelmed by the things that needed to be
done at the café. Her dad told her the windows had been repaired, and that
McDowell Construction would be repairing the walls today. She had given Panama
Jack a key ages ago. With that taken care of, she needed to concentrate on
hiring another chef. Marge had been pushing this idea on her for some time,
saying that Pamela needed to have time off, so she could find a man. Now, Marge
was the one needing time.
“Jake, I need to stop by The Memory
Café.”
“I figured as much.” He touched his
earpiece and spoke to someone she couldn’t see. “Destination, Memory Café.”
The two vehicles proceeded to follow
them. “I think an agent driving a dark Suburban is a little cliché. I mean, in
all the police movies the authorities are driving them. Everyone knows a dark
Suburban indicates a policeman, nothing undercover about them.”
Jake grunted.
Pamela faced forward. Fine, if he didn’t
want to talk to her, then no skin off her back.
In no time, they pulled up in front of
the café. Pamela climbed out of the car and paused. Moisture dampened her eyes
as she took in the yellow tape across the new windows. The café door swung
open. “Panama Jack,” Pamela whispered.
“Pam, how are you, sweetie?”
She easily fell into his arms. “I’m
okay.”
He lifted his eyes. “Jake, man, it’s been
a long time.”
Another person Jake knew. She eased away.
“So, you’re Panama Jack?” Jake smiled.
Mark withdrew his hand from Jake’s and
glanced over his shoulder at Pamela. “Is that what they’re calling me now?”
Pamela coughed. “Sue. She named you that
because of the hat you wear.”
“Ah. Well, I’ve been called worse.”
“Now, I have a name to go with the face,
I won’t have to bring you in for questioning.”
Mark’s bark of laughter pulled Pamela’s
attention from the thought of walking into the café for the first time after
the shooting.
“Good one.” Mark patted Jake’s arm and
opened the door. In return, Jake glared at him. Clearly, Mark knew Jake’s true
intentions.
Pamela shook her head. She couldn’t think
about what was going on between those two. She studied the door. As if
something might jump out at her, she cautiously crept inside the café and
scanned the interior. New walls had been erected and were in need of a coat of
paint. The wall behind the bar, housing the liquor, was sparse. A few tables
were missing, but overall, the café looked good. “Mark, thanks for working so
fast on the café.”
“Not a problem.”
Pamela paused. At her feet, blood stained
the white and black tile.
“Pamela,” Mark stretched his arm around
her, moving her away. “We’re getting ready to strip the floors. I didn’t think
you would be here until we had finished.”
“I need to get something from my office.”
Pamela ran into her office and locked the door behind her. The red stain …
Marge’s blood … it was too much for her to take. Her stomach felt woozy. She
collapsed in the chair. Elbows propped on the desk, she caught her head in her
hands. “Ouch.” Her fingers touched the bump. Other than being a little sore,
the lump had reduced in size.
A yellow piece of paper Marge had given
her the day before the shooting caught her attention. She picked it up and
called the number scrawled across it. Marge had already done the legwork by
checking out Charlene Smith’s references. Now, Pamela only had to set up an
interview. A few minutes later, she hung up the phone. Ms. Smith would be here
within the hour.
A knock, then, “Pamela.”
Hearing Jake’s voice, she grimaced. “Can
I have a few more moments?”
“Pamela, we need to talk.”
She needed time alone. “Jake,” she
squeaked, then paused.
The door slowly opened. “Pamela.” Jake
strolled inside. “Hey, everything okay?”
She blinked away the tears. “How’d you
open the door?”
He held up a thingamajig. “You’re gonna
want to see what Mark found.”
His gentle voice lured him into following
him. In the kitchen, her stomach flipped. A dent the size of a softball was in
one of her stainless steel islands, and yellow tape stretched across the windowpanes
along the back wall. The same window the intruder stood at a few days ago. “I
didn’t know the kitchen had been shot into.”
“Actually, bullets didn’t do this.” Jake
lifted a brick from the nearby counter. “And it didn’t happen the night of the
shooting. FBI and local law enforcement scoured the premises that night. The
window was intact.”
Pamela bit her lip. Her eyes implored
Jake, the silent message that she cried to him in the hospital passing between
them:
Please, make it stop
.
He closed his eyes, and his jaw twitched.
When he opened them, his face had lost all expression. “Pamela, Mark found this
picture of your mother and stepfather behind the back counter under the window.
Someone had to place it there within the last few hours. At the bottom, in red
ink, are the words:
Blame him
.” He
picked up a plastic bag containing the image.
“I’ve seen that picture before. My mother
tried to get me to hang it up on my office wall. I refused.”
Jake pulled his cell out of his pocket as
he darted out of the room.
“Pam, are you okay?” Mark asked.
One hand was on her hip and the other
over her heart. “Mark, I don’t know.”
He sidled up to her and drew her into his
arms. “I’m sorry, Sweetie.” He kissed the top of her head.
Over Mark’s shoulder, Pamela locked eyes
with Jake. A sullen look crossed his face, and his fist clenched. “I need to go
to the office. Agent Lever will be here any second.”
Mark backed away. “I’ll finish up here.”
“Mark.” Pamela grabbed his arm. “I have a
potential employee—”
“Who?” Jake interrupted.
“Charlene Smith. She’ll be arriving in a
few minutes.”
Mark raised his hand. “Say no more, I’ll
get the floor clean. You should be able to reopen tomorrow.”
“Reopening tomorrow is not possible.
Pamela, you can’t be here,” Jake demanded.
“My dad and head waitress, Sue, will be
here. It’ll be like old times for them.”
“Okay, then.” Jake left without another
word.
A few minutes later, Agent Lever
appeared. She noted his jeans and button down shirt. A more relaxed look than
his usual attire, but his facial expression said he felt differently. “Charlene
Smith is here. I directed her to the back of the café away from the
construction. If you’re ready, an agent will bring her to your office.”
Pamela nodded and rubbed her forehead.
“She’s going to be scared before I even interview her.”
Agent Lever spoke into a radio, then
said, “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
A small, petite blonde rushed around the
corner, meeting Pamela at the entrance to her office. “Ms. Young, I’m Charlene
Smith.” She stretched out her hand, but that was the only thing friendly about
Ms. Smith. The corners of her mouth turned downward almost into a frown, and
she diverted her eyes away from Pamela.
“Come in. Have a seat.” Charlene’s
outward persona didn’t matter as long as she could cook.
****
Jake ambled out into the August sun and
muggy
When Mark laughed, he had wanted to pound him into the ground. More than
likely, Mark knew Jake's real reasons for wanting to question him, which had
had nothing to do with Jake being suspicious of Mark, but had everything to do
with Mark's interest in Pamela.
The sound of a motor piqued his
attention. He stopped beside his car. A Harley-Davidson motored toward him.
Jake spotted the brown jacket, his eyes landing on the name
Yasin
stitched into the leather.
Alongside Jake, the man grinned, held out his hand like a gun, then moved his
thumb, mimicking firing.
“Damn.” Jake unlocked the car door and
glided inside. Turning the key, the Chevelle’s massive motor roared. No way was
another Black Scorpion getting away without being questioned. He accelerated
out of the parking space, then sailed down the road.
Yasin turned down a side street, heading
deeper into downtown
Jake glimpsed the clock. Rush hour. Not the best time for a chase.
Jake bypassed the road the motorcycle
fled down and made a sharp right a few streets later. Another block and he
turned, his tires squealing. Maneuvering past a few cars, he spotted an
intersection ahead. He hoped traffic would be too heavy for Yasin to make
decent time, and with any luck, he would arrive at the intersection the exact
moment as Yasin.
The Chevelle ate the space and reached
the intersection in seconds. The instant Yasin saw the Chevelle, he darted his
motorcycle to the right. A stopped delivery truck blocked the Harley’s path.
Jake skidded to a stop and cut off the
path to the left. He threw the lever in park, leaped out of the car, and chased
Yasin on foot. On autopilot, he reached for his badge on his belt. “FBI, stop.”
As soon as the words left his mouth and his hand came up empty handed, he
grimaced.
Yasin left the bike and dashed across the
street.
Jake slid across a hood of a car, cutting
the distance to Yasin in half.
A car horn blared as it screeched to a
stop. Yasin’s fingers touched the side of the car, and he stopped short. The
car missed his toes by inches.
