Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 02 - A High Price to Pay (6 page)

SIX

Master Coffee demonstrated a new combination of moves to her students and watched as they executed the routine. The eight martial arts students—Madeline and Mike included—lunged, kicked, blocked and punched as they advanced across the hardwood floor, each watching themselves in the mirror on the other side of the room. Teri observed their movements, occasionally correcting their form. The students reached the mirror and turned on their heels to repeat the steps back to where they
had started.

Madeline was completely poised as she went through her paces, apparently oblivious to her surroundings as she emphasized each strike with a fierce growl. Breathe, exhale. Breathe, exhale. Although she was completely absorbed in each nuanced move, she was also acutely aware of the way Mike and Teri were observing her from the corners of their eyes.

But instead of allowing it to break her concentration, Madeline continued to focus on the position of her hands, the height of her legs as she kicked them over her head, the blocks and strikes with her fists. She could tell by the fleeting glimpses that her instructor was impressed. Mike, on the other hand, watched her askance, wondering if Madeline was really that calm. She was good at feigning aloofness when it suited her, like whenever she felt backed into
a corner.

Teri led the class through their stretches at the close of the lesson, then dismissed them with a bow. Before exiting the floor, each student bowed to their instructor, then saluted the flag with a hand to their hearts. Once off the sacred space, the convivial post-class chatter began. Mike hovered near Madeline as she talked to a fellow student. Sensing his protective presence, Madeline gave him a stony look over her shoulder, one that Mike received with
a scowl.

“You’ve got to stop acting like my bodyguard,” Madeline said as she gathered her
things together.

“Somebody’s got to keep an eye on you,” Mike said. Madeline regarded him with arched brows. “You can’t act like this situation is going to magically resolve itself. You need to take this
threat seriously.”

Madeline filled her lungs as a means of controlling her temper as she walked out into the hallway, Mike close on
her heels.

“What makes you think I’m not taking it seriously?” she asked, arms akimbo, warning look on her face. “What exactly can I do to make you realize I
do
appreciate the implications of Yeoman’s death? What do you suggest I do?” she challenged him. “Should I get roaring drunk and drive around until I get a DUI so I can spend the night in the drunk tank? Think I’ll be
safer there?”

“Go ahead, play the hard ass. You’re not fooling me,” Mike said, folding his arms across his chest while he regarded her as though she were a
headstrong child.

“Good work tonight, Madeline,” Teri said as she joined them in the hallway. “Your form was absolutely perfect.” Teri smiled at Madeline and then Mike and immediately sensed the friction between the two. “Anything I can help with?”
she asked.

“No, everything’s fine,” Madeline said. “Thanks for a good class. I needed that. Well, I’ll see you next week,” she said to her instructor before turning toward
the stairs.

“See you next week. Have a good weekend,” Teri called out. Mike nodded his goodbye and started out after his partner. Teri stopped him in his tracks.

“What’s going on?” she asked, cocking her head to take in all six-feet-four of him. Mike readied himself with a handy excuse, but his karate master would know he was lying before the words left
his mouth.

“One of the men who left her to die in the cellar was released from prison last week,” Mike conceded. Master Coffee’s expression slowly shifted from curious
to wary.

“Does anyone know where
he is?”

“He’s in the morgue.” Teri took this in and mentally sifted through the
possible explanations.

“I don’t suppose he killed himself out of remorse,” she
said tersely.

“No, he didn’t shoot a hole through the back of his head and throw himself into Lake Cachuma, unfortunately. The most likely suspect is Madeline’s ex-husband’s former head of ‘security,’ a misnomer if there ever
was one.”

“Does this mean Madeline is in danger?”

Mike’s gaze floated to the ceiling, as if to escape Master Coffee’s penetrating stare. “That’s the big question, and no one seems to know the answer. But if you were in her position, what would
you believe?”

“I believe that you are more fearful than Madeline is at this point, probably because you see yourself as her protector.”

The air escaped Mike’s lungs in one long wheeze. He knew better than to test Teri on any level, especially when it came to the art of self-protection. He sucked air in between his teeth and humbly bowed to Teri’s
astute observation.

“You have to try to be supportive of her without wanting to control her actions. You want her to be safe from the bad guys. We all want that for each other. But we can’t assign ourselves as guardians, not unless someone asks us to. Madeline is a strong woman, strong in many ways. When she needs your help—or mine—she’ll be strong enough to ask
for it.”

“So you’re saying I have to back off and wait until she realizes how much danger she’
s in?”

“I’m saying you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. I think you know that pretty well from your own experiences,” Teri said, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Mike grunted out a
begrudging laugh.

“Touché. How did you get to be so enlightened?” he asked as he held the door open
for her.”

“Years of experience,” she replied. “Many years.”

SEVEN

Madeline sat in her office, staring into space while her computer loaded. Despite the news that Rick Yeoman had been found dead, thus putting her in possible jeopardy, she considered the day a net winner. She had her first investigation, which thrilled her to no end. That it came from the same household where she was currently employed as an event coordinator made things a little tricky. But she was far more interested in solving the case of the missing jewels than she was in catering to the whims of a spoiled, insecure film director’
s wife.

She clicked on the icon for the credit reporting agency favored by her mentor, the dubious Russell Barnett, who had aided and abetted in her video-recorded rape at the Edgecliff Hotel. By all rights, she should loathe the man, but he had stuck to his part of the bargain and trained her and Mike for the required three-year apprenticeship, which led to this new career. Besides, she had finally come to understand that one should never harbor hate, if for no other reason than it will destroy you from within. Her own instincts for survival kept her from reliving what she had been through at the behest of her husband; if she dwelled on that period of her life, she’d surely lose
her sanity.

She read over the notes she’d made throughout the day. Most pertained to the Alexander party and the Campbell wedding. She felt comfortably up to speed on both those fronts. She even had two new dresses to augment her wardrobe sufficiently to get through all the “festivities.” That, and Vivian’s assignment were the high points of the day.

In the middle of her list sat the words that nearly vibrated with radioactive menace. With her highlighter, she circled the names Rick Yeoman and Lionel Usherwood, hoping that would somehow isolate them from the rest of her concerns. Unfortunately, it only served to underscore the threat that the death of Yeoman and the resurfacing of Usherwood presented for her personal safety.

Madeline shoved the notes aside and looked at Teresa’s W-4. She clicked to start a new file and entered Teresa’s name, address and Social Security number. She double-checked her entries and clicked Run. Within two seconds a message appeared on the screen: This number has not
been assigned.

Madeline let out a frustrated sigh as she compared the information on the W-4 with the data she had entered. She hadn’t transposed anything; every letter and numeral matched the form identically. Unless Teresa had made a mistake, she had used a false ID.

Despite her disappointment, Madeline wasn’t really surprised; this was not the first time she had encountered a fake SSN. She knew there were ample sources for counterfeit documentation, even in her own backyard. She thought about giving Teresa a chance to verify the info on the W-4, but that would only tip their hand and probably send the girl running. The only benefit she’d gotten from the IRS form was verification that Vivian’s companion was in the country illegally. Whether she was a thief or not remained to
be seen.

Madeline opened another browser and did a Google search for directions to Teresa’s address. As the map printed, she toyed with the idea of swinging by there on her way home. It wasn’t that far out of her way, though it was not in a great neighborhood and it was
already dark.

She consulted her notes for other ways she could productively use her time before heading home for some much needed rest. As she scanned the reminders to herself, she flashed on the scene with Detective Slovitch earlier that day.

She pushed away from the desk and swiveled thoughtfully. Part of her was all for believing Usherwood would be content with knocking off his former underling. Yeoman had ratted him out to the Feds, and Usherwood—or whoever made the hit—had settled the score. There was no real reason to complicate matters by adding another murder to his résumé. Except for the fact that Madeline had also testified against Lionel Usherwood, the chief henchman of her sociopathic ex-husband.

Maybe in Usherwood’s warped, psychotic mind, everyone who had thrown in against him would be on his elimination list. But then again, he’d been off law enforcement radar for three years now; why take the risk of being captured now? Get in, make the kill, get out. That sounded much more like a paramilitary approach to her.

Though she tried to hold on to this comforting scenario, she couldn’t get the last image she had of Usherwood out of her mind. Though she had come a long way since then—mentally, emotionally and physically—she would never forget Lionel’s furious face when he caught sight of her on Figueroa Street and reversed direction to chase her down. That moment was seared into her
brain forever.

Madeline heaved a deep sigh and got up to look out the window. There were still quite a few cars in the parking lot behind her office, despite the hour and the day of the week. Being virtually surrounded by restaurants accounted for the reason it was usually packed. Thinking of her proximity to food caused her stomach to growl. She’d had little to eat all day and had expended a lot of energy. But she didn’t feel like parading around in her karate garb and didn’t fancy the idea of going back down to her car to get her other clothes and coming all the way back up to change. Plus, she didn’t like the idea of lingering in the parking lot longer than necessary.

Instead, she comforted herself with the thought of ordering a pizza and taking a hot shower. But first, she’d check out Teresa’s address. If she got lucky, she might be able to get a read on the girl away from her place of employment. She turned out the lights, armed the alarm and locked her office on the
way out.

Madeline slowed as she looked for Teresa’s address. Most of the dwellings on Acacia Lane were apartment houses, each containing eight to sixteen sad-looking units. She kept moving, aware that there were clumps of shadowy figures lurking on both sides of the road. As one of these groups became interested in her vehicle and started edging toward the street, she sped up. From what she could determine so far, she wasn’t anywhere close to 1046, apt. E.

She rounded the bend in the road that ran parallel to the freeway. As soon as she made the turn, she discovered the road came to a dead end about a hundred yards ahead. There were no more buildings of any kind, just a spontaneous dumping ground that seemed like an ideal place for all sorts of
illegal activities.

She executed a quick Y-turn and headed back the way she came, this time not slowing to look at the addresses. As soon as she crossed Modoc, she drove up Portesuello Avenue and pulled over. It amazed her how the neighborhoods changed so drastically in less than a quarter of a mile. Here she felt safe enough to recheck the map. She then did a search for a nonexistent address that went out three blocks past her own dead-end street. When it showed up as being in her block, she figured there was a glitch in
the system.

Now she knew for sure she was dealing with a false ID. Teresa Maria Gomez—or whatever her real name was—did not live at 1046 Acacia Lane or have a valid SSN. This discovery did not bode well for Vivian. Madeline felt sorry for the elderly woman, taken in by a sweet, deceptive façade.

Now she had to figure out the best way to handle the situation. Vivian Story was officially her client, so her allegiance in this matter lay with her. Vivian didn’t want the police involved yet, but Madeline didn’t like the way this scenario was playing out so far. She’d have to get “Teresa” alone and try to scare the truth out of her. Being in the country illegally was one thing; grand larceny was quite another.

Madeline groaned as she added a reminder to her over-crowded agenda for the following day. Thursday. She had one full business day to make sure everything was in place for the big event and to catch a thief. As she put the car in gear, she wondered what had made her think she could balance two such
disparate careers.

Less time for personal reflection,
she thought, acknowledging the reason she’d crammed her life with work. Constantly thinking about event planning minutiae, and now her first investigation, at least helped take her mind off the past and vengeful killers
running loose.

“Hi, I’d like a pizza delivered…small, with prosciutto and goat cheese…” Madeline gave her address and phone number as she pulled into her driveway. She was practically salivating at the thought of food as she walked up her front steps and unlocked the door. She stepped into the entry and juggled her load as she prepared to turn the alarm off. Before she could get a hand free, she realized she didn’t hear the familiar whiny buzz. The lights on the controls were
also off.

“I could’ve sworn I turned it on,” she muttered as she walked over to dump her handbag, the clothes she’d been wearing that day and the new dresses from Saks on the sofa. When everything clanked and thudded to the floor, a prickling sensation went up and down her skin. She fumbled her way to the light switch by the entry. As the overhead fixture illuminated her surroundings, she became so light-headed, she thought she
would faint.

She stood, rooted to the spot by the front door, ready to fight or flee when her mind sent her the signal. But it was difficult to make sense of the seemingly innocent scene in front
of her.

As her eyes roved around her living room, the changes registered with ghoulish effect. There was no blood, no dead body, no broken vases, nothing missing; everything was there, only everything—down to the artwork and the rugs—had been moved, rearranged. The sensation of familiarity juxtaposed with foreignness had a completely disorienting effect. She got down low and crab-walked to her handbag, as if she suspected the furnishings were apt to relocate again without notice, knocking her over in
the process.

Once she had her phone, she speed-dialed her partner. By now her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“What’s up?” Mike asked through a mouthful
of food.

“I need you to come over here right away.” Madeline’s words hit Mike like a punch in
the gut.

“Where’s here? Are you hurt?” he asked, standing up and pushing his chair away in one fluid motion. He hastily wiped his mouth while waiting for her reply, which didn’t come soon enough for him. “Maddie, are you
all right?”

“Yes…”

“Where are you? Tell me what’s happened.” A wheeze escaped Madeline’s throat, but nothing else. She knew what she saw, but it felt like too much work to explain it. “Maddie! What’s happening? Talk to me!”

Madeline filled her lungs with air and let it seep out slowly. She knew how to handle suddenly threatening and inexplicable situations. But she’d let her guard down on her home turf—a big mistake that couldn’t
happen again.

“Everything in my living room has been rearranged.” The line was quiet. “Are you
still there?”

“What do you mean? Your furniture’s
been moved?”

“Yes. It’s all…everything is in a different place than it was when I left it
this morning.”

“Are you sure the cleaning lady didn’t do it?”

Madeline grunted irritably. “Yes, I’m sure. For one thing, she doesn’t come on Thursdays. And she couldn’t possibly move the mesquite coffee table by herself. Just please get
over here.”

“I’m on
my way.”