The Trophy Wife (31 page)

The tennis bum was telling the truth. Amanda had already shown him the proof that their father was cheating. He had read the detective's report and his father had not denied the evidence when they had confronted him. His eyes settled slowly on Leary. “And she was paying you …” There was loathing in his voice.

“It's not the way it sounds,” Billy protested. “I
was
spending a lot of time on her tennis game. The other thing was something she just … wanted to happen.” He could see that Alex was skeptical. “I guess she was paying me for more than just … tennis. I suppose I was good for her ego. She was being thrown over by her husband. She felt awful. Maybe she wanted to hear that she was still young and still beautiful.” And then, as an afterthought, “She was young and beautiful. And spirited. I really liked her. I think I was good for her.”

Alex was only half hearing. His father had another woman. But his mother wasn't going to step aside quietly. Christ, she was sleeping with a tennis player. She was going to get really ugly and make him look like a fool and he knew that was one thing that his father would never be able to tolerate. He would part with his money, but not with his self-image of being frilly in control. He would never allow himself to be mocked. The only question was how far would he go to preserve his demanding self-respect. As far as getting rid of his own wife?

Walter sat at the home computer, checking through Emily's files and printing out all references and correspondence that had anything to do with the Urban Shelter. He read, with growing amazement, how deeply she was involved with the shelter's work for the indigent. She managed the legal defense
fund that paid for investigators and lawyers to help poor people defend their legal rights. She was involved in soliciting contributions from supermarket chains for half a dozen soup kitchens and from building contractors for a habitat program that rehabilitated old homes. She ran a real estate service that found low-cost and subsidized housing for homeless families. He had assumed that the shelter was a conscience-soothing diversion for the wealthy ladies of the riding and golfing set. He had never realized that Emily didn't mind getting her hands dirty.

Amanda was going through printed records and files, sifting for the same type of evidence. But she was lingering over the investigative services that her mother had employed, remembering that one of them had taken on the private assignment of following her father. Walter brought her some new files that he had printed out and was annoyed to see her poring over the evidence of his infidelity. He pulled the file out of her hand. “I don't think we have time for that right now!”

“How could you,” Amanda snapped.

Walter made a show of summoning up all his patience. “When your mother gets home, she and I will have a long talk. And then, if it seems pertinent, one of us will try to explain to you how these things happen.”

He was back to the computer when she answered, “These
things?
Is that what you call betraying her?”

He wheeled. “Damn you! I don't owe you any explanations. You lost your right to give morals lectures a long time ago.”

“So did you,” Amanda fired back. “But that didn't stop you from lecturing me. How in hell could you look down your nose at my lifestyle when you were humping some slut in the secretarial pool.”

His hand flashed across her face. “Don't you say that. Don't you dare say that.”

Her eyes flared angrily. Her fingertips went up and touched the red print on her cheek. “You pig!” she cursed.

His hand closed in a fist, but he was able to stop it in midair. He stood helplessly in front of her, his body trembling
in rage. “I didn't care what you were doing,” he said. “What I couldn't stand was the one you were doing it with.”

“You didn't bother to know him. You just decided for yourself that he was no good.”

Walter's hand fell to his side, but his fingers were still squeezed together. “What is he? A lowlife photographer?”

“He's an artist, and a damn fine one.”

He relaxed into mocking laughter. “Oh, Jesus, an artist? Is that what they call shiftless womanizers these days? Maybe you mean a con artist. He's unemployed and living off you.”

“You never came to his shows. You never once even looked at his work.”

“I know all about his work, or I should say his lack of work.”

The doorbell chimed. Amanda's response stayed on her lips. Walter was suddenly terribly embarrassed by his tirade. They looked at each other with apologies forming in their eyes. The bell chimed again. Walter walked silently around his daughter and went to the door, opening it in front of Andrew Hogan.

He carried a carton of records that he and Helen had taken out of the offices of the Urban Shelter, and began laying them out on the dining room table. “These are the pieces,” he announced, “and they all fit together.” He nodded to Amanda as she entered from the den, but kept arranging the files.

“Here's Thomas Beaty, who brought you the ransom note. He worked in the office a few days a week so he probably knew Emily by sight. Chances are he thought of her as just one of the volunteers and she probably didn't pay any particular attention to him. But someone knew both of them.”

“Who?” Amanda interrupted.

Hogan opened some other files on the table. “Probably someone who also knew these two characters. They're the ones who carried your mother out of the house. What's significant is that Beaty filed a motion for these two creeps when they were arrested for a burglary not half a mile from here. So it looks as if someone knew all these people as well as Emily.”

Walter and Amanda stared at the mug shots of the two minor felons. Walter shook his head. “I don't think I've ever seen either of them,” Amanda said.

“How about these two?” Hogan asked. He dropped two grainy black-and-white photo prints on the table, one of a woman with straight black hair, the other of a man with closely cut black hair and a nicely trimmed moustache. “The lady is a small-time confidence hustler. One of her names, Rita Lipton, was on the van registration. She used the registration as her identification when she rented a subsidized house through the Urban Shelter. She needed an interview and a caseworker report. Mrs. Childs was the interviewer. The caseworker is a professional social worker who lives in Newark. We've got people looking for her right now.”

Walter was concentrating on the image. “I've seen her. Where in hell have I seen her?”

“The bank?” Hogan asked.

Walter shook his head. “No, not the bank. But recently. Maybe not this woman but someone very much like her.”

“Who's the man?” Amanda asked.

“A guy named Micklcievski. He skipped bail on an assault charge. The lady, here, guaranteed his bail. The bondsman is looking for both of them.”

“The bar,” Walter suddenly remembered. He jabbed his finger at Rita's picture. “She was the woman who was talking to your two men. I thought she might be working for you and that the two guys were my ransom contacts. The van belonged to her?”

Hogan nodded. “Yeah. And she was living in the house we went to. It looks like these are the two who are holding her. Obviously, they tried to make a little money on the side for themselves.”

“Where are they?” Amanda demanded.

“Probably not too far from the house she was renting. The car that was stolen from the mall turned up only a mile from there. Helen Restivo is making photoprints of the two of them. Her guys will be on the street, looking for these two all over the neighborhood.”

“And when we find them, we find my mother,” Amanda realized in an optimistic voice.

“Right,” Hogan answered. He exchanged a knowing glance with Walter Childs. Both of them knew that the longer it took, the less the chance of them finding Emily alive and in one piece.

Mike watched the Nissan SUV swing into the suburban parking lot and pick a space close to the platform entrance. The lot had been thinning out with the arrivals of trainloads of commuters and now the reverse flow of people headed for an evening in the city was in progress. Several cars had pulled in and been abandoned by couples who were now at the edge of the platform, leaning out in hope of finding the approaching train. A young couple jumped out of the sports utility vehicle, aimed their keys at the car, heard the reassuring chirp as the locks clicked, and then ran to the train platform. They were just in time to catch the last car of the city-bound express.

That was the car he wanted, but he waited to be sure that no latecomers came racing into the lot. Then he stepped casually out of the waiting room and walked to the van. He took an electronic device from his pocket, keyed it, and then let it swing in his hand. The device scrolled through the six-digit combinations available to keyless entry devices, broadcasting the signal for each numerical combination. In less than a minute, the SUV signaled, blinked its lights, and snapped up its door locks. Mike took a last glance around and opened the door.

The same number combination had simultaneously connected the car's engine control computer. All Mike had to do was release the hood latch, find the ignition wires, and make the same kind of connection that would have started any car before the advent of antitheft systems. He was driving the car out of the lot less than ten minutes after the train had pulled away from the station.

He allowed himself a single sigh of satisfaction, but it was instantly choked by the anger that was still gagging in his
throat. The bastards had gotten the better of him. He had been way ahead when he set up the roadhouse for the meeting. It had been a dumb place for a payoff because it was easily watched and there was no convenient escape. But it had been a perfect place to find out if his mark had brought in the cops. His recording, he figured, had scared the lady's husband shitless. He would have bet anything that he would have come to the second rendezvous alone and ready to pay.

Even then he had everything figured out. He was going to make the exchange without ever being seen. And he had a hundred escape routes if anything went wrong. It was all perfect, except for the car. There had been an army of them and there had been no way to turn back. So now, instead of pocketing fifty thousand, he was involved in another brainless car heist. Instead of being on the top of the world, he and Rita were on the run.

He seethed when he thought of the self-satisfied son of a bitch who had cared more about his money than about his wife. Maybe he didn't believe the threats. Or maybe he had figured that he was smarter than anyone involved in a kidnapping and that he could get the bitch back, catch the kidnapper, and save himself fifty big ones in the process.

Well the smart-ass bastard had gambled and lost. He put up his lady as a bet that he was smarter than Mike. He had his moment when Mike was running for his life through mobs of screaming shoppers. But now it was his turn to pick up the chips. The lady was his and when he was through with her, the double-crossing little prick was going to know that he had lost big-time.

He turned onto the industrial street that their rented house shared with a row of light assembly factories, warehouses, and a few other run-down wood-frame boxes that were the last remnants of a residential neighborhood. He pulled past his overgrown driveway so that he could back the SUV up to the garage door. Then he lifted the door, backed the car under cover, and went around the house and in the front door.

“Got it,” he told Rita. “A big four-wheeler.”

“Gas?” she answered.

“Yeah, gas! What do you think?”

She was seated at the kitchen table, dressed in a smart, tailored suit, with straight dark hair hanging to her shoulders. There were a dozen credit cards spread out in front of her and a stack of driver's license forms. Mike stood behind her, glanced over her shoulder, and studied her work.

“What do you think?” Rita asked.

He whistled. “Great stuff. The guys I used to work for would want to keep you full-time. I don't know why you do anythin' else.”

“Because I don't want to do anything full-time,” she said without looking up from her work.

“Where are we goin'?” He asked.

“I thought maybe the West Coast. I'll go out to the airport as soon as I'm finished and book whatever I can get seats on. Whatever takes us the farthest away from here.”

Mike couldn't hide his smile. He was going to be alone with the lady downstairs for a couple of hours. At least he'd get something for his trouble. And he'd make a recording that would tell her husband exactly how she had paid off his gambling debt.

“Get all our stuff together so we can pack the car as soon as I get back,” Rita said.

“We leavin' tonight?” He was disappointed that he might not have time for his revenge.

“No, I won't be able to get us on anything until sometime tomorrow. Probably in the afternoon. But we want to be ready to pull out of here on a minute's notice. There's no way of knowing how close to us they're getting.”

“Sure,” he answered.

Rita picked up one of the credit cards and the matching driver's license she had just forged. “And for God's sake, Mike, forget about the lady downstairs. It's not her fault that we didn't get the money.”

“We're not even goin' to get the second payment for holdin' her,” he reminded Rita. “We'll be gone before we have a chance to collect.”

She was walking toward the front door when she told him,
“That's not her fault, either. The way you stay ahead in this game is by knowing when to cut your losses. Believe me, this is the time to cut. Nothing that happens to her is going to make us any richer.”

Andrew Hogan's name carried weight with the State Troopers, but not enough to hold down Lieutenant Borelli's temper. “You're saying that a lady around here was kidnapped a week ago,” the lieutenant said, “and you're just getting around to telling us about it.”