Live to Tell (25 page)

“What are you doing, boy?” Sadie opens the doggy gate and goes over to him.

Poised, silent, Chauncey seems to be on high alert.

Sadie looks toward the door just as the bell rings.

She can see someone standing on the other side of the frosted glass.

The security guard in the lobby of Nick’s building barely glances up from his newspaper as Lauren walks past his kiosk. Things are different here than they are in the city, that’s for sure. At Alyssa’s building, you need ID and a signature to get past the doorman—and even then, you can’t get onto an elevator until the tenant has been buzzed and notified.

Around here, apparently, if you don’t look like a threat, you’re not considered a threat. Maybe Lauren should discuss that with Nick—and question whether the kids are safe in a building with such lax security.

Then again, anyone who really wanted to could easily get into their own house. No security guard, no alarm system, windows covered only by flimsy screens, locks to which strangers have the keys…

Again, Lauren remembers what Sadie said about someone prowling around her room.

What if she was right? What if someone really did get into the house at some point while they were gone?

But nothing is missing. The electronics, Lauren’s jewelry…

When she got dressed a little while ago, she opened the chest on her dresser and saw her diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band right there on top. Anyone who was looking for something of value to steal wouldn’t have to look very hard—and probably wouldn’t waste any time in a four-year-old’s room.

Lauren steps into the elevator and pushes the button for the fourteenth floor.

The doors close, and she leans toward one of the mirrored walls to check her teeth for lipstick, then turns her back to the mirror and looks over her shoulder to make sure she doesn’t have any panty lines. She does, a little. She tugs the band into place, hoping there’s no security camera broadcasting her actions back to the lobby. Not that the guard is likely to be paying attention.

Why do you care what you look like, anyway? It’s just Nick.

He’s certainly seen her at her worst: sick with the flu, giving birth—and in a sobbing, crumpled, devastated heap when he told her he was leaving.

Maybe that’s why she wants to look her best now. To show him that she’s doing very well, thank you, without him.

The attractive woman in the mirror radiates self-assurance—regardless of how insecure she might be feeling inside.

On the fourteenth floor, Lauren steps into a wide, carpeted corridor.

She pictures her kids here. Nick probably tells them to keep their voices down.

She imagines Beth here, too. Maybe she has her own key so that she can come and go the way Lauren used to at Nick’s Manhattan apartment years ago, when they were newly dating.

No. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about any of the good times with him. You don’t want to go into this with your emotions all worked up.

Hell, she doesn’t want to go into this at all. She wants to turn around and walk out of Nick’s new life, the way he walked out of her old one.

But she can’t. She won’t.

So just take a deep breath and get it over with.

“Ryan! Lucy! Someone’s at the door!” Sadie calls.

No reply from the second floor. Her sister and brother are supposed to be in charge, but they’re still busy in their own little worlds, ignoring her.

As far as Sadie’s concerned, that means she’s in charge.

Chauncey is on all fours, still focused on the door.

She looks again at the silhouette in the window. She can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

The bell rings again.

Sadie reaches for the knob, hesitates, turns it. Opening the door, she’s surprised to see a familiar face.

“Hello, Sadie. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she replies tentatively. “How are you?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid,” is the response.

Then Sadie sees the gun.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

H
ey, this is Byron. You know what to do. Do it at the beep.”

“Yo, it’s Fantoni again. What the hell, man? Where are you? Call me back. I need to know what’s up with that…
thing
.”

Mike hangs up the phone with a curse and paces across the room, rubbing yesterday’s five o’clock shadow.

He’s known Byron Gregson since they collided on a case twenty years ago—he a fledgling private eye, Byron a cub reporter for the
Providence Journal
. They shared a couple of tips, cartons of cigarettes, and a burning need to uncover the truth.

They found it.

Byron landed a major scoop, broke a huge political corruption story in the
Pro-Jo
, and became an investigative journalist—one of the best. Mike opened his own PI firm in Boston and at first spent his days—well, mostly, his nights—tailing cheating spouses and deadbeat dads. As time went on, he branched out into background checks, employee investigations, missing persons…

Like Jeremy Cavalon.

Dammit—he really needs to talk to Byron, and the guy chooses now to pull one of his famous disappearing acts? Mike would be more aggravated than worried if his friend hadn’t alluded to the fact that he had stumbled across something big.

As in dangerous big.

That happened a while back. Before the holidays. Last fall, maybe. It happened because Byron was digging around, as a favor to Mike, in Jeremy Cavalon’s past.

“I think I found the kid’s birth parents,” he told Mike in a late night phone call—the only kind Byron ever placed. “And if I’m right, you’re not going to believe who they are.”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you if I’m right. I’ve got some more digging to do.”

And that was that.

Mike more or less back-burnered the case until last month, when he received a voice mail from Byron.

“Dude, I was right. It’s bigger than I thought. I need some help. I’ll be in touch.”

He hasn’t been. The silence is as ominous as Byron’s admission that he needed help. It’s always been the other way around. Byron in control, coming to Mike’s aid, bailing him out—sometimes, quite literally.

Now Mike is wondering if maybe Byron got in over his head.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Mike just hopes it wasn’t the last.

About to knock on the door marked 14D, Lauren realizes it’s slightly ajar.

“Nick?” she calls, suddenly nervous.

It’s been such a long time since she’s seen him.

What if Nick tells her he wants to come home?

What if the moment she lays eyes on him all the old feelings come rushing back to her and she forgets to stay strong?

Or what if Nick tells her he’s marrying Beth, and she falls apart crying, begging him not to?

God, I hate what-ifs. Why do I do this to myself?

She pushes the door open farther. “Nick?”

The apartment feels empty even before she steps over the threshold to find it silent and dim. The shades are drawn across the wide windows at the far end of the living room.

“Nick?”

He’s not here.

Maybe he had to step out for something, and he’ll be right back.

But even as that theory enters her mind, she discards it. If he was here, the air-conditioning would be on. The place is stuffy, as though it’s been sealed up for a while.

Maybe Nick had planned to come back from his trip this morning and meet her here, but got hung up in traffic.

No. There’s his luggage. It’s sitting just inside the door, as though he walked in and dropped it right there.

But clearly, he wasn’t alone. Beside the familiar black Samsonite rolling bag and nylon duffel are a Louis Vuitton suitcase and matching tote.

Obviously Beth’s luggage.

Okay…so they’re back, the two of them. Where are they now?

Lauren’s cell phone rings in her pocket, startling her.

Pulling it out, she looks at the caller ID window. The call is coming from home. She flips open the phone, wondering if the kids are fighting, or hungry, or bored, or all of the above.

“Hello?”

“Mommy?”

“Sadie?”

“No.”

It’s Lucy, she realizes. Why does she sound so young, and why is she calling Lauren Mommy?

“What’s up, sweetie?”

“You have to help us…”

Lauren’s heart stops. “Lucy, are you crying?”

“Please, Mommy—”

She hears a scratching, rustling sound, as if someone— Ryan?—is scuffling the phone out of Lucy’s hand.

But it isn’t her son who comes on the line. The voice is guttural and unfamiliar.

“I’m here with your kids, Lauren. One of them has something I want. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back. Do you understand?”

“I’m home!”

The apartment door slams behind Molly Cameron and her heels tap across the parquet floor of the entry hall, accompanied by the rattling wheels of her rolling suitcase trundling along behind her.

“Mrs. Cameron!” Sharon appears in the corridor leading to the bedrooms. “I thought you weren’t coming home until late tonight!”

“There was an earlier flight to La Guardia so I got on it standby. What’s the matter? Aren’t you thrilled to see me, Sharon?” she teases the nanny.

“Oh no, I am…” She toys with a strand of her long, blond hair. “I mean, I was just putting Avery down for his nap, and when I heard the door, it scared me. I thought maybe it was Mr. Cameron.”

“I know you’ve only been working here a month, darling, but haven’t you figured out yet that Mr. Cameron never, ever shows up at home while the stock market’s open?”

Sharon smiles faintly. To her credit, she doesn’t mention that Mr. Cameron doesn’t exactly rush home at the closing bell, either.

After a long day on the trading floor, Andrew likes to stop off at the Battery Park Ritz-Carlton bar for a couple of scotches.

“I might as well,” he tells Molly, if she ever dares to criticize the habit. “You never get home until late anyway.”

True—and that’s
if
she gets home at all. Now that Avery is almost a year old, Molly’s been traveling on business again. Not as much as she did before she was pregnant, but enough that she feels more maternal jealousy for the new nanny than she did for the Jamaican baby nurse they’d had for the first six months. Back then, Molly was working from home a lot, and glad for every opportunity to hand her son over to someone else’s capable hands.

She had her doubts about hiring Sharon, who’s younger and a lot more inexperienced with babies than Molly would have liked. Yet she did have a certain aesthetic appeal—an attractive, all-American blonde who had been raised in New England. And though Sharon’s child care references were slim, they were most impressive.

“Are you crazy, hiring a gorgeous young nanny and leaving her alone in the house with your husband?” one of Molly’s friends had asked, the first time she saw Sharon.

“Not at all. For one thing, Andrew is hardly ever in the house. For another thing, she’s not the brightest bulb on the tree. Andrew has no patience for idiots.”

“So you hired an idiot to care for your child? Even better.”

“She’s very sweet, and kind, and Avery loves her,” Molly replied. “And let’s face it, it’s not like I’m going to find a nanny with Mensa on her résumé. Which, by the way, is impressive. Did I tell you who her last employer was?”

So far, Sharon seems to be working out okay. Time will tell.

“I want to see Avery before he falls asleep.” Molly leaves the suitcase and heads for the nursery.

“Oh, are you sure? I mean, he’s so tired, and—”

“I want to see my son.” Molly tosses Sharon a look over her shoulder—her withering look of death, Andrew calls it—that quite effectively cuts her off.

Sharon’s got to be kidding. After three days away, Molly is going to wait until Avery wakes up to see him? Sharon was undoubtedly counting on some free time while the baby sleeps. She’s probably afraid that if Molly disturbs him, he’ll be fussy and refuse to settle back down.

Too bad. Sharon’s job is to take care of him.

Molly opens the door to the nursery. “Mama’s home, baby!”

To her surprise, the shades are open. Avery is in his crib, but he’s not tucked in with the mobile tinkling above. He’s sitting there clad in just his diaper, wide-awake and whimpering.

Molly takes one look at him and screams.

Swamped in a churning tide of panic, Lauren clings to the phone like a life buoy.

Do something! Say something!

She can’t move, can’t seem to find her voice.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” the caller tells her. “Are you listening?”

She nods mutely.

“Lauren?”

This can’t be happening.

“Yes. Yes, I’m… I’m listening.”

“I’m going take the kids someplace safe. Okay?”

No! Not okay! You can’t take my children!

“Here’s what you’re
not
going to do,” the strange voice goes on. “You’re not going to call the police. Do you want to know why not? Tell Mommy what I’m holding in my hand, Ryan.”

Her son’s voice is hoarse; barely recognizable. “A gun.”

No. God, no.

“And where is it pointed, Ryan? Tell Mommy.”

“At me.”

Ryan. Her baby boy.

Please, no, no, no…

“That’s right, Lauren. I’m pointing a gun at your son’s head, and I will pull the trigger if I hear a siren, if I spot a police car, anywhere near this house. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“What?”

“
Yes!
Yes, I understand.”

“Good. I’ve told you what you’re
not
going to do. Do you want to know what I would like you to do?”

Lauren forces the word. “Yes.”

“Drive back here and wait by the phone. I’m going to call you in a half hour, and you’d better be here, because if you’re not…”

The threat is ominously left unspoken.

There’s a click, and the line goes dead.

“What did you do to my baby?” Molly shrieks at Sharon, rushing to the crib and snatching her son from it.

Avery screams.

“I’m so sorry, Avery. Mama’s so sorry…” The physical contact against his skin must be excruciating; his little body scorched in a red, blistering burn.

“I didn’t—it’s just—it’s a sunburn, Mrs. Cameron.”

“
Just
a sunburn?”

“I’m so sorry. I had him out in the stroller yesterday, and—”

“You had him out where?” Molly demands over Avery’s miserable wails. “On the beach for hours without sunscreen? Where?”

“No, just around the neighborhood.”

“Where does a baby get a sunburn like this in the middle of Manhattan, in a stroller with an awning?”

“It was hot and sunny and—”

“And was he naked? Because his stomach is burned, and his legs—oh, Avery. Oh, my poor baby.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cameron.”

“You dim-witted, idiotic… Get out!”

“You mean…”

“I mean get out. You’re done here. Fired.”

Sharon stares for a long moment, then hangs her head and leaves.

Why, oh why did I hire her?
Molly berates herself as her son screams in pain.

But she knows the answer to that question.

She hired Sharon because she was impressed by her last position: caring for the daughters of a high-profile congressman, whose office had graciously provided a glowing reference.

Sharon was good enough for the Camerons, Molly figured, if she was good enough for Garvey Quinn.

Barring traffic, it takes almost half an hour to get from White Plains to Glenhaven Park.

Thoughts careening wildly, Lauren races to the elevator and punches the down button repeatedly.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry…”

She needs help. Desperately, immediately. Help from someone other than the police. She has no intention of risking her son’s life.

Dear God, why did she leave the kids? She hardly ever goes anywhere. Why, on the rare occasion the kids are home alone, did someone come into the house to harm them?

“Oh, Nick, why? Where are you? I need you.”

But Nick isn’t here for her. He hasn’t been here for her in ages…and he won’t be, ever again. She’s on her own. With this. This…

The thought drifting at the back of her mind barges forward.
This is no accident.

Unless…

Is it some kind of hoax?

No. Remembering the strangled fear in Ryan’s voice, Lauren knows the danger is real.

Were they being watched all along? Was someone waiting to pounce the moment she left the house?

She couldn’t even tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. Someone was working hard to disguise it. Why?

Was the caller someone she knows?

If the children are being taken away—
oh God, someone’s taking them away!—
there must be a car.

I need a description, a license plate, something…

Still clutching her cell phone, she looks down at it in frustration. If only there were someone—a friend, a neighbor—who could look out a window and see what’s going on at her house without drawing any attention.

But they’re all gone. Trilby, the Hilberts, the Levines, O’Neals…

There’s no one around, she realizes in despair. No one at all.

Or is there?

It’s a crazy thought, but she’s desperate.

Flipping open her phone, she presses the call log button. There it is—the number is right at the top.

And Sam Henning answers on the first ring.

At first, Ryan thought it was a joke. Something his sisters cooked up, fake gun, very funny, ha ha.

How he wishes that was the case.

But this is real. He, Lucy, and Sadie are really being held at gunpoint by a lunatic who’s obsessed with some stuffed animal of his sister’s.

“But I don’t know where it is,” Sadie said—a few times now.

Ryan can tell that she’s lying. He only hopes their captor cannot.

“Sadie,” he says softly, keeping one eye on the gun as the three of them sit lined up on the couch, “you can hand over the toy. Seriously. Mom will get you a new one.”