You Can't Escape (7 page)

“Mr. Danziger, you’re an investigative journalist. Who or what do you think was the bomb’s target?”

“I haven’t had time to really think about it.”

She gave him a straight look that called him a liar.

“All I know is I was supposed to meet Max, but . . .” He broke off. “I need to talk to him. What’s his theory? Did he say?”

“I’ll let him tell you,” she evaded smoothly.
Tit for tat
, he thought. He wasn’t saying anything and neither was she. “Mr. Saldano, Maxwell, said he’s tried to get in touch with you, but hasn’t been able to. The hospital isn’t putting calls through to your room, per our request.”

And my cell phone’s probably dead.

“We can lift that restriction,” she said now.

“Yeah, sure.” He was going to be gone soon enough anyway.

She circled around and asked a few of the same questions in other manners, but Dance had nothing more to add. Soon enough, she thanked him and left. He watched her walk away and then leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe deeply and evenly. His head felt clear, a bit achy but nothing truly troubling, which was a major relief. But his leg worried him. Cloaked in painkillers, he felt okay for the moment. However, his left thigh was going to hurt like a son of a bitch when the analgesics wore off, and he feared the damage to his muscles was extensive. He thought about Max again. His friend was trying to reach him. Deciding it was time to check his cell, he got up and bumped around, swearing some more, until he found the drawer that held his cell. He clicked the power button, but nothing happened. The battery was dead, as he’d expected. He was lucky the phone had survived the bombing at all, but then he’d had it in his right-hand pocket and all the damage had been to his left side.

He stared at it for a long time, then searched around until he found a hospital-issued plastic bag, which he carried, along with the cell phone, back to the bed. He liberated a paper clip from the pages of the hospital documents strewn across the bedside table, then bent it straight. With the paper clip and his own brute force, he pulled the phone apart and took out the battery and SIM card. Afterward, he put all the pieces in the bag.

Back in the bed again, he gazed at the hospital phone. No reason he couldn’t call out. Reaching over, he picked up the receiver, then sat frozen as he searched through his mind for Max’s cell number. It finally came to him, which cheered him up a lot as it said that his brain was still working pretty well, even if his cognitive ability had been dulled and slowed by the painkillers.

He pressed the numbers carefully, pausing before the last one. When it was ringing through, he suddenly cut the connection. There was the matter of the audiotape, a private conversation he’d been given by a source inside Saldano Industries. A message that certainly sounded like it implicated Saldano’s import/export business in a smuggling operation. He’d given the tape to Max—actually a copy, though he’d lied and told his friend it was the original—and Max had listened to it and said it had to be fake. He’d wanted to know who’d given the tape to Dance, but Dance had answered that he’d received it anonymously. Max had then said he would put the tape in his office safe and he would figure out what the hell it was about. He’d assured Dance the accusations were entirely false.

Were they? Dance had wanted to believe that with all his heart. He’d been toiling over the issue, and had half-convinced himself it was some kind of setup against his friend.

But the bomb had blown out the east wall of Max’s office, the west wall of the building entrance. That was the wall where the safe was—little more than a filing cabinet with a lock—and if Max had put the tape there, then it was probably blown to smithereens.

But there was that copy in a safe deposit box.

Does Max know you well enough to know you would always make a copy? Yes. Is it too much of a stretch to believe he might try to destroy the evidence and you, too? An act of desperation to save his family?

No.

Yes.

“I don’t know,” he said aloud, his chest hurting.

Whatever the case, until he knew, he was putting himself in Jordanna Winters’s hands. He just hoped he wasn’t making a bigger mistake.

Chapter Four

The Danziger house was what the locals called Old Portland style with white columns and an imposing porch flanked by dual rectangular windows on either side of the massive front door. Jordanna held the keys in one fist as she pushed open the wrought-iron gate that surrounded the yard, looking around furtively at the sudden shriek of metal upon metal the gate made, as if it were seldom used. She’d parked down the block, where the houses were still stuck in the sixties or seventies with a predominance of split entries. This street, however, was in full gentrification mode. Though the Danzigers’ house’s style made it look as if it were from another era, it was newer than any of the rest and sprawled over what had once been two or three lots.

Jordanna had changed into jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, her hair up in a ponytail. She was torn about dressing up as Carmen for her last turn at the hospital. She didn’t want to anymore. Playing the part for that detective had given her a bad feeling all over. Yet she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by dressing down on her final trip to pick up Danziger, either. She wanted anyone who saw “Carmen” to remember that she was dressed the same every time.

But, for now, she was Jordanna Winters.

Hurrying up the porch steps, she slipped the key in the lock and opened the door. A faint bell-like tune greeted her, nearly stopping her heart, the kind of “welcome” music often heard when entering craft shops or candy stores. Jordanna had an instant mental vision of what Carmen Danziger was like and it didn’t quite fit the image she’d created for the tight-skirted, CFM-shoe-wearing woman she’d been emulating.

Feeling like a thief, she shut the door behind her, shoved the keys into her front pocket, and tiptoed across the foyer to the stairs, hurrying up the oak stairway with its red, brown, and gold runner in an ornate fleur-de-lis pattern. She discovered the master bedroom at the end of the hall and headed straight to the walk-in closet, where she could see a California Closet-type system. The closet door was slightly ajar and there was a full-length mirror inserted into the front panel. Pushing it open further, she then quickly opened and closed several drawers before finding some sweats and a pair of cargo pants that looked maybe loose enough to fit over his wrapped thigh. Quickly she scanned the overall closet, exhaling in relief when she saw a large duffel bag. She tossed the pants inside, then threw in a short stack of T-shirts. The closet door had begun to swing shut again, and she caught a glimpse of a men’s black fleece jacket hanging from the hook on the back side. She grabbed it and added it to the pile. Then she opened and shut several drawers in succession, passing by a junk drawer and one with feminine jewelry before finding one that held boxers and socks, which she grabbed up indiscriminately and stuffed into the bag, too. Lastly, she grabbed a pair of men’s Nikes, and carefully arranged them so the soles faced up, away from the clothes.

She was in the process of zipping the bag shut when she heard the downstairs door open and the welcoming trill of the bells.

You didn’t lock the door behind you.

Of course not, she thought wildly. She was turning and burning. She was only supposed to be here a few minutes.

Her mouth went dry. Her pulse pounded in her ears like a surf. Carefully, she pulled the duffel bag close to her body and then did her best to hide behind the closet door. She thought she heard measured footsteps on the stairs. Sweat dampened her underarms. God. What the hell was she doing? What if that was his wife?
Holy shit
. Squeezing her eyes closed, she stood still and tense, listening hard.

The footsteps entered the bedroom. She scarcely breathed. If they came into the closet and found her behind the door, what could she say?

Long moments passed. It occurred to Jordanna that this person, whoever he or she was, was acting oddly. Waiting or listening or something.

The tension made her want to jump out and reveal herself, cry out, “He told me to get his clothes!” but she stayed still. She knew better.... She knew better....

Abruptly, the person turned and walked out—stalked out, actually, making no effort to disguise the sound. Jordanna sagged against the wall, spent. She heard the steps travel back downstairs, then bells sing at the front door again.

Who was it?

It took all her courage to leave her spot in the closet and enter the bedroom. It was late afternoon and clouds had gathered outside, darkening the room, but it was May, and it stayed light damn near forever these days. She had to get out of here, but she wanted to know who’d come inside the Danziger house. They must have had a key themselves. Carmen? Someone else?

What if this person is waiting for you? What if he saw you go in?

Well, to hell with it. She needed to know who this person was.

Hugging the duffel, she carefully descended the stairs, keeping her body just inside the windows that flanked the door. At the entrance, she risked a peek through the blinds and saw a dark sedan—maybe an Audi?—pulling out of a spot across the street. She was too far away for a license plate, though she thought she saw an L and a 5. There was no way of knowing if that car had anything to do with whoever had been inside Danziger’s house.

But there was no way she was heading out the front now. She would be too exposed, but the surrounding wrought-iron fence ran the length of the property. There was no way out unless it was through the front, the way she’d arrived, or through the garage itself.

Padding softly toward the rear of the house, she passed through the kitchen, barely noticing the gleaming stainless-steel appliances, the hand-painted terra-cotta tiles. It looked Italian country, beautifully done, and it felt more like what she imagined Danziger’s wife’s style to be than the tinkling door chime.

Outside the back door was a walkway screened by hedges, thank God, and it led directly to the garage main door. She hurried quickly toward it, the duffel banging against her leg, and tested the door handle, relieved to feel it turn beneath her palm.

Inside the double-car garage was one vehicle: a Mercedes sedan.

Carmen’s car? Then not the Audi? Danziger’s Highlander was probably still at the bomb site unless the authorities had picked it up.

She was going to have to open one of the two garage doors to let herself out. Looking in the Mercedes she spied the electronic remote. Opening the driver’s door, she snatched it up then pressed the button. The garage door hummed and rattled upward, and Jordanna hurried outside, re-pressing the remote button, which stopped the door in mid-ascent, then pushing it a final time so the door could churn its way downward once again.

The garage door emptied onto a side road that ran north and south. Clutching the duffel and remote, Jordanna turned south and walked the long way around a wide block to where she’d parked her car. Hitting the keyless lock, she climbed inside, dropped the garage remote on the passenger seat and then placed her hands on the wheel, inhaling several deep breaths. She’d left her purse under the seat, and now she dragged it out and dug inside until she found her car keys, which immediately slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Realizing her palms were sweating, she wiped them on her jeans and set her jaw. If she was seriously planning to be an investigative reporter, she was going to have to grow a pair of balls.

Dance was in the golf shirt he’d been wearing when he’d gone to Saldano Industries when Jordanna Winters reappeared in his hospital room. She was dressed once again like Carmen except this dress was gray instead of green and not quite as tight.

“You got in all right,” he observed.

She dropped his brown duffel on the bed. “Yeah, but I was nearly caught. Someone came to your house while I was in your bedroom closet.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I thought it could be your wife, but her car was in the garage.”

“She went by town car and left the Mercedes. But she wouldn’t just go in and go out. I don’t think she’s back yet.”

“I suppose it could’ve been someone else. I didn’t lock the front door after me. Maybe someone followed me in?” She didn’t sound like she liked that idea much, either.

“Maybe someone who thought you were Carmen.”

“I was in jeans. Does she ever wear ’em?”

He shook his head.

“Then, I don’t think they thought I was Carmen.”

Dance felt chilled. Had someone been looking for him?

“I followed them downstairs, but I never saw them,” she went on. “A dark Audi pulled out from across the street but it could have been anyone. Or, maybe it was just a car that looked like an Audi. I don’t know.”

He unzipped the duffel, yanked out a pair of sweatpants, then moved awkwardly to a chair to put them on.
Weak as a kitten. Shit.
“Wonder if the Highlander’s still where I left it.”

“You want to look before we head out?”

He shook his head, sending a wave of dizziness through him that created fresh nausea. He put his head between his knees and took in deep breaths.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jordanna asked, taking a step nearer to him.

He held up his hand. “Yeah, yeah . . . just give me a minute.”

“Okay,” she said doubtfully.

She was tense and he felt his own muscles coiled for flight. They’d dinked around too long already. He heard it in her voice, and he felt it himself. Hanging around was dangerous. With an effort, he finished pulling on the sweats; then, without being asked, Jordanna helped him with socks and the Nikes he’d been wearing when the bomb went off. The left one had a gash across the toe but was otherwise still in working order.

They looked at each other. Her hazel eyes stared into his blue ones as if seeking answers. “You ready?”